Naked Chef

One night, I came home from work to find Whisky in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my dirty apron, cooking dinner. He had nothing else on, not even underneath. Just the apron.

“Neeps and tatties,” he said, pointing to the saucepan, but I didn’t know what those things were. Yet.

“Yes, but why are you a naked chef, though?” I laughed.

“I thought you’d like it.”

Admittedly, I didn’t not like it, but it was still weird.

I kissed him hello. Whisky didn’t stop kissing me hello back. We both knew that was going to happen, though. It always did when Bestie wasn’t around. It was just another thing on a long list of things that I loved so much about him already. One quick kiss was never just one quick kiss; it almost always evolved into sex on a surface of The Flat that we’d have to hastily clean and wipe afterwards.

The same thing happened on that night. Standard. We were still kissing when I pulled on his apron cords, then lifted it above his head. We both tussled with my shirt as I kicked my shoes off, pausing our kisses for just enough time to slip it up and away. He would smile into my mouth, mid-kiss, in a way that just made me melt. I would make him laugh, then kiss him halfway through, just to feel that smile against my lips. He did it then, on that evening, in my-slash-our kitchen. Naked Chef Night, we called it afterwards.

He lifted me on to the kitchen counter, with my jeans still bunched around my ankles. I kicked my foot out of one leg, but Whisky moved my thong to the side and slid inside me. The other jean leg stayed dangling from my ankle after that, completely forgotten about. It was the perfect height countertop, too. We’d discovered and laughed about it just a few weeks before. I was just the right height for him to be able to sit me on it, then fuck me. It was his new favourite thing to do – his words.

I wrapped my legs around his waist to bring him closer, gently biting his bottom lip. He’d always hated that in a way that made him fuck me harder, which was exactly the reason why I kept doing it. We had the kind of sex that I would describe as passionately aggressive. Hornily violent. It wouldn’t be allowed anywhere but a sex setting, you know? He’d grab my hair and yank my head back, or painfully grip my thighs, or keep me firmly in place my using one hand to restrain both of my wrists. It was always allowed, always well timed, and always so fucking hot. Animalistic. On both sides. I was just as bad. My long nails left gouges in his back on more than one occasion, and I definitely left a bite mark or two.

Our kitchen fucks always ended in the same, convenient way. He’d growl, “Get on your knees,” then I would do exactly as I was told, looking right up at him and letting my tongue hang out to catch every last drop of him. I adored the taste of him, which seems strange to say, but I just did.

Then, after I’d licked up any remaining drops, he’d hold his hand out, help me up from the floor, then make me a drink. It was almost like a ritual. The best ritual. Followed closely by a good cleanup as Bestie would be home in less than forty-five minutes.

Turns out, that was just enough time to go through the entire ritual again… 😉

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Engaged.