It’s pasta and steak like I decided beforehand, and after a few close calls with some hot oil, I decide an apron isn’t such a bad idea after all, and I set to sizzling some steaks and whipping up a pasta carbonara as well.
I see some pre-made salads, which will go well with the meat but feeling spoiled for choice I can see myself opting for all of it on one plate.
While the steaks rest, I finish the pasta, and humming loudly to myself, I congratulate myself on a job well done.
The food, the evening, and most importantly, Brooke.
I feel like the luckiest guy on earth right now so it’s hard to hider my excitement.
Finishing the cooking, I frown
I’m used to late night food on my own, but things are different now.
It feels wrong somehow to eat without Brooke. Tonight anyway, after everything we’ve just been through.
Her shadow across the counter sees me looking up, smiling.
Always feeling better when I see her face, but double happy now, because it means we can both eat too.
“Hi,” she whispers hoarsely, smiling to herself. “I like your apron,” she says teasing me a little and I can feel my thick arousal pumping back to life at the sight of her in nothing but my shirt.
It’s huge on her, but still gives me a tempting view of her chest, thighs, and those hips of hers.
“I made us some food,” I announce, stating the obvious and reaching for a second plate.
“Pasta or streak?” I ask, laughing when we say it at the same time. “Both,” we chime in unison.
She really is my kind of girl and so I don’t look like a complete animal, I slice a steak into sections and put a little pasta and salads on our plates.
But there’s no fooling her, she looks at me askew, challenging me to tell her honestly if I always present food on my plate like this.
I can’t help but laugh, because I know she’s right.
“Have it how you always do,” she says, coming closer and playfully punching my arm, she hugs it straight afterward, kissing it better.
“You ever seen a caveman eat?” I ask her knowingly, watching her breath catch as she gets a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Maybe not see him eat, but I sure felt him eat,” she smiles, shivering a little at the memory and almost making me forget about food for the second time tonight.
“Eat,” she commands and helps herself to her plate and cutlery, we sit opposite one another at the breakfast bar, which feels like a diner it’s so big.
I only notice now just how big this place is with two of us in it. When it’s just me I hardly notice anything.
“Warm enough?” I ask, watching her blow on her food. “I mean in here. You’re not cold?” I ask, my eyes darting to her chest as if it’s gonna lie about the temperature, but I forget.
If my constant arousal’s anything to go by I don’t think a set of stiff nipples is any way to judge the temperature in here anymore.
“I’m just right,” she coos, taking a mouthful of potato salad and moaning a little. “Tell me you didn’t make this too?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“A restaurant up the street makes the salads. I did the rest,” I tell her truthfully.
“Phew,” she sighs. “There is a chink in your armor then,” she murmurs with a grin.
I’m not sure what she means, but I think she’s relieved I haven’t made every little thing from scratch.
“This must’ve co—” she starts, thinking better of it and shaking her head, she puts some more food in her mouth instead.
I guess now isn’t the time to tell her she can have whatever she wants whenever she wants, but she will catch on.
I like to live well, but I don’t buy things for the sake of it.
If I need something, like food, I get the best.
If I have to drive a car, it’s a good one, the same for clothes and other day-to-day things.
One thing I can’t abide is cheap things that are just junk. My home isn’t filled with knick-knacks or broken, got it on sale or mass-produced ‘stuff’.
I wonder suddenly what Brooke’s chink is in her armor is.
I hope it’s not knick-knacks.
“You don’t like knick-knacks, do you?” I ask her, totally off-topic.
“Hate ‘em,” she answers confidently, giving me a ‘next question’ face as we both settle down to eat and get to know each other.
It’s a long, relaxed meal and although I have some more, I can see Brooke’s had her fill and I fill the dishwasher while she visits the bathroom.
I can hear her echoes of surprised delight as I smile to myself.
She’s found the tub, I’m assuming?
“I’m thinking ice cream sundaes in a bath, filled with exotic and therapeutic essential oils,” I muse aloud when she comes back.