Rick likes to make omelets, and I like to watch him. He has a ritual: gathering the ingredients from the refrigerator, settling them in the burner of the stovetop that he won't be using, frying up the meat - bacon or sausage or ham - setting it aside and finally cutting up the vegetables. He grips the knife around its bolster - the knife's balance point - with his last three fingers resting on the handle. His thumb and index finger are on opposite sides of the blade, like the knife is an extension of his hand, and he pierces the flesh of each vegetable with the knife's edge before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the vegetable, hitting the cutting board with a decisive thunk, and then turning the slices in tandem and cutting again until all the vegetables are in chunks - neat little piles of red pepper, green pepper, mushrooms, and onions. Sometimes he glances over at me and winks before stealing a bite from one of the piles.
I'll hop up on the counter, the polished granite cool on my ass, my feet dangling, and I'll absorb every little thing he does. Rick won't know that I'm not wearing anything under the blanket I pulled around me before coming to the kitchen. He'll think I'm watching him because I'm hungry. And I am, but it's not an omelet that I'm hungry for - it's Rick.
Rick wears his pajama pants and nothing else while he cooks. I know there's nothing underneath the pants because it's morning, and Rick sleeps in the nude, and because the waist always slips down on his hip, exposing the concaved dip between Rick's leg and his groin. A stirring between my legs, faint at first, will strengthen the more I ogle Rick because he is beautiful and utterly fuckable. I'll be torn between wanting to stare and wanting to touch. If only his pajamas would slip down a little further.
Rick knows I enjoy watching, so the morning ritual has become a point of seduction between us. As he whisks the eggs, he'll flex the muscles of his forearm. He'll talk to me about baseball or the stock market, but he'll speak slowly and use his husky, morning voice, the one that makes me press my thighs together and shiver. He'll look over at me just before putting the egg mixture into the frying pan and say something funny. He won't laugh aloud, because he never does, but he will smile. A jolt of a smile that touches me to my core. I'll inch forward from my seat atop the counter and open my legs, just enough to summon Rick toward me. He'll hesitate before setting the bowl down and turning the flame off, because he likes making me wait, likes to see how long I can go before I'll squirm. He'll lean against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, causing the gap between his pajamas and his skin to widen. And just as the stirring between my thighs turns into a cruel, slow burn, Rick will slowly walk toward me.
He'll reach with both hands and cradle my face, the pungent smell of onion and bell pepper clinging to his fingers. He'll press his thumbs against my lips and into my mouth, giving me a taste. I'll gaze into his eyes while I suck, first the tip of one thumb, and then the other. His eyes will get dreamy and the blue of them will shine. He'll lean in close and nip at my lips, guppy-like, then move upward along the lines of my nose, across my eyelids, and back to my lips. Breathing and nipping. Breathing and nipping. And then he'll no longer be gentle. He will kiss me hard, until my lips feel bruised and swollen. He'll rub his day-old beard against my face, scraping and burning my flesh until I moan. His hands have barely touched me, not the way I need them to.
I'll open my legs further and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, gnawing on his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat, inhaling the leftover smell of sleep.
My hands will slide down over the sinewy muscles of his arms, fingering the definitions he'd caused by flexing moments ago with the whisk, and the blanket will fall off my shoulders, leaving me nude.
