My memory savours the times Ruby and I ate together. Though often, sex was involved before, during, or after a meal.
I revive a delightful evening when she burst into the apartment. Dinner simmered ready; I cooked in the afternoon. She shut the door behind her while self-pinning her body like a specimen. Ruby peeled her clothes. She spread-eagled, a beckoning finger urging me to join her. From the sofa, I rushed and engaged in standing seduction.
The pixie aroused, and her cute navel centred as my initial target. Next, I licked her bud, tangy like sea salt and our conduit to mutual joy. My standing followed. Ruby delighted in kneeling and working my hardness deep into her accommodating mouth. Her eyes darted to join my mounting pleasure. She flung and wrapped her legs high at my waist as I penetrated the pixie at full throttle. She launched super excited as her buttocks banged into the door. The aged timber rattled on its hinges. The vibration of the door reverberated through her body to mine as we rushed to the body payoffs.
Ruby organised decent chunks of her spare time when not working at the hostel or attending the Sorbonne. We shared café meals and coffee close by her apartment. I explored the city alone when she worked or studied.
Many evenings are stamped unforgettable, even if the days merge frosty and cool. I flash to our slippery coupling in the shower, where I supported Ruby's petite body on my knees, pumping and endeavouring not to overbalance. I feared the hospital and broken limbs, but the pixie enjoyed it. The rug, the kitchen bench, the couch, the bed. Hard evidence of our shagging in her apartment. Beyond her apartment, Ruby and I 'had our way' in an alleyway and the hostel where she worked. Then closure loomed.
Wintry and heavy-coated, I wended to the apartment on my final evening in Paris. My airline ticket was scheduled for home, locked in via London in two days. After that, job opportunities in Melbourne framed my horizon, and Ruby would also go home.
I sniffed homemade sauce as I entered the apartment—the pixie, aproned, humming and thriving in meal preparation in the kitchenette. It was a complete surprise, with no pre-warning, and the minx was a discerning pantry shopper.
The pixie worked her eyelash flutter.
"Well, help me prepare your send-off meal."
Her mood fizzed elfin as she involved me in making homemade ravioli. The one time she cooked a meal. Her kitchen buzz excited me as I observed her skilful fingers mix and judge texture. She used a large open bag of flour on the bench.
I craved to dust her, but I behaved myself.
Ruby chirpy chatted.
"I arranged work around you for this dinner."
Beyond hope, I wished this meant she committed to staying the night, and we could cuddle and sleep together.
I offered reliable help as I mashed the ricotta under instruction. I risked cracking an egg on Ruby's head. The deft brunette avoided it. Then, on task, I mixed eggs and cheeses, as she demonstrated. Typical Ruby caught me by surprise. She flicked salt towards my face and into her prep bowl. I turned and smiled; already, her head bowed over the bowl.
Ruby's mastery of food started in her family restaurant. She could prank and judge her ingredient proportions as she sprinkled additional salt into her bowl. As the ravioli mixture chilled, we shared wine and started on the dough—lots of kneading by hands-on hands. Ruby and I included complimentary buttock kneading. Some by-play ensued, dusting flour into each other's hair. Next, we concentrated and focused on the dough rolling and cutting tasks. Then she helped me size the pieces and spoon the cooled filling into the dough. Finally, she taught me a fancy method of pinching the edges of each ravioli piece.
We drank wine at the table, waiting as the pasta cooked. There was a flour streak on the pixie's nose. I raised my finger towards her face but stopped.
"What is it?" she scrutinised.
She skewed her head, trying to work me out.
"There's flour on your nose. I was going to wipe it," soft and tentative, my head slipped.
"Do it! What are you waiting for? My permission!"
She tracked my finger as I erased the smudges off her inviting nose using a delicate touch. I lingered a smidgen, and she noticed. Ruby's eyes widened, and she sneezed.
Why couldn't I read her reaction?
Then I braced, expecting a sarcastic spray. Instead, the brunette winked at me.
"You have a fetish!"
No, Ruby, I tried to touch… you.
My hands were loose and awkward, dangling.
"Do something useful," she hinted, "Refill the glasses."
Pouring wine, I understood Ruby's kind gesture to me this evening. I topped her glass and mine to the brim while she checked the cooking pasta. I glanced at her chocolate hair sprinkled with flour.
Then, we snacked on olives to complement our red wine. Ruby's fingertips held a green gem.
"What do you think? Are olives like nipples?"
She started rolling it.
"Sort of," I responded.
I stuffed a couple and enjoyed their robust and salty flavour.
"Lick one," she dictated as she rubbed it to my lips and invited my tongue to chase the tip.
"No," I stated, "Too salty. Nipples are sweet."
"Are you sure?"
Unsure where this might lead; I enjoyed the olives as olives!
"Yes, I'm sure. Nipples are like cherries, a strawberry in a puff of cream. Okay?"
Under pressure thinking is so trite!
Ruby placed me on the spot. The pasta continued to cook, and I could not deflect her towards eating.
"Let's see who is right?"
Ditching the apron, she threw it on a chair. The lightning-fast pixie slipped out of her checked pink and white blouse.
"No, your nipples aren't olives. Yours are not dark," I started.
"Nice. You can picture teats without seeing tits!"
A black lace bra shaped her firm breasts. Well, until she flung her bra to the bench. I hesitated, loose hands; she liked her birthday suit when pursuing me. My head cocked, perplexed, as Miss Pixie rubbed an olive vigorously around her nipples. She let the juice smear her firm, pink teats.
"Taste time, sunshine," she invited me without coyness.
Invited to her space, I cupped her breasts and sampled the olive juice on her nipples. Yes, salty. Awesome nipples; I sneaked an extra lick.
"Nice," she said, "now pinch them."
So, I started the lightest squeeze.
"No!"
She insisted, and her voice became assertive.
"Tweak them, pull, twist, pinch, go on."
Outside my comfort zone, I followed her stipulations. My fingers twisted, yanked and jerked her sweet buds, and she gasped each time. Through this, my feelings alternated: Am I hurting her?
And a rush of male enthusiasm.
Ruby's eyes gave the game away. Her blue orbs enlarged in expanded excitement. The minx was too eager as her eyes sparked kinky. Then, without a warning sign, she stepped aside.
Her on-switch and her off-switch. How to follow?
Either I hadn't aroused her, or she could leave it behind as she checked on the pasta. I watched her nibble, followed by a self-pleased nod. After this, she turned to me.
"Good," she praised me, touching her nipples.
"Appears I can teach you a kink or two, but dinner's ready, champ. Let's eat. You can't beat a good olive!"
Ruby propped opposite me at the table, poised, a nonchalant half-naked. A namesake pendant dangled at her neck.
A gift from her mum and not Monsieur Paris! I hoped!
Her nipples pointed hot, and she flaunted them. Traces of flour clung to her hair; she exuded cuteness.
She instructed, "You need your top off," halfway through dinner.
Easy enough as I aimed to remove my shirt in a sexy way. I lacked her playful skill. I abandoned the tease and yanked it. Even quicker, I tugged my singlet over my head. I placed my clothes in a neat pile under the table.
"Agreeable to the eye," her voice light-hearted, sipping her red.
The wine remained passable. Ruby seasoned the ravioli to superb. It was a gourmet highlight, yet our combined fast-forward led to her bedroom.