Beat, Root
The hunger in his eyes hasn’t changed
“What’s for dinner?”
He’s taking a pan out of the oven, so he doesn’t answer until he’s nudged the door shut with his foot and set the pan down on the hob.
He turns the oven off, but he doesn’t turn round, because he’s busy taking the foil off the pan, releasing a cloud of steam. “I’ll make prawn and mango noodles later. These are beetroots, for the starter. You couldn’t smell them roasting?”
He finally turns round, to discover I’m wearing the silk robe he bought me for our twelfth wedding anniversary. It’s white, and sheer, so it does almost nothing to conceal the cinnamon of my erect nipples.
He smiles. “Ah. You did smell them.”
“Are we having beetroot caprese?”
“I think you know we are.”
“Tell me again how to make it?”
He steps forward, one arm hooking my waist to draw me closer, so my nipples press against his chest, so his lips can meet mine, so my bottom is close enough for a playful smack.
His kiss is soft, but mine is more demanding. I want to taste his tongue, and he feeds my obvious hunger… but it’s an amuse-bouche, nothing more.
