by Hilary Jaye
(07/19/06)
It came to Steven as he began to chop the onions. The pungent tendrils of fumes seemed to rise at once, smacking him with the heavy burn. He knew the tricks, of course, the bread in the corner of the cheek and the running water and lemon slices, all of them, but he had never abided by those things, and it had never really mattered why. Steven called himself a purist. He had decided a long time ago that the difficulties of cooking were as important as the pleasantries. He was a sensualist. Everything took on meaning, every nuance. Even onion fumes.
It was when his eyes burned sharply enough to draw tears, when he could no longer see well enough to safely wield the Japanese folded-steel blade, that it hit him. He had to turn away, the back of his hand pressed to one eye, then the other, and even that hurt, but it felt good: it was about the experience. Just like sex, like Nina described the initial burn of well-lubed but not-quite-stretched fucking. Sometimes, it just had to hurt a little to be really, really good.
The searing and slicing, the feel of the rising mist of stinging, sulfurous compounds, the hot, wet sizzle of butter and aromatics, the drag of the knife through sinew, every action carried barbaric undertones, every method a preamble to appreciative and yet animalistic consumption. Gluttony. He and Nina would enjoy this meal in half-moaned quiet, letting out almost orgasmic noises, petting each other lightly across the table. A little penance beforehand was good for him.
The analogy carried itself after that. He saw it again as he stirred the roux, dragging it away from the bottom of the pan like Nina had dragged her fingernails through the come on Steven's stomach on a dozen occasions. Steven made a hungry noise, thinking of it, watching the roux bubble and dance in the pan. Even that was beautiful: smooth and hot, rising and cresting and then breaking like a hundred tiny orgasms, and when he drew his silicone spatula through it and picked it up, the sauce dripped like semen.
Steven couldn't bring himself to chop the tiny new potatoes. They, too, had a heavily sexual feel and weight to them, like little stones he wanted to roll in his hands, clean, organic Ben-Wa balls. He indulged himself in a brief fantasy of Nina sliding her fingertips over them, squeezing, pinching the innocent tubers and murmuring, impressed, over their size. The carrots, then, had to go in whole as well. It meant they would be too soft, a little too sweet, but suddenly that was for the best. He scrubbed the vegetables, caught for a long moment by how smooth and firm they felt, cool from the storage bin, unblemished, skins intact and delicate, and abruptly he needed to eat Nina to climax, right here in the kitchen, with the food cooking all around them.
He tossed the vegetables with garlic butter for roasting. He had to lick his fingers after that, a strict no-no, but it felt and tasted so good. Butter carried a dish beyond the sensual and straight into the raunch of cooking. Steven made jokes, "never underestimate the power of butter" and "your heart will forgive you -- just use extra garlic," but butter was a very serious matter, after all, the X-rated, the forbidden. Steven never allowed margarine in the house. He compared it to watching porn with the cocks and pussies all deliberately blurred. You told yourself you were digging the sex, but did it really turn you on?
There was actual hesitation before he could bring himself to cut the baguette to spread herbed garlic butter onto it. Steven could have just let himself get lost in that; no mental monologue, no matter how clever and sexy, could dress it up. It was, in and of itself, a sex act. Even as he took up the knife, he wanted to go without slicing the thing down the middle; it seemed so much sexier to break pieces off and eat them, steaming, out of hand -- and then he decided that was just what they'd do, and he mixed the butter and garlic together with the minced rosemary and set it on the stove to melt slowly. They'd dip from custard cups and drip butter over their chins and wipe it off with fingers and lick it away.
He glanced at the clock. Nina couldn't get home soon enough.
The parsley felt decidedly pubic, a tuft of fur under his fingertips, and he groaned softly and chopped it with quick, hungry motions. He deliberately chose a bay leaf that had curled around itself and fucked it slowly into the stock-thinned roux. More rosemary, tiny pine-needle phalluses. Chardonnay, inhibition-lubricant. Celery. There was always something dirty and decadent about celery, the way the rich, heady taste of it permeated everything. If cunnilingus was green, he decided, it would taste like celery. He knew he'd think of it the next time he licked up Nina's folds to her clit, a perfect, smoothly guiding trench.
Steven had intended to have the food set out by the time Nina arrived, but no. He'd set the stew in the Dutch oven and wrapped the bread in parchment and poured the cups of butter into the warmed stew bowls, and then everything had gone into the oven, because by the time Nina arrived, Steven was starved.
"Hi," she greeted, grinning and then scenting the air, but she never managed so much as an appreciative noise: Steven was on her, hands in her hair, a long, hungry, biting kiss to tell Nina what he was thinking, above and beyond the message conveyed by the hard-on digging into her hip.
Nina was immediately with him, dragging him close, dropping her laptop bag and a leather portfolio by the door. It had been ages since Steven had attacked her like this, driving a thigh between Nina's legs and smelling of onions and tasting of butter. Nina whimpered, managed to pull away just enough for a breath, so Steven latched onto her neck, licking, biting, sucking, eating out that patch of skin as his hands worked crazily to get into Nina's skirt, and then the rush turned into a crazy, running pour toward orgasm.
Steven dropped to his knees and tugged down skirt and slip and panties, and he loved her like crazy in that instant: she put her leg over his shoulder and canted it out, his favorite lewd invitation. He buried his face, licking, and celery, somehow, didn't occur to him. He tasted her and cotton, smelled garlic and meat and carrots, and her soft, rough moans and hitching breaths counterpointed the ticking of the cooling oven and the sudden rumbling hum of the refrigerator. He sucked on her hard, dragging his tongue over her clit, into her cunt, all over the place, as random and desperate and messy as he had only just been methodical and practiced, and she dug her nails into his hair and came, shuddering, gasping into the hot kitchen air.
"Steven..." she said, half-uncertain, half-laughing when he undid his jeans and shoved them down around his thighs. He spread his knees just enough to brace himself and grabbed her around the backs of her thighs, tugging her stumbling forward, eyes pleading, and then he could see it, acquiescence turning into hunger. She'd be swollen and tight, sensitive, and that made it all so much better. Her tastes even blended well when he tugged her down over him, the flavor of her mouth just under the flavor of her pussy, sweet lip gloss she kept as a throwback to girlhood and the salt and sour of her. When she sank down onto him, he gritted out a moan. He'd marred her throat, a perfect spoon-sized bite dented into the skin and pinkening, so he deepened it, biting again until she yelped and sank a hand into his hair again, pulling. Not away. Just pulling.
And he flexed his hips, pushed his cock up into her as she started to ride. His knees ached, his scalp tingled, she was grinding her teeth around his lip, but then she let go and gasped, and he was sorry for that. She was right: the hurt made it good. He cupped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in, an inarticulate plea, so she bit him, sank her teeth into the muscle of his neck, and then she bit him again as his fingers found her clit. He could only grind up into her and she could only pump and clench her cunt around him but between his fingers and her teeth, it built on its own, the sex finally caramelizing between them into his thick, thankful cries and her gasping, dry-mouthed moans.
Nina stroked his hair back, pressed a kiss to the bruises on his neck, and finally grinned.
"Do I need to ask what got into you?"
Steven tipped his head back and kissed her, sliding his hands over her hips and up along her spine. "Dinner's ready."
