When the dough is ready, we feed it again and again through the pasta maker until we finally have long, thin pieces of fettuccini. The kitchen is a mess by the time we’re done–flour is everywhere. But Dan doesn’t appear the least bit bothered. He’s all about the experiment.
We throw the pasta into boiling water, watching its progress closely.
“You know how to check if it’s done?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “I usually just eat one.”
“No,” he responds, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “You lay a piece across your nose. If it contours to your face, it’s ready.”
What? “What are you talking about?”
“How you check to see if fettuccini is ready.” He should just add ‘duh,’ because it’s right there in his voice, anyway.
I’m so confused. I feel like maybe I’ve missed part of this conversation. Did that happen while I was fantasizing about his hands?
“No one does that.”
“Of course they do. Are you Italian?” His tone is rather insulting, as is the look on his face.
“No. Are you?”
He actually rolls his eyes at me, like my question doesn’t dignify an answer. And then he removes a piece of fettuccini from the pot, blows on it, and begins to drape it across my face.
I’m so stunned.
I don’t know what to do.
So I just stand there.
With pasta on my face.
“Let me just grab my phone,” he says, and casually pulls the device from his pocket. With it, he snaps a photo.
Goddammit!!!!!
“You just totally messed with me, didn’t you?” I shout at him, as he one hundred percent loses his shit right there on the spot.
He is laughing so hard he’s crying.
And I can’t help it. I lose it, too. This is the most fun I’ve had with a guy in ever.
§
Dinner is awesome. In spite of his shenanigans, the pasta is cooked perfectly al dente, and the sauce is the best I’ve ever had. He pairs the meal with my salad, crusty bread for dipping in the sauce, and a phenomenal red wine blend.
We talk easily throughout the meal about his love of coaching middle school basketball, the league he plays in every weekend with Charlie, Jamie and some of his high school friends, and the projects he still wants to do around the house. I tell him about my passion for music and my father’s insistence (happily) that I began taking piano lessons at age five. He watches me intently as I speak, often reaching out in affectionate little gestures to stroke my arm, touch my hand, or wipe a crumb from my mouth.
I feel contented in a way that I haven’t in a long time.
§
When dinner is over, I rise to clear the dishes.
“Don’t. I’ll do them later.”
“Let me just rinse things a bit for you.”
I suspect he knows I can be a little stubborn, so rather than argue, he joins me at the sink. I have the sponge in my hand, and am rinsing a dish when it accidentally slips, and a little water splashes his face.
“Sorry.”
I’m doing a poor job of containing my smile, and it’s obvious I’m not that sorry. He deserved it for his earlier crimes.
But then he dips his fingers in the running water, and splashes me back squarely on my face.
“Mine was an accident–yours was way out of line!”
To follow is a cascade of events that I should have predicted, given the incendiary nature of our chemistry.
I lift the sponge in a pathetic attempt to wipe his face with it. But he grabs me around my waist, taking the wrist holding the sponge, and raising it high over my head. He’s laughing, but his grip is like iron; there’s no way I can break free. Instead, he bends me backward so that I’m horizontal, with his body hovering just over mine. I’m completely at his mercy. There’s really no contest here–he has at least five inches, and a significant strength advantage over me.
His next move is to force the sponge in my hand closer and closer to my own face. I see it coming, and grunt loudly with a futile attempt to halt its progress. The problem is that I’m laughing hard, too, and I can’t maintain my position. His eyes are bright green and roguish–sexy as all hell–and, in a flash, I devise my strategy. It is absolutely brilliant, or incredibly naïve, depending on how you look at it.
Reaching my free hand up around the back of his neck, I pull him in for a kiss. And just like that–like a match to a pile of straw–all of the desire, pent up by reserve and uncertainty, explodes around us in a cascade of aching need.
The entire vibe in the room goes from playful to scorching hot in a matter of seconds.
He drops my wrist, and threads his free hand into my hair, plunging his tongue into my mouth with a desperate moan. I immediately release the sponge, distantly registering that it hits the floor somewhere in our vicinity. But every nerve ending in my body is now acutely attuned to the heat of his proximity, and to each point of contact between us. Everything else falls away–it’s just the tips of my nipples, my lower back, my pelvic bone, one thigh, our eager tongues.
I lose all capacity to think, instead committing to memory the wild, heady feel of his teeth on my jaw and neck.
He pulls me upright and crowds me against the counter. I can feel the lust radiating from his body. I can feel my own, nearly out of control.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, and I push them up underneath, desperate to touch the warmth of his bare skin.
The feel of him is unreal. Every muscle in his chest and stomach is hard and taught, wrapped in the silky texture of his skin. I can trace the definition in his sculpted torso, and every ridge of his abdomen.
Each hungry sound he makes slides into my mouth, and I savor them all, feeding on his raw desire.
As I consume him hungrily, one of his hands moves from my waist up the side of my body to my breast, where he kneads it just like I imagined. My nipples ache from the tension, and he strokes one with his thumb, murmuring how perfect my breast feels in his hand.
