Garlic and Grip

"Careful, it's hot."

Her voice was tight, focused on the sizzling pan.

Garlic and oil spat, the smell sharp and good in the small kitchen. Evening sun slanted through the window, catching dust motes dancing in the air.

He didn't answer. Just leaned there in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.

She could feel his eyes on her back, a familiar weight. Like a hand pressed flat between her shoulder blades. It made the hairs on her arms prickle, even over the heat of the stove. She stirred the vegetables faster than she needed to, the wooden spoon clicking against the cast iron.

Just watching. What does he want?

He pushed off the doorframe, his movements silent on the worn linoleum floor. He didn't come close, not yet. He just moved to lean against the counter opposite her, his hip bumping a stack of cookbooks. They shifted with a soft thump.

"Smells good," he said finally. His voice was low, a rough sound that always seemed to vibrate right under her skin.

"It'll be ready soon," she managed, not looking at him. She reached for the salt, her hand bumping his forearm as he'd shifted closer without her noticing. A jolt, electric quick, shot up her arm.

She flinched back.

"Sorry," she muttered, grabbing the salt shaker with slightly trembling fingers.

He didn't move away. If anything, he leaned fractionally nearer. Close enough she could smell him – faint scent of soap, warm skin, something else underneath, something uniquely him.

Dangerous.

"Need help?" he asked, but the question held no real offer of assistance with the cooking. It hung there, loaded.

"No. I've got it." She added the salt, stirred again, willing her hands to steady. Focus on the onions. Don't look at him. But it was like trying not to think of a pink elephant. His presence filled the small space, sucking the air out. His eyes. She could feel them tracing the line of her neck where her hair was tied up, the curve of her shoulder under the thin strap of her top.

His hand landed lightly on her waist, fingers cool against her heated skin just above the waistband of her shorts. She jumped, gasping softly.

"Don't," she said, her voice thinner than she intended. She tried to shrug his hand off, keep stirring.

He didn't move it. Instead, his thumb began to stroke back and forth, a slow, lazy rhythm against the bare skin of her side. Heat pooled low in her belly, unwelcome and insistent. Damn him.

"Stop it," she said, louder this time, turning her head slightly to glare at him over her shoulder. His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. A faint smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes.

"Why?" he murmured, his other hand coming up to rest on her shoulder, fingers gently kneading the tense muscle there.

"I'm cooking." Lame excuse. Pathetic. He knew it.

"I can see that." His fingers trailed from her shoulder down her arm, slow, deliberate, tracing the faint lines of veins. Goosebumps rose in their wake. Her breath hitched. He stopped stirring the pan for a second. Shit. Don't burn it. She forced her attention back to the vegetables, but it was like trying to cook in the middle of an earthquake.

His touch was the tremor, shaking her focus apart.

His hand slid from her waist around to her stomach, fingers splayed flat against her belly.

She sucked in a breath. His knuckles brushed the button of her shorts. No. Not here.

"Go away," she tried again, but the words lacked any real force. Her body was already betraying her, leaning back slightly into his touch, seeking the heat of his palm. God, his hands. Big hands. Rough in places, gentle now. Thinking about those hands... how they felt doing other things...

He lowered his head, his breath warm against her ear. "Where should I go?" he whispered, the sound sending shivers down her spine. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below her earlobe. A soft, wet touch. She shivered violently, her grip tightening on the spoon.

"Just... not here. Not now."

"Why not now?" His hand on her stomach pressed a little firmer. His other hand slid up from her shoulder, fingers tangling gently in the loose strands of hair at her nape. He tugged lightly, tilting her head back, exposing the line of her throat. "You like it."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

And he was right. Fuck him, he was right. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary push back against his groin. She felt the hard ridge of him through his jeans. Oh god.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest against her back. "See?"

His fingers found the edge of her tank top, dipping beneath the fabric at her side. Skin on skin. His thumb brushed the undercurve of her breast. She gasped, arching slightly. Fuck. Focus. The garlic was starting to brown too quickly.

She tried to twist away, needing space, needing air. "The food..."

"Fuck the food." His voice was rougher now. His thumb swept directly over her nipple through the thin cotton. It peaked instantly, painfully hard. A strangled noise escaped her throat.

