I sit on the stool that overlooks his prep counter, watching his cooking prowess. The best part about this seat is that I get to appreciate the movement of his ass and how it fills out his jeans. Most men don’t have any ass at all, so it’s mesmerizing when you can watch a beautifully sculpted one in motion.
“You have the kitchen of a gourmet chef,” I comment as my eyes take in the expanse of the large restaurant style refrigerator with separate freezer, the Dutch-oven stove with grill and griddle plates, and the deep-well farm sink. “Cooking must be a hobby for you? Or is it a necessity for a single man?”
“Cooking is a necessity for anyone who values eating,” he chuckles. “I spent way too many years on the road, eating at every dive hole that served food. I’ve learned to appreciate the importance of a well-cooked meal. I’m pretty good at watching others and picking up a few skills here and there.”
He winks at me with that glorious smile of his as he lays bacon on the griddle for the burgers, and I shuffle around in my seat. That damn smile will be my undoing.
“Do you cook?” he asks, lifting his eyebrow high with curiosity. “You know, with being a single person yourself. It’s hard to cook for one most of the time.”
“Yes, but only when I am with my family or going to a family event,” I sigh with revealing one of my secrets. “It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I am Brazilian and that is my shameful secret. Brazilian’s love to cook, but it’s a lot of work for one person. I reheat leftovers from takeout a lot. Living in a large city makes it too convenient sometimes.”
I flip the heavy metal bar that lies over his napkin holder, not knowing what to do with my hands. The corded muscles of his back catch my attention as they move with efficiency while flipping the burgers and bacon. The sleeves of this shirt stretch and move against the hardness of his biceps, hugging them tightly, and I squirm again. My panties are soaked and all he’s done is cook. I’m pathetic.
“During the week, I find myself at a lot of food tastings for weddings, so many of my meals come from there,” I admit. “And on the weekends, I’m too busy to eat with keeping everything moving along smoothly for the reception, so the catering staff usually boxes a meal for me. The rest of my meals comes from Uber Eats or pizza delivery. And that’s the sad, hard truth about my life.”
He turns to face me after my admission. His mouth is turned down like I upset him. “Don’t say that. It’s not sad, but just the cold reality of being single,” he offers. “I’m sure if it were truly sad, you’d change it. Invite some friends or family over. Have a party that isn’t a wedding, you know?”
And there’s the deep heart of the matter. For someone who loves to socialize at weddings and has built a great business on it, I don’t socialize for any other reason. If I’m not with a client, aka socializing for a wedding, then I’m alone.
“I’m not a great socializer outside of weddings,” I confess, swallowing that hard truth as well. I feel like I should be lying down on a couch since I’m spilling my soul to him.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, turning down the flames on the food. He pulls out a cutting board and reaches into the bowl on the counter, double-fisting a tomato and red onion. He begins slicing them with the expertise of Bobby Flay, and I pray that he misses his fingers because his knife looks sharp as it glides easily through the skins of each one.
He grabs two plates from the rack above the sink and sets them down on the island in front of me. Strolling over to the massive refrigerator, he pulls the door open and asks, “Do you ketchup, mayo, mustard, pickle, and lettuce, or not?”
“I only mayo, mustard, and pickle,” laughing at the way he asks that all important question. He sets down the bottles and jars that he collected and turns and throws a few hamburger buns on the griddle. “Wow. Toasted buns. This is a treat.”
“This will be, without a doubt, the best bacon burger you’ve ever had,” he beams with pride. “I may not do a lot of things right, but I’m the best at grilling burgers.”
“I think you do a lot of things right,” I blurt out, not meaning for those words to escape my lips but it’s too late now. He heard me and smiled. Damn that smile again.
“Like what?” he asks. “Yes, I’m fishing for compliments to go with my burger-making skills.”
Without thinking, my mouth opens and says, “The way you fill out those jeans is quite right.” He twists his head and side to take a look at his own ass. Before I can blush, he wiggles it and begins assembling our burgers. Suddenly, the air in the room is blistering hot.
Scooping up our plates, he says “Let’s go eat outside,” and I slide off my stool. “Hey, would you please grab that bag of chips on the far counter and come outside?” I find them and head out behind him. He’s still shaking his asset as he walks in front of me.
I follow him to the left on the lighted pathway, and we come upon a raised teakwood patio with a matching table and fire pit. It blends in perfectly with the rest of the garden and I stand in awe. He sets the plates down and flips a small switch on the fire pit watching the gas ignite the flame and light up. “Ambiance,” he says, giving me a side smile and slightly shrugging his shoulders. It’s more beautiful than if he lit twenty candles.
