by Leylah Attar
“Where do you want these?” The Squasher of Siga-Siga Moments dropped a basket full of freshly plucked herbs and veggies on the counter. Plump, bright lemons, sweet onions, green-topped carrots. Dark bits of earth still clung to the leaves of a cabbage.
Alex threw the washcloth aside and snapped at him in Greek. Vasilis’ response was just as terse. Back and forth, they argued, sharp gestures punctuating their speech. Finally, Alex nudged his father through the door and shut it behind him. I watched Vasilis through the window, waving wildly at the grapevines, as if seeking their intervention.
“How could you lock your father out of his own home? If I pulled something like that with Dolly, she’d… I don’t even know how she’d react.”
“It’s not his home. His lives over there. See?”
Vasilis had taken the cobbled pathway through the garden and was letting himself into the house next door. He caught us looking at him and pointed to his watch. “What time?” he shouted across the vines.
“I’ll come get you,” Alex shouted back.
“Fine.” He dragged a wooden chair out onto the porch and plopped himself on it. “I’ll wait right here.”
A staring contest ensued, each willing the other to back down. Finally, Vasilis harrumphed and angled his chair away.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Lunch.”
“Lunch? It sounded like you were having a major argument.”
“Well, lunch is major. Especially this one. Every time I visit, Mpampa gives me a haircut and afterward, I make him lunch. He putters around while I cook, and we catch up. He looks forward to it, whether I’m gone a few weeks or a few months.”
“And this time you shut him out.” Their whole exchange fell into place. “Because of me.”
“No. Because of me.” Alex growled and gathered me in his arms. “Because I want you so bad, it hurts.” He set me on the counter, my legs dangling over the edge as he wedged himself between them. “I can’t cook. I can’t think. I’m mad with pent-up desire for you.” He cupped my head with one hand, pinning me with his hungry gaze, while the other pushed my panties aside. “I think this is where we left off.”
His finger curved into my ready wetness. “This time, I don’t intend to stop until you come around my fingers. Or my mouth. Or my cock. Take your pick.” His breath was ragged as he eased me onto my back.
Pulling my panties down, he slid me to the edge of the counter, his lips circling my clit. The bold swipe of his tongue sent me spinning to new heights of pleasure. I arched into him, my fingers tugging his freshly cut hair. Pleasure came in cascading waves. First a budding ripple, then as he built me up with short little licks, it bloomed. And bloomed. My thighs quivered. Sensation after sensation rocketed through me. Teeth clenched, toes curled, my body gave a surprised jerk and exploded.
“Mmm. Lunch never tasted so good.” Alex left a trail of soft kisses on my thigh.
I had no coherent reply. I was too busy collecting all the astounded parts of me that had just shattered into a million blissful pieces.
“Hello? Earth calling Moti.” He grinned with the satisfaction of a man who knows he’s turned your bones to jelly, face glistening with victory.
I was sprawled on his counter, panties bunched around my ankles, with no rush to cover up.
What the hell’s gotten into you, Moti?
Nothing yet, the newly liberated part of me replied. But hopefully Alex will.
I propped myself up, admiring the contours of his arms, his shoulders, his chest. His grin disappeared when I reached for his boxers. My fingers stole under his waistband and closed around his hard flesh. He watched, still as a statue, as I stroked him, the blunt head of his erection straining over his boxers.
“Enough teasing.” He whisked me off the counter and carried me to the bedroom.
He must’ve made up the bed while I was sleeping, because the sheets were crisp and fresh.
“Not so fast.” I pushed him off, even though I was already imagining each thrust, each wild, pounding thrill of his possession. I knew Alex’s food, and now I wanted a taste of him.
Kicking off my panties, I dipped my head to taste him. His abs clenched, his body rising to meet me. Teasing him with my tongue, I circled his tip, until he knotted his fingers in my hair and slid his shaft between my lips. A long hiss escaped him, like a rod of hot steel doused in water.
