Like a recipe.

It was a natural instinct, how I make sense of the world. Start my base with kisses, gentle touches. Take it slow, experiment to see what works and what doesn’t. Taste. Always, always taste. Her lips, her skin, whatever she’ll let me put my mouth on. Create balance, pleasure with a sharp bite of pain. Excess with the need of wanting more.

In my mind, I’ve lost myself in her. I’ve imagined her gasps and her screams and felt her fingernails dig into my skin. I’ve heard her beg me.

But in reality, I sit on our chef’s table and let Amy undress me, totally overwhelmed that I am here, that this is happening. It’s happening. To me, only for me; for me and her. Not for the gaze of someone else, not under the guise of a wild night. For the first time in my life I’m doing something I never thought I’d be able to do.

Amy’s holds my breasts in her hands, staring at me like I am something beautiful. I press against the table, my head falling back. An invitation for her to go further. If this doesn’t work, I’ll skip straight to begging.

“I’m going to take this off,” she says. She doesn’t ask, but she’s not bossy, either. Her voice is reverential.

“Yes.” I reach back to unfasten my bra and meet her hands.

She smiles, wolfish. “I’ve got it.”

Each new step, every piece of clothing removed, every act ticked off a list I made a long time ago, takes my breath away. Amps up my excitement. I’m so wet it’s embarrassing.

She draws my bra straps down my arms. My bra left red marks over my skin. She rubs them with her thumb, kisses them, avoiding my nipples until they’re peaked and tight. I’m panting, my shoulders thrown back. I whine for her.

She brushes her thumb over my nipple and I grunt with frustration and want.

I gasp. “Please.”

“Please what?” she murmurs into my neck.

“Kiss me.”

She places a slow, open-mouthed kiss to my pulse point. I growl because that’s not what I meant, and she laughs. Lifting my breasts up, together, she doesn’t look away as she wraps her lips around my nipple, sucking the bud into her mouth. I cry out, anchor my hand in her hair. She moves back and forth between my breasts, licking and sucking until I’m shaking. She pushes my legs apart, the seams of my pants straining. She could rip them open, rip me open, and I’d thank her.

Her hand lands on my belly, just above the waist of my stretchy work slacks. A perfect match for my underwear underneath made for comfort and not the seduction of my business partner.

She kisses between my breasts. “Why are we doing this?” she asks.

I frown, trying to understand the question.

We’re doing this because it feels good. We’re doing this because it feels right, doesn’t it feel right? The inevitable conclusion to months of frustration and infrequent moments of alliance.