The Kitchen Counter
She was doing it to him again. She'd perched herself on the kitchen counter in that skimpy ribbed knit tank top and those oh so sexy red shorts. He felt his groin tighten as he realized there was nothing beneath that flimsy tank top except her. And the way she was looking at him… How was he supposed to get the meat ready for the grill with her doing that to him?
She watched him as he spread the rub over the meat and worked it in. She wished his hands were doing that to her. And the meat… well, she was wishing for a different kind of meat right now.
He finished with the meat and reached around her to grab a towel to wipe his hands. She grabbed them as soon as he'd wiped them and pulled them around her waist. That was all it took
That was it, his last vestige of self control. Her hands putting his hands on her waist was the end of him. To say he attacked her would be dramatizing it too much, but that's what it felt like. His emotions, no…his desires overwhelmed him and before he knew what he was doing, he had those sexy red shorts off of her and his meat was warming in her oven.
The fire in his kitchen was hotter than any could ever be on his grill. With a fire that burns that hot, there has to be an explosion somewhere. And it happened inside of her. She was addicted to him and she knew it. Somewhere in the back of her mind she worried about what she would do when he got tired of her and moved on. But she shoved it aside for later.
The meat he'd intended for the grill was left on the kitchen counter as he took her upstairs. He had cooking of a different nature on his mind now.