“Suds!” I lunge but he’s faster and catches the glass inches above the floor.
In trouble again, the sneaky feline dashes up the spiral staircase and sticks her head between the railings. “Mew.”
Pointing a wooden spoon, I scold like my mom did when I was a kid. “You can stay up there, young lady, until you learn to behave.”
“You do know she can’t understand you.” My sexy husband shoots me a stupid grin.
“Oh, yes she can.” I tickle his arm pit, grab the dough between my boobs, and shove it down his pants.
As he unzips, Sebastian chuckles deep in his chest. “Paybacks are a bitch.”
“Uncle, uncle.” Saved by the buzzer, I count to ten, inhale and focus. I have survived a kidnapping, been beat up and shot at. Certainly, I can survive a few noodles.
“Okay dough. Wake up. No more resting.” Taking a sharp knife, I cut the ball into quarters, keep one piece, and wrap the rest in plastic.
Folded and flattened repeatedly, we feed an oval disc through the pasta maker on the widest setting. The result is Instagram-worthy.
“Woohoo!”
We go through this process a few more times, then Suds attaches the cutter. I crank the handle and he collects the noodles. As instructed on YouTube, he makes little nests and sets them apart to dry.
Happier than I’ve been in weeks, I kiss my tough guy, our tongues tangle, and soon, we’re out of breath.
Done making pasta, I do a little dance, start a pot of water, and pull a container of homemade sauce out of the freezer. Maybe, I’m not domestically challenged, after all.
When Suds was sick, didn’t I take care of him? I even endured a cooking class with Mom and Nonna.
Later, as the candles burn low and we finish the last of our wine, Suds’ eyes grow dark. “I want to make love with you but I can’t guarantee everything will work.”
I place my hands behind his neck, bring his head down, and press my lips to his. Then, I take his hand and lead him upstairs. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him to fold up the couch. No more waking up alone.
Bathed in the streetlamp’s yellow light, we crawl onto our mattress. Neither of us is in any hurry. Removing our clothes, we lie on our sides. My fingertips graze over his abs, his nipples, and circle his belly button. His dark eyes watching, I trace the familiar scars from his time spent as a SEAL and place feathery kisses across his chest.
He lost a lot of weight which was one of the reasons I made pasta. Maybe, I should feed him more greens. What if he never improves? My mind races a million miles an hour until he cups my cheeks and catches my gaze.
“Sam? Stop thinkin’ so much.” Rolling onto his back, he pulls me up his body, and devours me with a kiss so hot, it zings my lady lips and zaps my brain cells.
His hands roam down my back to my gluts where he squeezes and presses me into his hard want. With his tip is at my opening, I squirm.
“Babe…” He reverses so he is again on top, sits on his heels, and with both hands massages my chest.
My clit jumps as his palms slide up and down the front of my body. I wait for him to slip between my upper thighs but instead, he leans over, clamps his mouth over a nipple, and sucks. Threads of desire shoot to my nub, raising the temperature in the loft about ten degrees.
“Now.” I arch up and he moans.
“Sugar.” The side of his hand slides back and forth, from my butt crack to my front.
“Oh, oh…” My want blossoms as I buck against his finger.
Grabbing his cock, he places it at my entrance, and plunges. Too tight, he stops halfway and nibbles my earlobe. “Relax. It’s all good.”
I do, he pulls out and thrusts repeatedly until I’m a shuddering mess.
“Fuck you feel good.” When he ups the pace, I wrap my legs around him, and lock my ankles at the small of his back.
The loft floor creaks as we bump and grind. Sheets drenched, our chests lubricated with sweat, we slide together. He thrusts, swells deep within me, and I scream. His primal groan follows, he erupts, and I go off again.
Finally, our bodies as one, we fall boneless on the futon and sleep.