"Ah..."

He pressed his lips to the side of her neck, a firm kiss that felt more like a brand. "Turn off the stove."

"But..."

"Turn it off." The command was quiet, absolute.

Her hand fumbled for the knob, turning the flame off. The sudden cessation of sizzling felt loud in the sudden quiet, broken only by their breathing.

His hand remained on her breast, thumb circling the nipple slowly, relentlessly. Her legs felt weak.

"Good girl," he murmured against her skin. His hand slid down her stomach, lower, fingers tracing the waistband of her shorts. He didn't try to go inside. Not yet. Just... mapping her. Possessing.

He moved his other hand, the one that had been in her hair, bringing it around front. He picked up her hand, the one still holding the wooden spoon, and gently took the spoon from her grasp, setting it down on the counter with a soft click. Then he lifted her fingers towards his mouth.

Her eyes widened slightly. What is he...?

He didn't put her fingers in his mouth. Instead, he lightly touched the tip of her index finger, stained slightly with olive oil and spices, with the tip of his tongue. A quick, wet lap.

Her breath caught in her throat. The small, intimate gesture felt shockingly erotic. More than a grope, more than a hard kiss. It was... deliberate.

Possessive. Claiming even the mundane remnants of her cooking.

His tongue... on my finger... oh.

He watched her face as he did it, his eyes dark, intense. Then he guided her finger towards her own lips.

"Taste it," he ordered softly.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her finger hovered near her mouth. She hesitated.

His gaze hardened slightly. The hand on her breast gave a gentle squeeze. A warning. A reminder of who was in control.

Slowly, she brought her finger to her lips, sucking the tip into her mouth. The taste of garlic, oil, and now him – his saliva mixed with the cooking scents – exploded on her tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. Fuck. So simple. So demeaning. So incredibly hot.

When she opened her eyes, he was smiling again, that slow, knowing smile. "That's right."

He let go of her hand, but before she could fully process, his hands were grabbing her hips firmly, turning her just enough so her side pressed against the edge of the counter. He crowded her, pinning her there with his body.

"You're wet, aren't you?" he stated, his voice thick. His knuckles deliberately brushed against the front of her shorts, right over her clit. She gasped, legs trembling.

"Are you?" he pressed, leaning down, his mouth near her ear again. "Tell me."

"Yes," she choked out, hating the admission, loving the way it made his grip tighten on her hips. Fuck yes.

"Knew it." His hand slid down, purposefully brushing against her mound again, then lower, fingers finding the damp denim between her legs.

He didn't try to push inside her shorts yet. Just pressed there, rubbing slightly. The friction through the fabric was maddening.

"Please..." she whispered, not even sure what she was asking for. More? Less? For him to stop? For him to never stop?

His fingers abruptly hooked into the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down slightly, just enough to expose the top edge of her panties and the curve of her hip bone. Cool air hit her skin. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic band of her simple cotton underwear.

"Ah!" she cried out softly as his finger found her, slick and ready. Just one finger, sliding easily into her folds.

"Mmm. So wet," he growled, the sound vibrating through her body. He stroked her slowly, deliberately, pressing gently against her clit with the pad of his thumb through the thin fabric of her panties while his finger moved shallowly inside her wet heat. Oh god. That pressure.

Her head fell back against his shoulder. She gripped the edge of the counter behind her, knuckles white. The world narrowed to the feel of his finger inside her, his thumb rubbing small circles against her most sensitive spot, his body pinning her against the cool edge of the countertop.

He added a second finger, stretching her slightly. She moaned, a low sound in the back of her throat. The fingers moved together, sliding in and out, creating a friction that was both exquisitely pleasurable and intensely frustrating. Too slow. Faster.

"Want more?" he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear.

She couldn't speak. Just nodded desperately, hips twitching against his hand.

He chuckled again. "Use your words."

"Yes," she managed, the word torn from her. "Please... more."

His fingers picked up the pace then, pushing deeper, curling slightly inside her, hitting that spot that made her spine arch. Fuck. Yes. Right there.

His thumb continued its relentless rhythm on her clit through the fabric. Fingers inside, thumb outside, his mouth now trailing wet kisses down her neck, teeth lightly scraping the sensitive cord there.