Hauling my T-shirt off me, he pinned me under him. I gasped as bare chest met bare chest. He paused for a moment, tearing open a foil package and rolling on a condom. That first thrust, impossibly tight, plunged into me with burning intensity. And then, as if pulling back from frenzied need, Alex stroked my cheek, still buried inside me. Our eyes held, his forehead against mine, a question in his burning gaze: Are you okay?
I nodded.
A kiss. Soft and tender. More intimate than the throbbing pulse where our bodies joined. Another kiss. This one on the corner of my mouth. Drifting up to my jawline. Arms sliding under my shoulders, Alex buried his face in my hair and pulled out almost all the way. I gasped when he plunged back in, hard and deep. My legs locked around him, my body submitting to his rhythm. With each thrust, I stretched and melted around him.
“Alex.” Tremors started coursing through my body.
His breath hitched as he sensed my quickening. My head fell back as he re-entered, filling me even deeper. Pleasure burned hot as I felt the cresting, like a wave about to break.
His kiss was rough, pushing me over the razor-sharp edge of pleasure. A wild orgasm rocketed through me. Sensation after sensation of quivering waves.
Holy hell.
Alex’s lips swallowed my ragged breath. His thrusts stilled as my body recovered, then picked up again, his own desire rising like a crescendo. He clasped my hips, pulling me into his final thrust. The tendons on his neck stiffened as release rippled through him.
We remained locked, waiting for our hearts to still and our minds to catch up.
I had felt the spark between us, but my senses were spinning from the encounter.
Alex discarded the condom, and we curled up in each other’s arms. My body tingled as I settled into his embrace, my head tucked under his chin. His fingers stroked my arm, my neck, my back. His half-lidded eyes lingered over me, as if I were a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.
The world was quiet in Alex’s stone cottage, just the breeze playing with our limped, tangled legs. The sun crept over our bodies and curtains whispered against the window. I snuggled closer to Alex and dozed off, not wanting this to ever end.
I turned sleepily on my back and found Alex propped up on his pillow—white sheets, bare skin, and the sharp haircut I was still getting used to. Then, something else clamored for my attention.
Strong male fingers between my thighs. The hot, wet slide of Alex’s kiss trailing over my breasts, teasing my nipples. His tongue dipped into my navel and slid lower.
“Alex, we just…” I trailed off as his mouth found my clit.
“That was just the palate cleanser, agapi mou. We still have the second main course… Dessert…” He filled the space between words with a swipe of his tongue. “Mignardise…”
I gripped the sheets and arched into him.
I had no idea what mignardise was, but sex with a master chef definitely had its perks.
Lunch was late. Very late. By the time Alex and I dragged ourselves to the kitchen, Vasilis was nowhere in sight.
“He’ll come around.” Alex grinned when he saw the empty chair on his porch. “And I know exactly how to make it happen. Open the window.” He grabbed a canister from the overhead shelf. “And that one too.”
This was Alex in chef mode—fired up and raring to go. It didn’t stop him from stealing a kiss when I brushed past him.
“No.” He pried the cutting board away from my fingers. “We’re not on the yacht.” His voice was warm and honey-coated. It begged to be scooped and stored in a glass jar, next to all the herbs and spices linin
g the shelves. “Today, you’re a guest in my home. Actually, in Mrs. Tavoulari’s home. I bought it from her during the economic crisis. Everyone was having a hard time making ends meet and she was no exception. It set back my plans to open a restaurant, but it was more important to keep her from losing her home. She died a few years ago, and I decided to hold on to it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping to meet her.”
“I still have her jar of walnuts.” Alex pulled it off the shelf and pried a nut open with his knife. “Now…” He popped a piece into my mouth and patted the stool. “Just sit here and pretend I’ve left you incapable of doing anything except making heart-eyes at me. Ready? Go.”
I laughed as he measured a cup of flour into a mixing bowl.
“Salt. Eggs.” He added each ingredient with exaggerated flair. “Hey. Heart-eyes. I don’t see heart-eyes.”
I propped my elbows on the counter, placed one hand on top of the other, and rested my chin on top. Then I batted my eyelashes and gazed adoringly.
