Needing less than a trip to a therapist but more than a self-help book, she leapt from the bed and walked toward the kitchen. A bag of flour plopped onto the counter, along with a lone tear.
Once mise en place was complete, she took out her frustration on the ingredients before her. Pour, push, pound--her arms wreaked out a shape, her hips swaying as she tortured the emergent dough.
As smooth as a baby’s bottom, the soon-to-be-bread nestled in the bottom of a bowl; she began to clean the counter, salty trails along her cheeks now ghosted with flour.
“Love, I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish because I’m scared,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her into his chest, his hands clasped together over her belly. The tension left her as she slumped into his embrace, sighing as she relaxed.
His hands roamed, one caressing a nipple, the other parting her wet warmth. Her desire rose as he kissed softly below her ear.
Now ripe with want, he swept her into the bedroom, pulling her astride him in complete submission to her hunger.
“Come, open your kitchen, my little chef. Let’s put a bun in your oven.”
_____
Copyright © 2013 Femme MalheureuseOriginally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 22 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Theme: Need, Word prompt: Kitchen
Awarded Honorable Mention
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