“Needs a bit more salt.” you report as I make my way through the front door. “Whatcha cookin’ babe?” I respond. “Just a batch of those peanut butter cookies, love” I round the corner into the kitchen and I gasp. There you are – hair tied back with one of those cutesy hippie headbands, wearing ankle socks and your blue apron and not a damn thing else.
“Good God woman!” I manage to get out, your back turned to me so that I see your bare ass with your just barely discernible flour handprint on the right cheek. Throwing me a wicked smile as you glance back at me. “Wanna help me with this recipe?”
“You know it!” I quip, squeezing up behind you gently pressing your back to my chest, my weight pushing you into the counter slightly. I wrap my arms around you, slipping one in between the apron and you. I feel the imprint of your round breasts resting against my forearm. Pressing my lips to the base of your neck, I breathe out “What’s the next ingredient?”