Every single thing about this man turns me on, and tonight is a little gift I’m going to give myself. If there are consequences, I’ll think about them tomorrow.
Right now, I just need to see him.
As though I’m someone else entirely, my hands move impatiently to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling and pulling in frustration. I finally understand why, in the movies, people tear the buttons off clothes; I, myself, am only a few desperate moments from scattering his across the kitchen floor.
He’s much more successful, reaching for the zipper on my dress, and tugging it down in a quick, fluid motion. Then, he pushes it off my shoulders, and onto the floor in a puddle. I’m wearing nothing but my strapless black bra, matching panties, and heels. And I can’t even imagine the expression on my face.
His breath catches as he takes in my appearance, his eyes making a meal of me, dark and yearning. That look alone makes me feel more desirable, more feminine, than any words ever spoken.
Then he grabs me again, his hands cupping my face, and he takes me in an ardent kiss. I’m grateful that he angles his torso away from me just a bit in order to ease my progress with his shirt. But, it’s no use. My fine motor skills have deserted me. Finally, we both give up and he yanks the shirt off over his head.
Good. God.
He is magnificent. But there is little time to appreciate, as our mouths crash together in a hot, desperate kiss. I move closer to him, craving the warm feel of his bare chest.
If he wanted to have me right here in the kitchen, I would let him. No question. Instead, he stops abruptly, both of us panting uncontrollably.
He has one hand cupping my face, and the other holding my hip. His eyes are laser focused, and more intense than I have ever seen them. I can’t look away.
“Yes or no, Sarah?”
My brain is so scattered, I don’t immediately understand what he’s asking, and I hesitate for a moment.
H
is grip tightens on my hip and he repeats slowly, “Yes or no?”
“Yes.” The word is barely spoken. More of just a whisper. It could have just been a thought. But he nods slightly, seeming to understand.
His eyes continue to search mine deeply, I think, looking for any hint of doubt. There is none. That I know for sure.
He lifts me from where I stand with no visible strain, carrying me down the hall to his bedroom, while our mouths suck and bite and lick voraciously.
Standing me on my feet, he crouches to remove my shoes, running his lips and his hands down the length of my legs as he goes. Those lips aren’t where I want them to be, but I resign myself to letting him finish the task.
As he rises, his fingertips brush lightly over my panties, pressing gently on my clit. Oh, God. I nearly convulse. Frustratingly, he doesn’t linger there for long, though. Instead, he carefully glides his fingers over the scrape on my abdomen, before moving quickly to remove my bra in one efficient motion.
I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my breasts. They’re a pain in the ass when it comes to sports, and don’t work with a lot of clothing styles. But when Danny visibly gasps at the sight of my naked flesh, I thank my gene pool, wholeheartedly. His jaw is slack, one hand moving to his very apparent hard on, squeezing it roughly over his jeans.
“Jesus, I want you,” he breathes. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this much.”
I know the feeling. I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from his cock. Watching him touch himself in response to my body is electrifying.
He reaches to cup my left breast as I move to the button of his jeans, pulling it hard, and pushing his other hand away, so that I can stroke the length of his erection.
The zipper comes down easily, his cock straining against the confines of his clothing.
He helps me by pushing them down his hips, and kicking off both his shoes and his jeans. Just over the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, his impressive cock is visible, dark and engorged. He’s very, very ready.
He backs me to the bed, quickly yanking off the comforter, and then guides me down onto the mattress. My heart is hammering painfully in my chest, keeping pace with my shallow, rapid breaths. Placing a knee between my legs, he inches me up towards the headboard.
I can’t allow myself to think about what’s happening here, whom I’m with, or what happens next. Those thoughts are the enemy of my abandon. And pushing them farther away, I reach between us, stroking his swollen cock over his boxers. He responds by pressing himself hard into my hand, taking what he needs and giving it back in spades.
“Oh, God,” I think someone cries out. It was me, probably, though at this point, I’m mindless.
He pulls away from my breasts, licking his way down my belly, and across my hipbone to the silky fabric of my lingerie. There’s a light sheen of perspiration on his shoulders and scalp, and it’s the first time I really realize that he is mindless, too–acting purely on instinct, on impulse.
“You smell so luscious.” The vibrations of his voice send a jolt of electricity to my already needy sex.
He nips my clitoris over the satin, and then sucks it softly with his mouth, moaning in pleasure. The sight of him lying between my legs, his lips just where I need them, is overwhelming.
“Please,” I gasp. I know I’m as ready as I have ever been, and I don’t need anything but his body inside mine.
Meeting my heated gaze, he gently slips my underwear down my legs, dropping them to the floor. The look on his face likely mirrors mine, hungry and impatient.
His mouth covers my sex, and I breathe out in a long, slow release.
I’m lost. I can’t watch him do that. I lie back and close my eyes, swept away by the sensation of him, the realization of him. This man is no stranger to female pleasure. I’ve never been with anyone who is so adept.
My whole body feels like it’s on fire. I reach for my breasts, pulling on the hardened peaks to relieve at least a fraction of the tension in my body.
“Yes, sweetness, let me see you touch yourself.”