“Ambiance is beautiful, especially after midnight,” I elaborate before biting into my burger.
“Mmmmm,” I groan with my mouth full. The blend of meat and spices hits my taste buds, and I know I’ll probably inhale it with how hungry I am. It really is the best burger I’ve ever had. The juices run down my chin, and he reaches across with a napkin, wiping my mess for me and causing me to blush. “Thank you.”
He grabs the bag of chips in between bites of his own burger and pops them open serving me a small amount first before getting his own. What a gentleman.
“How is the burger?” he asks, holding his breath and narrowing his eyes in anticipation of my critique.
“Oh my god. It’s fabulous— easily the best burger I’ve ever eaten,” I admit. “I can taste the meat and spices. It’s not too salty. It’s perfect, actually.” I smile boldly, letting him know I truly do love it. He tucks his head away again. This daring man cannot be shy. Maybe he lacks confidence?
“You’d make a killing serving these burgers in your bar, you know that right?” I ask between chewing my last bite of burger and bun, and popping another potato chip in my mouth.
“I’ve thought about it. Several times in fact, but burger joints come and go quickly,” he grumbles, picking up our plates and walking them to the outside sink that I didn’t see in the corner. “I would rather do something that I am great at, like running the bar than something I am okay at. And besides, you need more menu items than just burgers. Therein lies the main problem. I can only do burgers well.”
“Stop saying that,” I insist. “You do many things very well. Don’t you know your own worth in this world?”
“My worth died a long time ago,” he sighs heavily. I know he’s talking about his fiancé, but I haven’t had enough liquid courage tonight to hear that story, maybe not ever.
“C’mon, let’s go test out that hammock,” I say, holding out my hand to him. “I’ve never been in one, and I want to see how comfy they are.” Before he can take my hand, I run across the patio and down across the smooth, stone pavers kicking off my shoes once I get to the grass. It’s so soft on my toes I take a second to squeeze a few blades between them, then I dive right into the hammock.
It swings and bounces with me as I scoot around trying to get comfortable. He cautiously approaches the wildly swinging tangle of me, netting and rope, laughing a deep belly laugh. It’s deep and instantly draws me in. I get the impression he rarely gets to laugh that hard, so I continue to thrash about giving him his due.
I hold out my hand for him to come closer, and as he steps out of the shadow of the tree, the moonlight illuminates his face and he’s got this hungry wolf look in his eyes. I swallow the ball of nerves in my throat but still pat the netting for him to lie down with me.
He tumbles into the hammock and we both roll towards each other. His arm stretches up for me to settle into the crook of his shoulder, placing my hand on his chest as I tuck the other one into my side. Even though this is a very intimate setting for two people who are just getting to know each other, it feels right. Like this is exactly where we should be with each other, never mind that we’ve yet to go on a date.
“Is this a date?” I ask, my voice is small and nervous.
“This is our third date,” he declares without any hesitation.
“Third?” I ask, my voice a little louder and higher this time. I should probably try to contain my excitement a little more.
“Yes. The wedding was the first. The bar was the second, and now my cooking for you is the third,” he explains very confidently. I raise my eyebrow in surprise, but more in wonderment of his thinking process. I mouth the word “ahh”, making him smile.
“May I kiss you know?” he asks, picking up a stray strand of my hair and twirling it around his finger. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
His soft words send a massive wave of emotion to my heart, and I feel it skip a beat. No man has ever said that to me. I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, especially date, but he makes it all feel so slow and steady—like it’s just right.
I lean into him as his fingertip gently guides my chin higher to accept his kiss. His lips are full and round and warm against mine. They’ve got that perfect divot that every woman wants, but most men get.
He turns into me more, taking the kiss deeper and I open up to him. His tongue is tentative at first, nipping and slipping in and out several times, not connecting with mine. He draws back sucking on my lips, completely tasting my mouth. Our fingers lace together, and he holds my hand to his chest possessively. He gets bolder, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and taking everything I offer.
He pulls on my hand to guide me higher onto this chest. The hammock starts to rock with our bold movements. I wrap myself around his waist, riding him, and feel his hard-on slide back and forth against the cleft of my thighs. His hands reach up and caress my breasts. His thumbs brush against my hard nipples that poke through my shirt.
I want to strip us of our clothing barriers. I want his tongue on me— on my skin. The devil inside my head reminds me it’s our third date and perfectly acceptable. The angel inside me is slamming on the breaks, refusing to let me ruin a good thing. I groan in confusion, but continue grinding on him not seeing the invisible line yet that shouldn’t be crossed on a third date.
All I know is that he feels damn good, and my body is ready for a fourth date.