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My husband slowly approaches as if looking at me in a new light. I’ve never suggested filming us having sex before, but the thought of it is turning me on. We have this beautiful new cabin all to ourselves, and it’s putting saucy thoughts into my head. So does the thought of re-watching our antics year after year.
Gosh, think of how many home movies we’ll get to watch on our 50th anniversary, when we’re both old and wrinkled and probably still horny as all get out. I genuinely believe we will be.
I nod. “That could be a special naughty holiday tradition if you want,” I suggest.
Harley backs me up against the counter and fists the front of my “Kiss the Cook” apron.
His lips are a breath away from mine. “Promise?”
I nod, and his gaze heats. My heart pounds.
“Cookies first, though,” I say, my voice trembling.
“Can I start filming now?” Harley asks.
I shrug. “Sure, why not?”
Harley uses his phone to film me cracking eggs.
“Let’s see,” I say, scratching my head. “I think four, just to be safe.”
I crack one more egg into the bowl, then whisk them because that seems like something I should do.
In a separate bowl, I dump two cups of flour, two tablespoons of baking powder, and everything left in the small sugar bowl on the kitchen table. I turn to the camera and say, “I think two things of each ingredient is a safe bet. And you can never have enough sugar. Guess we’ll find out.”
“Hold on,” Harley says. “You’ve got some sugar right there.”
“Where?”
He films himself kissing me on the nose, then on the lips, the chin, and then works his way down to my neck.
“My brother can never wear this apron again. You look too good in it,” he says, nuzzling my breastbone.
“Or you can buy me my own ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron,” I say, batting him away. “We have to keep going, or these cookies will never bake. Oh, babe, can you hit pre-heat?”
He grunts disapprovingly but finally gives in to my request to focus on the baking. “How high?”
I try to remember. “425 degrees seems right. Oh, and I don’t think we have any wax paper. Can you butter the sheet pan, please?”
“On it.”
I stir together the dry ingredients, then combine the eggs and an almost-full bottle of maple syrup that I find in the cupboard.
Turning the camera on Harley, I feel heated while watching him butter the pan. My husband is bent over the kitchen table, concentrating hard and lubing up every corner.
“You’re doing so good, baby. I love watching you get your hands dirty.”
He glances up from his work, and the camera captures his expression.
From his angle, all he can see is my hands reaching under my apron.
I sigh as I run my fingers over my stomach, then down the front of my leggings.
“Baby, what are you up to?”
An over-dramatic moan escapes my lips. “I can’t help myself. Seeing that butter all over your hands is making me hot.”
I’m kind of acting, but sort of not.