Of course, when I leaned forward, my breasts plopped onto the counter, turning my heart-eyes into a pumped-up case of TOTT: Tits On The Table.
Alex’s jaw dropped. Olive oil drizzled down his arm and made a small puddle on the counter.
“Hey.” I snapped my fingers, prompting him to pull his eye sockets out of my cleavage.
“Wowzah. You make killer heart-eyes.” He looked at the oil can and made its spout nod in agreement. “Killer, dude.”
“What are you making?”
“I don’t remember. You’re distracting me, Heart-Eyes. Go get me some sage from the roof. And a couple of nice, juicy tomatoes.”
“I’m banished?” I feigned indignation.
“It’s either that or I drag you back to the bedroom. Now, if you were to leave it up to me—”
“I’m going, I’m going.” I jumped off the stool. Vasilis would never get lunch at this rate.
Sage grew wild on the island, but Alex grew his herbs on the roof, each pot and bucket lush with something that roused the senses. Rose, honeysuckle, jasmine, eggplant, onions, garlic. The undulating waves of scent changed each time a breeze came in from the sea. I thought of the sterile apartment I shared with Dolly and closed my eyes.
Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you find it. And when you do, you want to pause and relish it forever.
My time with Alex, my getaway from my real life was coming to an end.
Not now. Not yet.
Lingering on the roof, I plucked some tomatoes—warm and sun-ripened. Goats grazed on the sparse greenery below, beautiful and noble, with wide, twisting horns and long beards. The morning haze had cleared, and the sea shimmered with bright shades of blue and turquoise.
I made my way back to the kitchen and found Alex rolling out sheets of pasta with an empty wine bottle.
“Can’t find my rolling pin,” he said.
I debated telling him about the spot of flour on his nose but decided it belonged there, like the scar on his forearm that looked like a sheet pan burn.
“Something smells good.” I peered into the pot on the stove. Shallots were sizzling in butter.
When Alex added the sage, the aroma turned rich and fragrant. He was tossing together a mix of soft white cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and olives when the door swung open. Vasilis stood at the entrance, sniffing the air.
“I knew it,” he said. “Ravioli with sage browned butter. You’re trying to win me over by bribing me with my favorite dish.”
Alex didn’t confirm or deny it, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Here.” He handed his father the bowl of filling he’d been mixing. “The sooner we assemble the ravioli, the sooner we get to eat it.”
“Yes, but first…” Vasilis put the bowl down and pulled out a corked glass bottle. “The ouzo.” He poured some for himself and Alex.
“Yamas!” They toasted, raising their small glasses.
An easy affection flowed between them as they sipped the anise-flavored spirit. I sensed this was a father-son tradition, a warm groove they fell into whenever Alex came home. Drink. Cook. Eat. Repeat. Give each other the freedom to grow, find a reason to come together, and keep coming back for more.
I sighed. Would Dolly and I ever get out of the rigid corners we’d boxed ourselves into and share that kind of fluidity? My life was all about rules.
Don’t go in the water.
Don’t eat too much.
Don’t laugh too loud.
Don’t fall in love. With anyone but a three-thumbed man.
“Moti.” Alex held out a glass of ouzo. He stood before the window, the streak of flour highlighting his nose. I read once that the afterglow from great sex can rewire your brain, making your partner seem even more attractive. Something was making me feel all soft and vulnerable. It was the strangest feeling—free-falling into someone else. Alarm bells started beeping in my head.
Retreat. Retreat.
“I… I’ll be right back. Going for a walk.”
Alex gave me a puzzled look as I slipped out.
“This is on you,” I heard him say to Vasilis. “You creeped her out with your snip-snip last night.”
“You think she will agree today? Just a little lock. She won’t even miss it—”
The bickering switched to Greek, curt sentences volleying back and forth between them.
Their voices faded as I took the cobbled path to the road, startling a lizard lazing in the sun. A farmer plowing his land stared at me as I passed. Behind him, a lemon tree protected by a circle of stones blossomed under a cloudless sky.
