“No way, mister, I’m starving.” I flipped the pancakes onto two plates, then covered said pancakes with butter and syrup. “Start with these, and if you’re still hungry I’ll make you more.”
“Oh, I’ll still be hungry,” he murmured, getting that same look on his face he had earlier. I crossed to him, setting his plate down before him and neatly sidestepping his roaming hands. I needed a few moments to process what we’d just done. I’d take those moments while filling myself up with pancakes.
“So good in my mouth,” he said around a mouthful, beaming.
I couldn’t help but giggle. “My mom’s recipe. She didn’t make them as much as I got older; too much sugar, you know. But when I was little, every Sunday morning she’d make pancakes. Then I got hips, and oatmeal and fruit became my breakfast.” I stabbed up a gooey forkful, dripping with butter and syrup.
“Wait, what do hips have to do with pancakes?” he asked, really not understanding at all.
“Pageant girl, remember? Everything was about caloric intake. How many were coming in, and how many was I burning off,” I explained, giving my hip a squeeze, something I couldn’t have done even two months ago. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds since I’ve moved up here, thanks in part to the pudding hoard in there.”
“That’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head.
“You’ve seen the pudding.”
“No I mean, the whole girls-not-having-hips thing. You’re supposed to have hips. That’s all there is to it. Otherwise, what would we boys have to hang on to?” he said, winking at me over his pancake.
“So it’s an evolutionary thing? Hips exist solely for your hands?” I asked, remembering exactly the way he’d done just that, holding my hips, pushing and pulling me back and forth on top of him. I blushed at the very recent memory.
“I’m a doctor, Chloe. I know what I’m talking about,” he said very seriously.
“So I should defer to you on this one, should I?” I laughed, getting up to make some more pancakes.
“You should. All my patients do.”
“Well, if the poodles trust you, I suppose I should too.” I grabbed the mixing bowl and gave it another whisk as he chased one last bite around his plate. And as I watched him, I realized that this, this very thing, was what I wanted to do for the foreseeable future. Walk around my kitchen in one of his shirts, bare beneath, cooking for him while he watched me do it. Talk about poodles and hips and all manner of things. I was struck by the simplicity of it all; how easy and how perfect it was. And I smiled at him. “You want some more?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said.
“Lucas?”
“Yep?”
“You gave me three orgasms in less than thirty minutes. Pretty sure that justifies a few more pancakes, don’t you think?”
His face was pure male satisfaction, with a hint of mischief. “Are you having any more?”
“Three was pretty fantastic,” I chuckled, ladling a few more circles on the griddle. Warm hands suddenly slipped around my waist from behind, pulling me snugly back against him. His hands found my shirt buttons and started unbuttoning them one at a time.
“Hey, I can’t be naked and cook you pancakes,” I protested, slapping at his hands. If by protested you mean using the least amount of energy to remove those gorgeous hands from my still humming body, then protest I did.
“You sure about that?” he whispered all hot and bothered in my ear.
“I’m gonna burn your pancakes,” I warned.
“I’m gonna watch you burn my pancakes,” he warned back, now sweeping my hair up and kissing my shoulders.
“I’m gonna hit you with this whisk,” I threatened.
“I’m gonna bend you over this counter.”
Pancakes were burned. An orange Formica counter was defiled.
“Am I hurting you?”
“Depends. Can you feel me breathing?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’m good.”
“I’d say you were more than good.”
“Well, of course you’d say it. You’re still inside me.”
“Dirty girl.”
“I’m not, though. Seriously, this is so unlike me.”
“Apparently not.”
“According to my track record, it is very unlike me. Official Chloe never gets to have sex in the kitchen.”
“Well, I don’t know who this official Chloe is, but I’m enjoying the shit out of unofficial Chloe.” Lucas punctuated this sentence with a kiss in the middle of my back. I was facedown on the counter, my shirt up around my shoulders. He had, in fact, bent me over the counter. And he had made it so very good. He was slumped across me, resting most of his weight on me, and I felt covered, cuddly, and content.