Best Served Warm and Buttered

This is a collaborative effort by MarshAlien and tickledkitty. Enjoy!

Mark reached across me to grab his watch off the nightstand. "Sorry, babe," he said. "I got a ten o'clock tee time."

This was not going to be a day for cuddling, the only one of my subtle and not-so-subtle suggestions that he ever seemed to remember. He pulled his spent cock out of me and gave me a slap on the rear.

"You're still a damn good piece of ass, Kath." I could feel the mattress, freed of his weight, regain its shape underneath me. "Don't let anyone tell you you ain't still got it."

And don't let anyone tell you you ever had it, I thought to myself.

The sex had been okay, nothing special. I preferred it at night, after we put Elaine to bed; we usually did it in the morning, before she woke up. I liked a long, slow arousal; he liked a blow job.

I stretched out on my stomach on the bed. I had purchased these sheets a few months ago, and I was particularly conscious of 450-thread count when I was lying this way.

"So you pickin' up Elaine this afternoon?" Mark asked. "Mom had her all last evening, and she's not getting any younger."

I responded with a sleepy "mm-hmm." I could tell from the sounds that he was almost finished dressing. I smiled as I heard his footsteps reach the doorway.

"So what are you up to all morning, Kath?" he asked. "Even more of a day off than usual?"

Asshole. As if raising a child were easy. It wasn't the time to have that argument again; he was almost out the door. So I just answered with a lazy hum that suggested I had no idea.

But I did. As soon as he went downstairs, before he had even gone into the garage, I turned over onto my back. Keeping my eyes closed, I drew a long, deep inhalation of breath, and picked out the sounds I wanted to hear from among the birds that still hadn't left for the winter, and those that wouldn't leave at all.

It wasn't the smell of sex; that hadn't taken long enough. It was the smell of bread, coming in through the bedroom window on the intermittent western breeze. It was the sound of Mozart, an aria this time. He always made bread to Mozart. Lying there, my eyes closed, my senses engaged, I let my hands slide down my body. This could be the last time I would experience this delicious combination for many months, and I meant to give it a proper greeting.

Tim had moved into the house next door at the beginning of the year. He was single, a little older than Mark and I, and a businessman of some sort whose work required constant travel during the week but that returned him home every Friday evening in time for the next morning's baking. Summer arrived, and the redolent yeast and wheat and caraway seeds and rye and cardamom hung in the barely moving air for just that much longer. They were "our" Saturdays then, as much a ritual for me as Mark's golf was for him. I had indulged in a special coffee, one I would save for Saturday morning. As soon as Mark left, I would carefully measure and grind the beans, and once the coffee began dripping into the pot, I would go upstairs. Elaine would be outside, playing with one of her friends on the swing set that Mark had built when she was first born. I would sit in my daughter's room, in that undersized rocking chair next to the window. And I would look down, through his kitchen window, and watch him knead the first batch of dough.

From that vantage all I could see was his hands, strong hands with a sensitive touch that had sent chills up my arm the first time we had met. His fingers would lift the edges of the dough, folding it over once and then again, and then the heels of his palms would push it into the floured wooden board. It was never hot enough for long enough to indulge in air-conditioning in this part of upstate New York, but there were Saturday mornings when it warmed quickly. He would knead for fifteen minutes, far longer than I had thought necessary, and at times he would have to stop and lift an arm, probably to wipe the sweat off of his brow. And then the hand would return.

By the time he was finished kneading the first batch of dough -- by the time I finished watching him -- the coffee would be ready. I would pour myself a cup, add some cream and some sugar, and walk out to the deck. Elaine would hear the screen door slam behind her and look up and wave. I would smile and wave back, and Elaine would return to her play. I would sit at the table, at one of the plastic chairs, and just open my senses.

We had listened to the piano concertos together, me on my porch with my coffee, Tim in his kitchen with his rosemary foccaccia. We had enjoyed a sampling of the symphonies -- the 33rd with its clever little ending that had matched so perfectly the sound of Tim closing the oven door as he brought out the last of his three loaves of bread that day; the 41st and last with its magnificent, spine-tingling chords.

I could vividly remember that day. I had pulled on a halter top and a pair of tight denim shorts, much too tight as it turned out. When the symphony had neared its end, I had unthinkingly crossed my legs and the pressure between my legs built so quickly that I barely had time to put the cup back on the table and grip the metal rim that circled the glass tabletop.

