[F4M] Hunger (Vignette)

[F4M] Hunger [Vignette] [Vanilla] [GFE] [Watching] [Waiting] [A kiss] [Elevate the ordinary]

I look up from the book in my lap, fingers tucking in, holding my spot as the pages flutter shut. I roll my neck in a half circle, first left, then back right, a sigh escaping my lips. My feet are tucked up under me and I adjust the soft, plaid blanket to better cover my bare legs. The fire in its hearth is blazing, its warmth spreading through the large open room. The logs hiss and pop as they burn through pockets of trapped sap.

From my spot in the corner of the couch I can see you. You stand by the stove, fussing over a saucepan with a furrowed brow. You bring the wooden spoon to your mouth and my lips part, mirroring yours. With a soft, satisfied grunt, you lick your bottom lip and place the spoon back down on its rest. The scent is filling the room, mingling with the fire, warm, rich and savory.

You wipe your hands on the dishtowel thrown over your shoulder and walk back to the rustic island in the center of the kitchen. The piece is as old as the cabin, built from the same wood as the walls, the porch, our bed. Your grandfather’s grandfather built it. I imagine his hands were like yours, slender, but strong, calloused at the base of the fingers, palms soft.

You drop the towel to the side, pick up the knife, your grip sure, and begin to slice. You find a rhythm, the wet creak of the blade sliding through each piece, ending with a solid knock as it meets the cutting board. You are focused, careful, precise. The blade grates against the wood as you use it to push aside discs of carrots – orange and white. You move onto the small potatoes – purple, red, yellow. The top of the island is a riot of color. The repetition is hypnotizing.

Finished, you turn to the sink, placing the knife carefully on the porcelain sideboard, and turn on the water. The sight of you there, strong neck, broad shoulders, back muscles moving beneath your soft gray shirt, is intoxicating. You’re looking out the window, hand testing the temperature of the water, and the last rays of daylight create an ethereal glow around your head. Your hair, unkempt, in need of a trim, glows warm shades of brown – chestnut, mahogany, chocolate. You rinse the knife and place it to the side to dry, then wash your hands, one over the other, repeating until the suds are gone. You lean down slightly to dry them on the towel hanging from a bar just below the lip of the sink; your shirt draws taut across your shoulders.

As you turn back, you meet my gaze. The corner of your mouth turns up. God, that dimple. You walk past the island, the wide planks creaking beneath your feet as you pass the solid wood dining table – more of your family’s handiwork – towards the couch. You walk behind it, stopping just by me, so that I have to twist my head up and back to see you. You cup my chin and bend down to press your lips softly but firmly against my own. My eyes flutter closed. You know my weakness; my hunger for your kiss is insatiable. You pull away, just a fraction of an inch, and I feel you smile again. You breathe against my mouth.

“Are you hungry, baby?”