The aroma permeating the kitchen is making my mouth water. You're working diligently at the stove making dinner for the two of us and I'm taking advantage of the view. Damn, you look good today, babe. Those jeans… I just….can't stop staring.
You giggle at me, feeling my eyes on you and tell me to make myself useful and open the bottle of wine you brought home. I playfully sigh in reluctance as I get up to complete the task, brushing past you and spanking your ass on my way.
You look up at me and your eyes are sparkling as you wink at me.
I never really knew the definition of the word 'swoon' until I met you, Santana.
I feel like I should petition your parents to formally change your middle name to charming.
Because you are a charmer.
Your laptop is on the kitchen island in front of me, playing a mix you made, and I smile deviously as I notice that you left your Twitter account up. The cork pops off the bottle before me and I fill two glasses, moving to the stove to hand you a glass while placing a soft kiss on your cheek.
I plop myself down at your computer and decide to have a little fun. Messing with your Twitter account is one of my favorite pastimes. What makes it even better is that you love it when I mess with it, too.
Working on a deliciously teasing tweet to send to your 1.2 million followers, I close my eyes around a sip of wine. It's a new one you found at our local liquor store and it's amazing. "Oooh, this wine is fantastic."
You hum your approval, "It is. I'm glad it caught my eye." You turn around and see me at your computer, raising your eyebrow at me, "Why do you look like the cat that caught the canary?"
"Well… you left your Twitter account here all alone and abandoned, and I was just keeping it company."
Your smirk cuts right through me, "I did, huh? I guess you should have some fun with it."
I spit out a taunting tweet that I know will rile some of your fans up, but I can't help it. All work and no play is never good, but this wine I bought for my hot dinner companion is. #datenight
I hit send and watch the responses flood in. We learned our lesson the hard way to be careful when reading some of them. Some people just have no manners, and the skeevy responses about how hot you are and how good some dudes, and ladies, could give it to you really give us the heebie jeebies. Still, you like stoking the fire sometimes.
"Hey, should I do a Q & A?"
You giggle and look at me skeptically, last time it didn't go too well when most of the questions focused on your sex life. "Up to you… I don't want to ruin our night."
"I think I learned my lesson last time. I'm definitely not going to read all the responses I get."
I send out another tweet, What do you guys say to a quick Q&A while dinner's cooking?
The responses are immediate, again.
I actually prefer fielding the questions for you, weeding through the gross, hormonal ones to the real ones underneath. I hate the idea of you seeing some of the things people write about you, to you. You're mine, it's my job to protect you. Plus, it's easier for me to handle sometimes. While I don't like how some of them talk, I definitely think all the same sexy things about you.
Most of the questions I spot first are about what you're cooking, what kind of wine you bought, who your date is. I answer those with teasingly short answers.
The next few I spot ask for the recipe for our dinner, which earns a response of family secret, taking it to the grave.
I see one question that piques my interest and I read it out loud to you, "This girl just asked if your date is that 'tall blonde drink of water you were spotted with in US Weekly last week.'"
We both smile. The day that issue hit newsstands was an interesting day, indeed. We've slowly been getting used to the increased public attention you're getting. Your tour for your album just wrapped, and now this quiet little life we've built has a little bit more attention. You're not officially out out, but you're not in the closet either. We make no effort to hide our relationship, and each of our families and our close friends know we're together. Your managers and PR people know you're gay. It's not a big deal.
But, when that magazine hit the stands, with the picture set of the two of us strolling down the street, laughing at something funny, and in one, linking arms, the texts and phone calls we got from people blew up our phones. Most of the family was glad to see you in a magazine, your mother was worried about the attention on us, my mother thought it was the coolest thing in the world to see me in a photo spread, your manager laughed and seemed happy that you were even featured, not to mention featured in more than one photo.
Plus, we look hot and aren't making funny faces in any of them.
I loved those pictures. I loved seeing the candid shots of you and I strolling through the city. I could see the crinkles around your eyes even behind your sunglasses as you smiled, and your jeans were hugging you in all the right places. The Nikes and leather jacket you had on made you seem so badass, all hot and sexy.
Intoxicating.
And I think I looked pretty good too, my hair was up haphazardly off my face, I was wearing one of your infinity scarves and a striped t-shirt under a jean jacket, and the motorcycle boots you bought me. We look like friends sharing a laugh to the naked eye, but upon closer inspection, or to anyone who knows us, and to me, we look like the cutest couple.
We definitely look great together, baby. We just fit.
Your eyebrow quirks again as I finish the question, and you smirk at me. "Tall, blonde drink of water, huh? That's a pretty apt description. I guess she should be rewarded with an answer…"
You wink at me and start getting the plates out, dinner is almost ready.
"What about something like 'maybe, maybe not.'?"
"Sounds good to me, Britt-Britt." You come over and stand at my shoulder, rubbing my back to read some of the questions. We respond to a few more together, before you kiss my ear and tell me to wrap it up because dinner is almost ready.
That's it for tonight, guys. Dinner's ready and my date's getting jealous of all the attention I'm giving you and I just can't have that. Thanks for the questions!
I close the browser before I can see any responses stream in. It's time to eat this delicious meal you cooked for us and soak in your company. You haven't had time to cook in a while and I know you've missed it.
I've missed it, too.
But when I walk over to the stove to help you plate up the food, you spin around and stop me, pulling me into a kiss.
Your hand squeezes my waist and my surprised squeak is swallowed by your lips.
My knees go weak a little bit, and I can feel so many things radiating off of you, pouring into me.
It takes me a minute before I can breathe again, "Wow."
Your face is still close to mine, like you're breathing me in as much as you can.
"Yes."
"What was that for."
You peck my lips again, "Just felt like it. Can't I kiss my girlfriend for no reason?"
"I mean… do I look like I'm complaining?"
You start to reply before I cut you off with my own kiss which you immediately deepen. My hand threads through your hair to keep you close, close, close.
Baby, the things you do to me.
"S… dinner…. dinner is gonna get cold."
Your "Don't care" is pressed against my lips.
"But...I'm hungry."
"Me too." Your hands start unbuttoning my jeans.
I shrug and gasp as your lips slide to my neck, "I suppose it wouldn't be the first time we've had to reheat…"
"Shhh…" your finger lands on my lips as your eyes darken and you push me up urging me onto the counter.
It's not until later, as we sit snuggled and naked on the couch under a blanket eating your delicious meal that I confess "Dinner totally tastes better when we reheat it, babe."
Your laugh rings loud and clear around the apartment and makes my heart sing, sing, sing.