A Hot and Steamy Mess

"Emmalynn, are you here?"
"In here!"

"Em?"

"IN HERE!" I raised my voice over the music, grabbing a dishtowel as I reached for the radio. "IN THE KITCHEN!" I shouted again.

I watched him, his eyes taking me in. What I must have looked like. Dripping with sweat, flour everywhere. Hair in my eyes. A brand new me. It'd been a few weeks and I was entitled to it. Finally.

"Hey." I said. I shifted, dropping my hands to my hips. Flour be damned. No response. "Matt?"

"Uh."

"Why are you in my kitchen?"

"Right. To give you this." He held up a small box.

"What's that?"

"No clue. It came to my office, figured you'd know." He put it on the island. "There are more."

I nodded as I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and my face with the towel. "Thanks."

"What are you making?"

"Dinner." Was that a smirk? "Why?" He shrugged before he disappeared into the hallway, returning with two larger boxes. "That all?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." I turned back to the stove. Started stirring. He didn't move. I looked back again, he was still standing there. Staring. Was he uncomfortable? I hoped so.

"You should watch that."

"What?" I looked up. "Thanks. I've got it."

"The pot," he pointed. "Whatever you're ..." I turned quickly, knocking over the flour. He slid beside me, catching it before it hit the floor.

"Thanks." We were inches apart now. Damn it. Damn him. I felt my breath still. "I'm good."

"I can see that," he whispered, putting the bag back on the counter.

"Thanks." I bit my lip. Why did I keep saying that? I glanced up, straight into his eyes. Felt the heat emanating between us. He touched my face, my cheek. Right above my mouth.

"What?" I cleared my throat.

"Flour. You've got flour here," he licked his thumb, lifting it up to press against my face gently.

"I'm a mess." I laughed. A nervous giggle.

He nodded. "I'll get out of your way." A whisper.

I reached for his arm. "Matt." My flour hand-print pressed against his skin. I wasn't ready for him to go. Not again. Not yet.

"Em." His breath caught. I could feel it. I saw his chest heave just a little.

Within moments we were pressed against one another. Against the wall. The counter. I backed away. He pulled me closer.

What am I doing? What am I doing? My mind raced ahead of my body. I couldn't tear my mouth from his. God, how I missed him. Don't do this, Em. You can't handle this. He shouldn't ... his hands up the back of my shirt. His fingers pressing into my skin. Clutching me to him. What was happening? So comfortable. So familiar. He tastes so good. My body fitting perfectly into his. This was all wrong. And yet, so ... not ...

"Matt." He stopped. We stood face to face. Eye to eye. "We shouldn't. I don't think." He nodded.

"Do you want to stop?" Our breath pulsing. Staccato in rhythm together.

"I -- I don't," I could barely get the words out.

"I don't want to either." His eyes flashed. Vibrant. Brilliant. Hot. I reached for him. He lifted me. Carried me. We headed towards the stairs. My arms around his neck. Hands in his hair. My legs around his waist. His body. We made our way up. Slowly. Carefully. Mouth upon mouth. Gasping at each step. Minimal sounds between us. Quietly. Gently. Savoring every second.

** For more on this story please feel free to click here and read it in chronological order. This piece is a reflection back for Em with more to come at a later time. I shared a bit more words and description than the prompt asked for, but it seemed to work and flow with their story for me. I hope you agree. But please tell me either way, as constructive criticism, as always, is welcomed. **

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