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“I couldn’t wait to get home from work the next night. Patrick led me to the kitchen, claiming I should eat, but the pot of pasta suffered as we found excuses to rub up against each other and kiss.
“Jesus Christ!” Patrick dropped the pan into the sink and turned the faucet on, disappearing behind a cloud of steam. He emerged, drying his eyeglasses on his shirttail. “You’re a menace. We could have burned the house down.”
“I am? You’re the one who wanted to cook me something.”
“You need to maintain your strength after slaving over that hot board in the studio.” He bent to rummage in a cabinet. “Oh, get your hands off my arse, woman.”
“You have a great arse.”
“So do you, and I intend to get up it as soon as we begin to have sex. Unless of course we develop burned-food fetishes. Tuna?”
“A tuna fetish?” I moved my hands over his ass.
“A tuna sandwich.”
“Sure, thanks.”
He straightened, a can of tuna in one hand, and turned to face me. “Let’s go away somewhere for our first screw.”
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