I'm on my back again, staring at the ceiling, Nate wrapped around me, his cheek resting on my belly and arms around my waist. We're still panting, coming down from our violent orgasms.
"That was fun," I grin and run my fingers through his hair. "Let's do it again."
"Jesus, Julianne, give a man a chance to recover."
"Don't be a pussy." I laugh as he bites my belly and climbs up my body, resting on his elbow to my right side. He brushes the hair that came out of my bun off my face and kisses me sweetly, then bites my lip.
"Ow!"
"You have such a dirty mouth."
"I just call 'em like I see 'em." He bites my lip again, more gently this time, and I sigh against his mouth.
"And you see me as a pussy?" he asks, deceptively softly.
"Hmm… maybe not."
He leans back and raises an eyebrow. "Maybe?"
"Probably not."
"I'll show you how much of a pussy I am, baby."
He's suddenly inside me again, and I'm tucked beneath him, and … holy shit.
********
Cooking with Nate this past week has been a lot of fun. We get side-tracked a lot, and burned the hell out of a perfectly innocent pork tenderloin when we lost track of time in the shower one evening, but it's exciting to be creative with him in the kitchen. Up until tonight we've either eaten out or cooked together, and I want to cook for him.
So I am.
It's Sunday evening and we're back at Nate's place for the night. Alecia's cleaning crew did a great job at the house, but we decided to come back to Nate's condo so he can get some work done in his office.
Because I prefer to cook to music, I plug my iPod into his sound system and crank it up. Yes, my cooking music tastes are a bit… juvenile. I prefer pop music to dance around the kitchen to. Britney Spears. Lady GaGa. Maybe a little Carly Rae and her Call Me Maybe. In fact, that works. Carly starts to sing through the speakers hidden throughout the room and I start to shake my ass while compiling what I need for dinner.
Hmm… I wonder what Nate would look like in ripped jeans? Good call, Carly Rae.
I pour myself a glass of fruity white wine, take a sip and pull my hair up into a messy twist at the crown of my head. I'm still wearing gray yoga pants and a black tank top from our trip to the gym today. God, I love watching Nate work out. At thirty, his body is incredible. Hell, his body is incredible for a twenty year old.
I still didn't win in the ring today, but I knocked him on his ass twice, and that's a victory in my book.
I smile smugly and quarter baby red potatoes for roasting, plopping them in cold water until I'm ready for them. The chicken I'm roasting with lemon and basil goes in the oven when the bell rings, telling me it's warm enough. I'll round out the meal with roasted asparagus with garlic.
I have time for a shower, so I set the kitchen timer for one hour, grab my wine, and walk down the hallway to the master bedroom, passing Nate's office. His door is open, and he's at the desk with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, and he's typing furiously on his keyboard.
"No, fuck that, they'll never accept that offer," he snaps, but his eyes soften when he sees me in the doorway.