"What do I taste like?" I gasped in surprise at my own question.
He laughs, his eyes sparkle in the just barely flickering candlelight. Then with the ease at which he always has, he gently let his low growl out and said "cantaloupe."
I felt wasted in the best way. Exhausted from the euphoria of being completely used up by my lover. My body lay flat, sinking stomach down into the enveloping bed, hair sticky on my neck and face, breathing into the sheets. He gets up and I close my eyes so I can enjoy the deep inhale of sex even more.
I hear the bath water. He's running me a bath, I already know this. He has already thought about how to take care of me after violently fucking me, using me as his personal play toy. I can smell the lavender and eucalyptus. He's so good to me. He knows my scents and he also knows my SCENT.
Suddenly a hand is on the small of my back and he says "let's get us in the bath." My body is already aching and he knows it. His strong arms and calloused hands lift me with one swoop and I throw my arms up.
"Thank you, I can walk myself. And always pee after sex." Another delicious chuckle escapes his mouth. I realize how hoarse my voice is.
I sit down to pee. Ouch.
Finally I climb slowly into the bath water. He's already there, ready to put his hands on me. My feet are massaged until they feel like jelly to match the weakness in my knees. I am in my bliss.
I wake up the next morning, sunlight in my eyes, my lover face down and snoring. Slowly I rise, holding myself up with my right arm. As I start to stand, I feel the tug and realize, I'm still tethered.
"Did I say you could leave our bed?"
I turn over my shoulder and his boyish sleepy face melts me, a shiver of the most conventional yet still highly effective kind runs down my spine, swirls around to my clit, and then an electric shot down to my toes. Heaven.
We both giggle and he releases the strap of the cuff that was still on from the night before. As I stand, I lose balance a little and have to steady my stance. A quick body scan reveals to me the aftermath. I'm a little achy all over, but walking is most tender. A small price to pay. I'm not mad about it - carrying the impressions left on me is exhilarating. I putter off to the kitchen.
I love Sunday mornings. He sleeps in and I have the kitchen to myself and complete the same grounding ritual every time: wrap an apron around my naked body, start the coffee, set out all the morning's ingredients, and light up a joint. It's my church.
Once the high sets in, the chef in me emerges and my favorite part of the weekend begins. Making a gourmet breakfast. Being a chef is more prescriptive than you'd think. While creativity is certainly the edge, it still becomes mundane to a degree. And it's hard to cater breakfast, so we don't. Breakfast is a sacred meal for me, accessible yet indulgent. A few ingredients become a gorgeous, filling, and easy meal. Eaten in the glow of sunlight, reading next to a lover - breakfast is romantic.