“Ah,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
“I’ve got you.”
A helpless cry tumbles from my lips, and I let go in a haze of pleasure that rocks me to the core. My body clenches hard, as he pulls every bit of pleasure from my willing body.
And then, only quiet.
The bed shifts gently as he moves over me, pressing his wet mouth to mine. I can taste my own arousal on his lips, and I breathe it in–relishing the remnants of myself on his body, as if this makes him mine. At least for tonight.
He’s removed his boxers and I feel his hot, solid erection press against my thigh, demanding and primal. He reaches over to the bedside table and produces a condom. With a practiced ease that I don’t want to think about right now, he pulls it over his substantial length. I’m mesmerized by the sight–his neck and shoulders straining with the effort.
Then he settles again between my legs, wrapping a hand in my hair, and kissing my earlobe and neck. “Put me inside you,” he whispers.
I pull back to look at his face. His message is unmistakable: Yes or no?
I reach between us, scouring my nails gently over his scrotum. He closes his eyes for a moment, groaning his pleasure. Then, I squeeze him at the base of his length, stroking just to feel the steel in my hand.
He’s primed, his body tight in anticipation. He’s absolutely glorious.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and fit the wide curve of his tip to my entrance. Shifting, he presses just an inch or two in.
The feeling is extraordinary, as if this part of me was designed exclusively for him. His beautiful face tenses, and his eyes close as he works himself a little farther in.
“You feel amazing.”
Reaching back, I grab his ass, and pull him deeper inside me. He’s nearly seated to the hilt and the sensation of fullness–of possession–is intense.
He begins to pull back, and then presses forward again, all the way in.
“Ah,” I cry out.
He’s holding his weight on his arms and he leans in, taking my mouth again with his tongue. Beads of sweat begin to form on his brow, as he moves in long, rhythmic strokes. I run my hands over his back, feeling the hard bunching of his muscles as he thrusts, over and over.
One of his hands slips under my hip and lifts it, changing the angle of his penetration. The result is breathtaking. Literally.
His pace quickens as he hits a wildly sensitive spot deep inside me.
“Come on, Sarah. Give me one more.”
And like an obedient soldier, I explode around him, clenching his cock so hard I fear my body might never let go of it.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps out, squeezing his eyes shut, and ramming me several more times before shouting out his release.
Finally, he collapses over me. I drag my fingers up into his damp hair, and cradle his head in my neck, as we both work to calm our racing breath.
There’s a subtle helplessness to a man just after orgasm. No matter how formidable, for one small moment, lying in a woman’s arms, he’s sweetly vulnerable. Mortal. I kiss Danny’s shoulder lightly, and without looking up, he wraps his arms possessively around me.
§
Lying in bed after, unquestionably, the best sex of my life, I feel boneless and replete. Although this is our first time together, something about being with him is natural and comfortable. We face each other on our sides, just talking for what seems like forever. The sheets are around our waists, revealing both of our upper bodies, but nothing about this feels exposed or vulnerable.
He constantly plays with my hair as we talk, twisting a small section around his finger or stroking it gently. I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it. Periodically, he lies back and looks at the ceiling or at me while we talk. And then, as he gets excited about something, he’s back up on his elbow, gesturing with his free hand for emphasis. He’s captivating to watch, and not just because this is the f
irst time I get to freely look at his perfectly toned chest and muscular arms. He’s just so vibrant and playful.
He tells me about the non-profit consulting work he does for Project Learning, an organization that provides after school STEM programs in lower-income areas. The funding proposal he’s been helping to write was successful, and now they’re moving into budgeting and designing curriculum. It’s illuminating to see how much this work means to him, and what he hopes to accomplish.
He asks me about my family, places I’ve been and want to go. He wants to know all about Stanford’s holiday concert that I’m performing in later this year. It’s still about four months away, but well worth the many hours of practice it will require.
“Tell me a nickname you had growing up,” I ask him, while running my fingers through the light smattering of hair on his chest. I can’t really imagine him ever being teased; he’s that guy who hit the lottery of life, and ended up with looks, brains and athletic ability.
“‘Danny.’ I grew up here, so a lot of the people who knew me still use it.”
“That’s not a nickname. Give me a real one.”
He thinks for a moment and then his face twists into an amused frown. “Ken.”
“Ken?” I ask, confused, as my brain tries to process the connection.
“Yeah…like the action figure,” he mutters disgustedly.
It takes a minute to register, and when it does, I burst out laughing. I’d expect him to say something like ‘monkey arms’ or ‘string bean,’ but ‘Ken?’ That is hysterical!
“Ken isn’t an action figure, Danny. He’s a doll.”
He watches me for a moment, trying to maintain a stern face, then cracks a giant smile as I begin to lose it, thinking about how perfect the nickname is.
“I hated that name. And thank you very much, by the way, for further insulting my manhood.”
I can’t stop laughing. It’s too good.
“Oh yeah, laugh now, Barbie, but I’m still friends with the people who used to call me that. Just wait until they get a load of you.”
He lifts his eyebrows as if he has just made the best point of all time.
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