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“Excellent. I tossed a roast in before we left this morning. I’ll whip up some potatoes and cut some of the asparagus in the garden. Oh, and I’ll grab some wine on the way home.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll bring the sweet and the lacy bits.” I winked like a vixen as I slipped around him. “See you at six,” I purred then ducked into the back room, leaving him staring at my backside, which I may have wiggled just a bit. I had something special in mind for him for this evening. A set that he had never seen before, but I was sure he would love. I’d never seen a man so fond of lingerie on another man, but I adored each and every second of his adoration of my pretty things as he liked to call them. A pretty man in pretty things he had taken to saying.
Pedaling home—the yellow cabin and not the inn which was something that I’d also have to deal with soon because didn’t my thinking of his home as my home say something pretty damn big—I was flying at top speed so my tubs of ice cream stayed as frozen as possible. While I was biking along the coast, my mind was already mapping out the night. It was going to be a big one. I hoped I didn’t fuck up anything or wake up tomorrow morning with regret in my heart.
***
“To be honest, I really have no clue how to cut asparagus,” I told Oregano.
She gave me a dirty look as her three yellowish-white speckled chicks peeked out from under her wings. “I mean, sure, it seems simple, but am I cutting them too short?”
A second gull, Basil, arrived, landing on the patio table, then cussing at me kneeling in the garden.
“Oh stop, you know me. Just feed the wife and kids,” I called to the gull. He flapped over to the pot. Oregano got to her webbed feet to ask for food. Things got pretty loud for a few moments as Basil coughed up chunks of fish for his wife and the little ones to eat. I sat on my heels watching the feeding. The chicks were so adorable. Gibson had named them Parsley, Sage, and Thyme. And now that song was in my head. Again. I started singing the old Simon and Garfunkel song, the lyrics about heading to a fair barely out of my mouth when Gibson arrived on his old blue bike, the basket on the front holding two bottles of wine in brown paper bags.
“You’re home early,” I said as I rose to my feet. I’d wanted to be all gussied up and ready for romance when he arrived. Instead, I was in dirty shorts, my fingernails packed with soil from digging up some potatoes for the meal, and my bare feet grimy from gardening sans shoes. A habit that I’d picked up from Gibson. As soon as he was home, he stripped off every vestige of civility. He let his hair down, took off all his clothes and shoes, and slid into a kaftan with his balls free to dangle as they wished. “I’m not ready.”
“Sorry, things were slow, so I closed up early. Hello, everyone.” He spoke to the gulls as they warned him away from the little ones. He tossed a stale hot dog bun at the adults. Basil and Oregano dove into it, the tiny chicks peeking over the edge of the big ceramic pot to watch their parents make hogs of themselves. “Oh look, you’ve harvested the veggies. What a good wife you are.”
I curtsied and stole a kiss. He gathered the wine. I picked up the little basket filled with taters and asparagus, and we entered the cabin. It was cooler in here, the shade of the pines keeping the small home temperate. With the aid of a fan, it was pleasant enough even if the air was thick with humidity. Rain was in the forecast for this evening, so things would ease overnight.
“Let me shower and change and then you can make yourself pretty,” he said as he toed off his sneakers right inside the door. I closed it behind me, nodded, and carried the wine and veggies into the kitchen. Gibson was a power showerer, so he was back at my side in ten minutes in an airy blue kaftan, his beard and hair still wet. “You scrub a mean potato,” he whispered as he stepped up behind me at the sink. His lips moved over my sweaty neck.
“I probably taste like dirt,” I commented, turning from the sink to place a tater and a scrub brush into his wandering hands. “Here, you make food. I’m going to go make myself pretty for you.”
He wet his lips. I danced away. “Take your time,” he called as I rushed into the bedroom to gather my things. I had a small silken bag with my intimates and a leather travel bag with my personal cleanliness items. Throughout my shower and shave, I was half hard. Wiggling into soft pink lace panties with a boner was tough. I finally had to just tuck my dick off to the side instead of placing my junk in the pouch. A soft wind whistled through the jalousie window, cooling my skin as I rolled up one stocking and fastened it to the belt that sat just above the top of my panties. I ran my hands over the stockings, reveling in the smooth glide. The bralette came next and then the robe, a stunning thing that was pink like bubble gum, the edges scalloped and the hem resting mid-thigh.