"Look at you," he murmured, his free hand coming up to cup her breast again, squeezing gently, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Pain and pleasure mixed, sending electric shocks through her system. "Falling apart for me in the kitchen."

Her breath came in ragged gasps. The pressure was building, coiling tight in her lower belly. She could feel the orgasm approaching, a wave gathering force. So close.

"Please... I'm gonna..."

"Not yet," he commanded, and his fingers stilled for a heart-stopping moment.

She whimpered, a sound of pure frustration. Don't stop.

Then, he started again, faster this time, harder.

Driving his fingers deep, then pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, his thumb rubbing mercilessly against her clit. Her hips bucked against his hand, chasing the feeling.

And then, the wild element, the unexpected shift. He moved his head slightly. His eyes scanned the countertop beside her head, landing on the wire whisk resting in a ceramic utensil holder. Without breaking the rhythm of his fingers inside her, his free hand shot out and grabbed it.

What... Her eyes flew open wide.

He didn't use the whisk end. He turned it around. The cool, smooth, metal handle. He pressed the cold tip of it firmly against her outer folds, right next to where his thumb was working her clit through her panties.

The shock of the cold metal against her heated, hypersensitive skin was intense. Whoa. Cold! Fuck.

It wasn't painful, just… startling. A completely different sensation layered onto the overwhelming pleasure. The cold contrasted sharply with the heat his fingers were building inside her, creating a confusing, electrifying short-circuit in her brain.

"Ah! What...?" she gasped, eyes wide, staring at the condensation forming instantly on the metal where it touched her.

"Shh," he murmured, his fingers driving faster, harder. The cold metal handle pressed firmly, almost pinning her clit while his thumb rubbed just beside it, and his fingers fucked her relentlessly.

"Feel that?"

Feel it? It's fucking freezing! And amazing. Oh god. The unexpected sensation pushed her right over the edge.

"Oh fuck!" she cried out, the sound muffled as he suddenly pressed his mouth hard against hers, swallowing her cry, kissing her deeply, tongue thrusting past her lips as her body convulsed around his fingers. The orgasm ripped through her, intense and shattering. Her legs shook uncontrollably, knees nearly buckling. She clung to the counter, body shuddering, waves of pleasure washing over her, sharp and electric, amplified by the lingering ghost of cold against her most sensitive flesh. He held her tightly, fingers still buried deep inside her, feeling her contractions clamp down on him, his kiss hard and possessive until the last tremors faded.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling back slightly. Her breath came in huge, sobbing gasps. Her face was flushed, eyes dazed, lips swollen from his kiss. The whisk clattered softly as he dropped it back onto the counter. His fingers remained inside her, slick with her fluids.

He looked down at her, his eyes hooded, tracing the aftermath of her climax on her face, the way her chest rose and fell rapidly. He withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, making her gasp at the empty feeling. He held his glistening fingers up near her face.

"Look," he commanded softly. "Look what you did. All over my hand."

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight of herself coating his fingers, proof of her complete undoing. A fresh wave of heat washed through her, shame and desire tangled together.

He wiped his fingers deliberately on the side of her shorts, a final, marking gesture.

She was still leaning heavily against the counter, trying to catch her breath, trying to make her legs work again. The smell of cooling garlic and his scent filled the air. The kitchen felt charged, altered.

He stepped back just enough to look her over, his gaze sweeping down her body – the slightly skewed top, the shorts pulled low, the flush spreading across her chest. A predatory stillness settled over him.

His eyes met hers again, hard and unwavering.

Then, his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the relative quiet.

"Bend over."

No please. No negotiation. Just the flat command.

Her breath hitched. Her mind raced. Here? Now? Like this? But her body, boneless and pliant after her orgasm, already seemed to know the answer.

There was no fight left in her. Only a trembling anticipation, a hollow ache deep inside that his fingers had awakened but not filled.

He put one hand flat on her lower back, firm pressure. An instruction.

Slowly, shakily, she turned, planting her hands flat on the countertop amidst the stray vegetable cuttings and the discarded whisk. The cool surface felt grounding beneath her palms. She lowered her torso, arching her back slightly, her ass pushed out, presenting herself to him. Exposed.

Vulnerable. Waiting.