I love Peter Parker’s place because it is immaculate. And I don’t mean that kinda immaculate that denotes him having something to hide. I mean that kinda clean that is lived and comfortable with just a slight bit of anal.
You know, like mine.
And it always smells good. Like the cologne he wears and the soap he uses, wrapped in a layer of baby powder and some kinda spice.
Right now though, the house smells like whatever he has simmering on the stove. And despite the fact that I have some home training, my mouth fills with saliva at the smell of it.
He’s cute, leaning over the pots and pans, his sweats flushing against the curves of his ass, stirring and tasting, dancing to the music coming from the stereo system. I think I like watching a man cook. It’s something like an aphrodisiac.
Did I mention I go hard for men in sweatpants?
“Hey you,” he says, kissing my forehead with his hands, warm from cooking, molded to either side of my face. “I’ve missed your freckles*.”
He gives me a spoon to taste, some sort of lemon based sauce flooding my taste buds. It’s good. Damn good. So good in fact that I take the spoon from him and lick the rest of the broth from its surface.
“Damn you are hungry aren’t you?”
“I told you. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Well if you give me maybe five more minutes, I will feed you.”
“Five minutes is all you get. After that I start raiding your kitchen for Oreos.”
His place is laid open like a field. You can see directly from the front door all the way back to the door that I assume is his bedroom. I have explicitly made it a point not to venture back that way. I am master of the couches up front.
The apartment is nice, masculine but still comfortable, impressive without trying too hard. I expected it to be all leather couches and dim lighting, but its far more electronics and family and friend photos.
He keeps being more than I expect him to be.
Within his promised five minute timeframe, he’s bringing the food out to a tiny table on the balcony and pouring me a glass of wine.
That’s a lie. I’m having Bacardi, lol.
Sitting outside overlooking the highway, the air just starting to turn crisp with fall, we laugh and talk and drink like we have all the time in the world. It’s nice to stop every once in awhile and just be. I am slowly but surely learning how. It’s nice to be around someone who has already mastered the practice.
Before I know it, our food has long since disappeared, we are on bottle #2 and the temperature has dropped more degrees than my nipples are comfortable with. Before I can even ask, he wraps us in a blanket, pulling the bottle underneath the layers with us, and continuing our conversation seamlessly.
At some point, he moves me to sit between his legs, half leaning on his chest, the heavy ropes of muscles in his legs intertwined with mine to keep me warm. I feel the weight of his arms around my waist, his chin still resting easily in my hair despite the fact that he is half leaning, his height just that much greater in comparison to my own.
“I like your hair straight,” he mumbles into my ear, sweeping the mid-back length fall of strands over one shoulder, his chin hooked into the curve the opposite one makes when it reaches my neck.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ve never seen it straight.”
“No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t have guessed it was so long. I think I like the curls better though. They’re more fun to play in,” he responds, raking his fingernails from my temples to the nape of my neck rhythmically.
“In a minute you are gonna put me to sleep.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing that until much later.”
The change in his voice isn’t lost on me. Where he was once all fanciful loops and pastels, he is now geometric shapes and primary colors.
I mean that to say, he is very serious.
I falter. Not having expected this of him has left me without my usual wit to defend myself. My back stiffens against his torso.
“Don’t,” he says, the soft curves of his lips grazing the thin skin of my ear with butterfly kisses with every word he says. “Stay with me. Tonight. Stay.” It’s just barely above an inaudible whisper, but it is unmistakably more command than request, his teeth dragging along planes of my neck. Goosebumps erupt across my back, a universe of constellations erupted from the energy of his hands on my skin. He moves his hands through my hair to lean my head to one side, my throat completely vulnerable to an assault from his mouth.
I imagine he can see the pulse of my heart beating underneath my pale skin.
His hands have found the skin on my back, easing slyly up the track of my spine, scratching lightly on the descent.
I. cannot. breathe.
He turns my head so fast and covers my mouth with his I think my neck might snap. He’s kissing me, talking to me, murmuring in my mouth and I am slowly losing my composure, letting his kisses mold me into whatever shape he wants.
I’m not even entirely sure who’s effort is involved in turning me around or even that I have moved until I find my hands pressed to his chest, kneeling between his long legs, every bit of my position lending itself to surrender.
At some point he grabs my hands, pulling me up from the balcony floor, walking me backwards down that long hallway I have made a point not to walk. I am protesting, but weakly, his lips devouring my feeble attempts at sensibility before they can barely make if off my lips. My back finds the door and he pushes me hard against it, holding me there, looking at me. I hope this means he will stop long enough for one of us to regain our composure. I open my mouth to speak.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He lets the door swing open behind me unexpectedly, pushing me firmly towards the bed. He closes the door hard behind him.
And I know he’s not letting me out of here.
Before I know we are just limbs, arms and legs tangled like ivy. Somehow my shirt has gotten off. I don’t remember him even touching me to take it off; I assume that he just somehow mentally convinced it that it wanted to leave the premises and it abandoned me on its own.
He kisses like a warrior, all ferocity and passion, no pretense or idle obligation. He is talking to me and I am so very focused on catching ever word he’s saying.
He takes a step back, lifting his t-shirt over his head deftly with one hand, my hands simultaneously circling his waist. Sliding my fingers between his skin and the waistband of his boxers, I eased down his sweats and boxer briefs in one smooth motion. And-
*Note: He swears I have freckles. I swear I ain’t that light motherfucker.
13 thoughts on “Losing my Head”
Yeah… hop to it.
Grrrrr, remind me to drop kick you come 12/31/09 4:32 pm.
And what the fluck…we gotta wait 10 days for a continuation??? Girl, don't make me…
Oh this is that hot ass sweaty monkey ball BOOLSHIT!!! I will DROP you in a VAT of pure unadulterated aforementioned unicorn piss if you dont.stop.fuckin.playin.
@Soul **blush** Thank you 🙂
@KIT Hey stranger! Hope all is well
@Jam hahaha you know me better than that
@SimplyB Who knew a man who could cook was such an aphrodisiac?! Yall coulda told me!! lol
@B Good Pretty sure I am gonna 'rawr' at someone before the day is over, lol
@Southern gal and LaFcuk You don't enjoy cliffhangers? **innocent face** lol
@Epsi Try it. It really really works, lol
“…I assume that he just somehow mentally convinced it that it wanted to leave the premises and it abandoned me on its own”
I am going to have to try that one with my girlfriend
Sweet baby Jesus La!! I hate your continuation!
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Rawr! I'm on edge, lol.
A man in the kitchen is so sexy!
Can't wait for the next installment.
LOL @ That's a lie. I'm having Bacardi, lol. I was definitely like why is La lyin? Lolol. Ya drunk. I actually ONLY like Rashan when he's in the kitchen. Either washing dishes or cooking. Lol.
I co-sign with Soul.
jesus fucking christ…
you weave magic..