He was going to love it. I applied some moisturizer to my arms, face, and belly, all scented with rose oil, and then put on some lip gloss. Strawberry flavored. Gibson adored strawberry anything.
Then, for a final touch, I painted my toenails with a shiny watermelon nail lacquer. As much as I would have loved to wear heels to complete the look, I hated the pinch of pumps so painted tootsies it was.
I spritzed some cologne into the air, walked through it, and made my way to the kitchen. Gibson was just dumping the taters for mashing when I cleared my throat after posing like Jayne Mansfield in a doorway. Right arm on the doorjamb with my hand on the back of my head, my left hand on my hip, and my right leg cocked up and out, with my toes resting on the floor.
“Got anything in that big pot for little old me?” I asked in my best breathy, starlet voice. Gibson seemed to be enraptured. So much so that he forgot about the pot of spuds in his hands. The lid slid to the side, freeing several rebel potatoes yearning for freedom.
“Shit,” he grumbled when one bounced off his bare toe. “That outfit is…it’s mind altering,” he said while I pursed my lips and batted my lashes. The man chased down his pretty red potatoes, rinsed them off, and then returned to his meal, his gaze flicking to me steadily.
“I love a man who cooks for me,” I purred and that, it seemed, was the straw that broke the ceramist’s back. He placed the pot of drained taters back on the stove, then turned to look at me. There was no blue left to be seen in his eyes, the pupils were so blown out. I wet my lips when my sight dropped downward. His stiff shaft tented the front of his kaftan. “Want to see if we can make something rise in the bedroom?”
My cooking/baking foreplay kinky talk needed work.
“Too late, something is already risen.” He shucked his kaftan in one smooth move, baring that lush hairy body. His prick was hard, slick, and ready. “I think dinner is postponed for a few minutes.”
I pouted. “Only a few minutes?”
“Minx.” He chuckled, then strode to me, capturing me in an embrace that snugged me to him thigh to thigh, chest to chest, and cock to cock. Mine was held in place with dainty lace, the feeling of being caged erotically uncomfortable. He kissed me with such fire I was sure the cabin would burst into flames. Thankfully, it didn’t, but I did. Desire pounded through me with each thump of my heart. Somehow, we managed to get to the bedroom without falling over something.
I stood by the bed, panting, cock wetting the front of my panties, and shrugged out of the robe. I reached for the bralette.
“No, baby, leave everything on.”
Knowing that rough voice well by now, I did as he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and then falling back onto it with a vixenish sigh.
Gibson was on me like a lion on a wounded gazelle. A grunt of pleasure bubbled out of me when his weight settled on my belly. My hands moved over his arms, then shoulders, my fingers carding into his hair to pull his mouth to mine. He licked in deep, his hips grinding down, pressing his cock into mine. I groaned into his mouth, firing him up even more. I loved it when he got so hot for me when I was in my pretty things.
“God I love the taste of you,” he panted and licked his way from my puffy lips down to my nipples. He slathered and suckled each one through the lacy bralette, which was incredibly sinful, pinching them just hard enough. My pelvis rocked up off the bed, my body crackling with the need to have him inside me. We’d not ventured into anal land yet. We’d come close a few times, but we eased back as if him entering me would change things somehow. Maybe it was fear on our part. Perhaps we both were scared of this most personal intimacy as it would herald something deeper in our relationship. If so, I was ready for that depth, no pun intended.
“I want you so badly,” I breathlessly said, rubbing my hands over his sun-freckled shoulders. He sat back, wedged between my spread legs, a ruddy glow from his weeping dick and all the way to his hairline. I whimpered a little, just enough. He smiled and then reached for the lube I had placed so carefully on the nightstand. I needed to feel him inside me tonight. No more lollygagging as my father liked to say. “I’m all yours. Do with me what you will.”
