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That First Night...

What was a girl to do about her appetite?
- with the deepest respect to Nigella -

I giggled as I squirmed out from underneath his arms and tumbled out of bed. He caught me around my waist just as I was standing up and pulled me back into bed with him. I pressed the full length of my body against him , luxuriating in his warmth and against his once-again hardening cock. I sighed and contemplated not going anywhere, but rather cuddle up, nibble his ear and whisper about all the naughty, filthy things I want to do to him that night.

But there were other concerns to be addressed.

“Where are you going?” he asked and flashed a sheepish grin at me. He had originally came to pick me up from my apartment to take me out for a night on the town, beginning with drinks and dinner at that latest trendy restaurant. When I opened the door and he saw me in my favourite cocktail dress, a kiss hello became a grope. From there... well, needless to say, that dress is now on my bedroom floor, along with all the black lace and satin I was wearing underneath.

I propped myself up onto one elbow and looked at him. His body radiated with satisfaction- the kind of glow you only get from and intense session of fucking. I smiled to myself and ran my fingers up his sheet-covered thighs and torso. He growled- a deep, masculine sound. Laughing, I buried my face his neck, taking in his masculine musk and bit him, ever so gentle, on the shoulder.

“I’m hungry!” I purred in his ear, "and for so much more then this..." as my hand creeped across the sheets and gently caressed his beautiful cock. I felt it jump in my hand.

"Then stay in bed, beautiful, let see what we can do about the appitite of yours ..." he whispered as his hand started to creep around my waist. I laughed as I once again rolled out of bed, taking the dress shirt he was wearing as I do and throwing it on as I padded towards my kitchen.
Cooking naked is a bad idea.

My fridge hummed quietly as I pull it open to inspect its contents. I came up, satisfied, with the three or four packages I knew I had in there, as well as my favourite bottle of white wine from the little vineyard I visit once a year. I turned and grabbed one more crucial package from my pantry and set everything down on my counter.

By the time he walked into the kitchen, the water was already on the boil and I was chopping at the counter - the pancetta had to be broken down to little strips- lardons, before I threw them in the pan, applying heat to release their warm, salty nectar. I added a splash of the wine into the pan and let everything mingle. 

He strolled in, confident in his nakedness, and brushes his lips against my neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist. I felt my knees go weak again – as he has discovered over the course of the night that when he does that it goes straight to my clit and makes me tremble. I closed my eyes and leaned into him for a few seconds, absorbing the sensation of his body.

“What are you making? It smells good…” he mumbled into my neck. I ignored the question, open the package of spaghetti, and dropped it in the pot of bubbling water.

Six minutes on the timer. 

As I cracked eggs, grated Parmesan, grounded pepper and added just a touch of cream I could feel his hands roaming my body - one hand on my breast, squeezing and playing with my nipple. The other brushing over my clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. I bit back a groan, and with shaking hands poured him a glass of the wine in hopes of distracting him until I was done- timing is sensitive at this point. I poured a glass too to distract myself from his beautiful, hard cock.

“It’s… it’s a Riesling. 08’, from Fielding.” I mumbled. He smiled- a wicked, knowing smile. He took a sip of his wine, and kissed me. The bright, honeyed wine swirled between our lips and our tongues. His cock pressed against my belly as he put a hand on either side of my face and kissed me harder.

I tilted my head back and allow him to ravage my lips further and felt his hands stroking my thighs and cupping me to him. I ran my hands up and down his strong, tattooed arms – he had told me the story behind each one earlier in the night as I slowly kissed them in turn.

With some reluctance, I broke the kiss. Six minutes was up. I drained the pasta and dumped it in the pan with the pancetta, then added the egg and cheese and cream, turning humble ingredients into a luscious, velvety masterpiece.

I grabbed the wine glasses and the wine, forks and spoons, and gesture for him to follow me back to the bedroom with the pan. I had, once again, made way too much for two people. So what? We’ll just work up and appetite for the leftovers later.

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