“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said, You should see my scones…
“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.
I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at ease he seemed in my kitchen.
I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rolling pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rolling pin suggestively.
“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.
“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.
He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his voice low.
“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.
“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.
“I’m gonna roll this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each time and the forward action pushed my girls together.
“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.
“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I still need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.
His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the colander filled with apples in the sink.
“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.
“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.
“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.
“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.
“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rolling pin, which I squeezed mightily.
“I thought so.”
“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless Pâte Brisée.
“Only fair. So how do I rate?”
“Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”
“Bounce. I lost my Downy ball,” he confessed.
I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.
“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.
“Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.
“Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.
Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’ll get started. You can be my assistant.”
He looked around for a dishtowel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very strong and very specifically placed hands on my ass.
“Um, hi?” I said, freezing in place.
“Hi,” he answered cheerfully, not releasing his hands.
“Explain yourself, please,” I ordered, trying not to notice how my heart was trying to leave my body by way of my mouth.
“You told me to find something to clean my hands with,” he stuttered, trying hard not to laugh as he gave each cheek a little squeeze.
“And you took that to mean my ass?” I laughed back and turned to face him, removing his hands with my own.
“What can I say? I take liberties with my neighbors,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth now between my lips and my eyes.
“We have a pie to make, mister. I’ll thank you to remember your manners. No one touches my ass without an invitation.” I giggled, still holding his hands. I felt his thumb trace little circles on the inside of my palm, and my head got swimmy. This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” I instructed.
He smirked and turned away, which gave me the opportunity to mutter, “Oh my Jesus Lord,” to no one in particular before meeting him back at the apple bowl.
“Okay, you do what I tell you, got it?” I said, sprinkling sugar into the bowl.
“Got it.”
I started tossing the apples with my hands and Simon followed my instructions to the letter. When I asked for more sugar, he sugared. When I asked for more cinnamon, he complied. When I asked him to squeeze the lemon, he lemoned so well I had trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth and off his throat.
I tossed and tasted, and when they were finally right, I lifted a wedge to his mouth. “Open up,” I said, and he leaned in.
I placed an apple on his tongue, and he snapped his mouth shut before I had to chance to remove my fingers. He let his lips close around two, and I slowly withdrew them, feeling his tongue wrap around them delicately and deliberately.
“Delicious,” he said softly.
“Gah,” I answered, eyes crossing a little at the sex on two legs displayed in front of me.
He chewed. “Sweet. Sweet, Caroline.”
“Gah,” I managed again. Brain knew this was bad, Heart was beating out of our chest.
“Good for you?” he asked, that knowing smile treading dangerously close to smirk territory.
“Good for me,” I answered, on fire after the fingerlatio. Truce schmuce, harem schmarem. Who cared if there was no actual O? I needed to be in contact with this man in the very worst way.
My sexual wall had been hit, and as I prepared to rip the clothes from his body, throw him to the ground, and ride him amid a pile of apples and cinnamon with only a rolling pin to guide us, my phone rang.
Thank you, Jesus.