I followed a donkey track and veered toward a one-room church. Wedged between the building and the scorched, sprawling rocks was a small, welcome field of green. A wave of wildflowers rustled in the wind—all except for a patch of white among the blossoms. They were taller, with thick stems and creamy petals that looked like they were reaching out for the sun.
I remembered Alex holding up a pressed white flower.
Folegandros, he said. It’s where I was born—raw and rocky, with cliffs and caves, and an unforgiving terrain. But the flowers still find a way to grow. My mother loved that about them. The white ones were her favorite. We always had bouquets of wildflowers around the house. She picked this on the day she died.
I sat in the field, wondering if she’d paused to gaze at the sea that day. Let the sun warm her skin.
I picked all the white ones I could find. Sweaty and happy, I headed back to the house, clutching the flowers to my chest.
Alex and Vasilis were cleaning up. The table was set, and the kitchen smelled heavenly.
“There you are.” Alex flung a kitchen towel over his shoulder and leaned back against the counter, ankles crossed.
Afterglow hormones were still turning cartwheels in my brain because damn. My heart squeezed every time I looked at him—the way his eyes lit up, the half-sweet, half-sexy smile he threw my way.
“I found these.” I held the flowers under his nose. The dusting of flour was gone, but his nose was still just as endearing. Ugh.
Alex sneezed. Apparently, I’d shoved the bouquet too far in his face. Vasilis raised his thick, caterpillar eyebrows. Probably his first time seeing his son receive flowers from a sweaty girl with dirt under her nails. His face cracked into an amused grin.
“White flowers,” I said. “Your mom’s favorite, Alex.”
Whatever remark Vasilis was about to make, it died in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the words.
“Thank you,” Alex said. Something twisted in his face as he accepted the wilting bouquet. “We haven’t had flowers in the house since she passed away. They’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful.” Vasilis nodded and wiped his nose. “I’ll go get Frida’s favorite vase.” He trotted off and returned with an amber glass jar. “It was for honey, but she liked it because it was see-through and she could tell if they needed watering.”
Alex arranged the flowe
rs, letting the stems flop where they would. Vasilis made space for them in the center of the table. They stood back, looking at them, then at me, smiling the whole time. I could tell they were hiding something.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Alex grinned. “We’ve just missed them, right Mpampa?”
“Yes.” Vasilis eyes were gentle when they fell on me. “And now…” He wiped his nose again and sat down. “Let’s eat.”
Lunch was fresh and ripe and bursting with flavor. An olive oil soaked salad with tomatoes, cucumber, onion, and feta cheese. Crispy fried eggplant topped with creamy tzatziki. Ravioli—tender, translucent, and fat with filling. I held a fork in one hand, and a slice of crusty bread in the other, mopping up the fragrant butter sauce on my plate.
“She eats like one of us,” Vasilis said, holding up his own flavor-soaked bread.
I looked up, embarrassed to find them both watching me.
Alex winked at me with a smug grin that made me pause and look down at my plate.
Butter. Bread. Pasta.
All the things I asked him to strike from my meals when I filled out the preference sheet. Not a rice cake or a steamed green bean in sight. Where had my rules gone?
Sometime between midnight snacks, a moonlit pool, and a patch of wildflowers, I stopped fighting food and started making friends with it. Somewhere between the quest for a three-thumbed man, a cabin with no window, and a cloudless day on a rocky island, I fell for the chef.
The irony hit me like a ton of bricks.
Bubbles rising in my chest. The electric surge each time I looked at him. My bones melting at his touch. My heart bursting when he smiled. Eating up all of him—his food, his voice, his words, his body.
Holy Doollally. I’m in love with Alex.
Alex shot me a questioning glance. I shut my mouth and swallowed. I would’ve been fine if the overwhelming urge to sneeze hadn’t gripped me at the same time. Between opposing inputs, my windpipe clenched around the piece of food in my throat.
Oh God. I’m choking. Again.
My hand clutched my neck as I gasped for air.
