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"Jon!" she says while I stand in the doorway and watch her.
"India!" I reply. "I just ate you and fucked you. I've seen a woman pee before."
Her eyes widen. "Please, give me a moment!"
She waits until I leave before finishing. I stand outside the door and shake my head at her.
When she's done and I hear the toilet flush, I come back in the bathroom and take my place at the toilet to take a leak. I catch her watching in the vanity mirror. She's not used to the familiarity between us.
"Do you have absolutely no sense of shame?" she asks, and while I can hear humor in her voice, I know she means it.
"None. You'll have to get used to me being here," I say. "Being myself."
I flush and then wash my hands at the dual sink, watching her in the mirror.
"It's just a real change," she says and runs her hands over her hair. "You have to give me time to adjust."
"Immersion therapy works best, I find," I reply and pull her into my arms once my hands are dry. She slips her arms around my neck and smiles up at me.
"Patience works, too."
I bend down and kiss her. "I'm an impatient man, India. I want you now. Fully here and now with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
We kiss again and then she leaves the bathroom and returns to bedroom.
I smack her butt playfully as I follow her. "Now I have to cook supper for you."
"Hey!" she says with a laugh. "No spanking."
"Aww," I say and grab her, tickling her. "I like the way your butt jiggles when I give you a love tap."
"I'm not a bad girl," she says and tries to squirm out of my arms. "I don’t need a spanking."
"You were a very good girl and deserve an orgasm."
"I already had two," she replies, laughing again when I squeeze her, my fingers at her ribs.
"You'll get a guaranteed two more when I'm finished cooking and we're ready for round two."
We kiss, lingering over it. I could fuck her again right now, the way my body feels.
But then I hear her stomach rumble and feel pity for her.
"Time to eat food." I let her go and together we dress. "I'll eat you again later."
I cook for India, making my signature chicken marsala, with Marsala wine, cremini mushrooms, and fresh fettuccini noodles. I love to cook, and was in charge of chow for my team when I was deployed in Iraq during the last two years of my military service.
"You're good at this," India says, helping me with the preparation and cooking by keeping my glass of wine topped up. I do the rest, not trusting her with a chef's knife. I've seen her injured fingers when came in one day after having cut herself chopping onions.
While the chicken is simmering in the wine-mushroom sauce, we sit together on the patio overlooking the bay and enjoy the nightfall.
"This is my favorite time of the day," she says wistfully. She's sitting on my lap on one of her huge deck chairs, her head leaning back beside mine. We're staring at the horizon where the sun has set and the sky is a deep purple-orange.
Once the meal is done, we eat our supper on the patio by lantern light, toasting the success of the meal and talking about Pacifica and what's next on our agenda.
