It was late by the time he pulled into the garage, and he was beyond tired after the long commute.
But despite the motor whirring as the garage door closed behind him, he could hear upbeat music playing from inside the house, and as he opened the door to walk inside, he could smell the deep, rich aroma of dark chocolate wafting through the air: she was baking for him again.
Smiling, he sauntered over to the kitchen, where he knew he would find her tinkering around, totally in her element. He loved watching her cook. The furrow of concentration on her wrinkled brow. The way she bit her lip while deep in thought. The tiny little tastes and sprinkles and measurements that took place. She had such a passion for it, and it made him adore her all the more, especially since she tended to get so into it.
In fact, she barely noticed that he was even home until he was standing right behind her, smelling her still-damp hair, and wrapping his arms in a great big bear hug over the short silk robe she had on.
"Oh!," she exclaimed. "I didn't hear you come in!"
He chuckled at the little jump she did, and squeezed her tighter, kissing the top of her head before heading to the bedroom to change.
When he came out, she was still standing at the island, humming to the music, prepping strawberries for whatever dessert she happened to be making that night.
Their kitchen island was massive - a deep sink on the side nearest the stove, with plenty of counter space surrounding it for all the extensive prep work she loved to do. The crisp white granite extended a good bit beyond the sink area too so that guests could sit and chat and eat with her while she prepped appetizers or served cocktails during one of their hosted dinners. It was also used to lay out a vast Thanksgiving buffet each year, and the designated spot to box up hundreds of treats during their annual Christmas cookie exchange.
She lit up like the night sky every time she hosted. And he had zero complaints about it.
But tonight, it was just the two of them. And he knew she probably sensed the rough morning in his voice when he called to check in at lunchtime, and had probably started immediately scheming how to improve his mood, like always.
As he absentmindedly sat down at one of the island barstools to observe her, the timer dinged, snapping him back to reality. He shook the remaining thoughts out of his head and watched her twirl around, grab the oven mitts, then bend over to open the oven door.
He craned his neck to get a better view of what she was baking, then couldn't help but notice as she bent down that the hem of her robe crept high enough for him to see that she wasn't wearing any panties underneath.
His cock immediately jumped at that thought, but he didn't want to interrupt her process, so did his best to control himself.
As she placed the tray of little white ramekins onto a cooling rack, slid off the oven mitts, and turned back to face him, her eyes met his, and he knew from their twinkle she had done all that on purpose, and was gleeful he had looked.
She dropped her eyes on her work again, which happened to be painstakingly cutting little roses out of strawberries. He didn't know how she did those kinds of things - he certainly didn't have the patience for them. It took so much time and was so detailed, but when she held one up, satisfied with her handiwork, he understood why she spent the effort making them.
One of the strawberries wasn't turning out the way she wanted, so she just shrugged her shoulders, lifted it up to her mouth, and took a slow bite into that round, ruby orb. He watched her lips wrap around it. He watched the juice dribble out of the corner of her mouth, down her chin, and start down her neck, as she giggled and tried to wipe it off with her other hand.
"You want the other half?," she asked playfully, as she stood on her tiptoes to lean across the island to offer the rest of that giant berry to him. Her robe gaped teasingly as she reached forward, her bare breasts softly swaying underneath, where he could see her nipples start to harden as they brushed against the soft fabric, beckoning to be touched - or better still, invited into his hot, wet mouth.
He licked his lips hungrily - but not for any strawberries.
For her.
