by Lynn Lake
Lucia rolled out the dough. “It has to be very thin,” she said. “Almost see-through, like the silk of your blouse.” One strap of her camisole had slipped from her shoulder. “We can spread the mushrooms. Come. Help me roll the strudel.”
Simone carried the bowl of sliced mushrooms back to Lucia’s side. A rich scent rose to her nostrils – an exciting blend of fresh dough, forest musk and a hint of jasmine. She could hold back no longer. She placed the bowl on the table and her lips caressed Lucia’s shoulder. Gingerly she slipped a finger under the strap of the camisole bringing it back up Lucia’s arm. Her hand brushed Lucia’s nipples peaking through the sheer fabric. All she could hear was a faint swishing of silk and the beating of her own heart. With both hands Simone pushed up the camisole and buried her face in Lucia’s breasts. Lucia sighed and caressed Simone’s head. “It has to bake for 40 minutes,” Lucia said. “Let’s finish the strudel first.”
Simone drew back, flushed. She watched Lucia expertly roll the mushrooms in the dough and place the horseshoe shape on a tray. With a brush she stroked melted butter over the top. “To make it glow,” she said. Then she popped the strudel in the oven. Wiping her hands on Simone’s apron, she said: “Do you trust me, Simone?”
They were breast to breast. Simone searched Lucia’s face. “Yes,” she said simply. This young woman had opened up new sensations, ones she had never known. She was introducing her to new delights, recapturing a youth she had let slip away. How could she not trust her? “Yes,” she said. “I trust you, Lucia.”
“Then turn around.”
Simone turned, obeying as if in a trance.
From out of nowhere, Lucia slipped a black satin sash over Simone’s eyes and tied a bow at the back of her head. Simone saw nothing, yet her senses were heightened. The scents of the forest, of rising yeast, of baking warmth, enveloped her. She heard the gentle dribbling of the tap in the sink, the swishing of movements. Lucia’s? Was she leaving. Simone’s heart raced again. She couldn’t leave. Trust her. Trust her.
“I’m here, Simone,” Lucia said. “Imagine. Just imagine a winter’s warm dessert, the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon ...”
Simone closed her eyes beneath the sash. She could feel the warm tingle of cinnamon as a warmth rose around her. The back of a strong, gentle hand stroked her cheek. As firm fingers slipped down the side of her neck over her chest and large warm hands cupped her breasts, she smiled and stretched her hands out to feel lean, naked masculine hips beneath her palms.
Slowly she moved her palms to each other, her fingers outstretched, feeling the tight mound of an abdomen; the heels of her palms grazed coarse springy hairs and as her thumbs came together something strong, soft and alive nudged them away. Simone slid to her knees and took Steven’s strength, knowing she must drown in the nutmeg taste of him.
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