She watched him, a sheen of sweat on his face, a picture of concentration. He glanced at her now and then, to check if she was watching, to see if she was paying attention to him. She was.
She sipped her wine, keeping her eyes on him, the cold liquid sliding down her throat, honey, melon, lemon. The apartment smelt of garlic, herbs and a sharp tang of vinegar.
She went to him and pressed herself against his back, wine glass in one hand, the other slipping around his body, under his t-shirt, touching him gently. She didn’t need to see his face to feel his smile and his gentle pressing back against her, his movements slowing, but still, he chopped and mixed.
She brought her glass to his lips and watched his mouth open slightly as she tipped it and the liquid entered him. It made her stomach turn over with lust, that glimpse of his open mouth, the entering, his unquestioning compliance.
She closed her eyes and pressed against him, pushing her body into him, the lust in her throat now, rising to her mouth, her lips against his neck breathing him in, watching him cook for her.
She wanted to speak to him of love and submissive hearts and awe and splendor and thanks and she wanted to gently, slowly, methodically, painfully eat him alive. She wondered if he felt it, these thoughts she sent to him as she pressed herself against him.
It didn’t matter in the end, she felt it, that was enough.