But the best day had been that Saturday in early September, when I had sat at the table with his cardamom bread in my hand, savoring the last slice. I had found the bread among all the others on the folding table at the church's bake sale the previous weekend. I hadn't known whose it was when I picked it up; I'd simply been attracted by the penmanship on the label. It was a braided loaf with a sugared top, and the label claimed that it was an old family recipe, a bread best served warm and buttered. And at the end it simply said, "Enjoy!"

"Ooh, that's a keeper there, dear," Mrs. Martin had said as I started to return the bread to the table. "That's Mr. Hansen's bread."

"Tim Hansen?" asked the woman standing directly behind me. She looked down at the bread, still in my hand.

"He's a newcomer at the early service," Mrs. Martin said, a twinkle in her eye.

It had been wonderful, and the only problem had been having to share it with Elaine, who had come back into the house one morning unexpectedly and demanded a portion. Hiding the last piece had been a selfish act. But a week later, listening to one of the horn concertos, tasting the sugar on the brown crust and the butter slowly melting into the bread, I found it easy to forgive myself. Today, the last day before autumn, would require us to once again close our windows. I didn't want to watch Tim knead. I had watched him all summer long. I knew exactly what it looked like. Today I wanted to know what it felt like.

I smiled at the thought. It's not like I could go next door and just climb onto his counter. But I had watched him long enough. My hands weren't strong, but my fingers were sensitive. I moved them back up to my breasts. Closing my eyes, I pictured Tim's hands—the wide palms and the scattering of dark hairs on the backs of the long, tapering fingers that curled around a mound of dough, which became my own flesh. My own fingers caressed the mounds of my breasts, pushing downward with my palms and flattening them against my chest. Curling my fingers around the edges I pulled back, dragging my palms back upward, pressing and pulling my nipples along the way and then repeating the motion.

Again and again he kneaded the fleshy orbs, slowly, then picking up speed as my arousal increased. My back arched, pressing my breasts up into his palms, increasing their pressure, urging him onward, my body undulating with the rhythm.

His face came into view then, the brown velvet eyes gazing into mine, that amused little smile curling his lips. As I reached up to trace the curve of his lips with my fingers, they parted, and he caught my fingers between his teeth. The tip of his tongue slid across my fingertips as his lips closed, and he sucked in as he pulled his head back. I gasped as my fingers popped out of his mouth.

The aria was gone. I smiled as I recognized the piece that played now. The Concerto in A Major for Clarinet and Orchestra. I'd played it in college. The mellow tones rode through the open window on the cool breeze that delicately licked my fevered skin, as the scent of baking bread caressed my nostrils.

Tim settled his weight between my bent knees and slid his warm palms off my breasts and down my abdomen, just grazing the top of my mons, and then moving back up to my breasts. Nestling his body against my crotch and then leaning down, he captured my bottom lip between his own, sucking and pulling it out slightly and letting it go.

I imagined deep, hungry kisses, our tongues dancing together, teeth grazing at times. Then his mouth was on my neck. Kissing my throat. Licking along my jaw, briefly sucking my chin. My hands were in his hair, fingers entwined in the salt and pepper strands infused with the sweet yeasty scent of bread.

His tongue traced a long line down the center of my chest, leaving a wet trail that cooled in the breeze. Pushing my breasts together with his hands, he leaned forward, taking one nipple into his mouth, and then the other. He traced the tip of his tongue around an areola, then opening his mouth wide, sucked it into his mouth.

I was writhing in pleasure, my hands traveling down my sides to my very wet pussy and pushing my fingers inside. They were his hands, just as it was his mouth that kissed and licked and sucked its way down my body, lingering over my belly button, tongue dipping briefly inside, then continuing downward. I could feel his breath as he ran his nose along the strip of pubic hair to my cleft, then flicked his tongue out and ran it along my slit, sampling my juices.

I could feel my orgasm gathering, pulling its energy from the far parts of my body. I felt its focus, pinpointing my attention, as Tim opened me with his fingers and dipped his tongue into my essence. His tongue pressed into my channel, as my hands gripped his head and pulled him harder against me. He circled my clit with his tongue and then sucked it hard into his mouth.

My muscles tightened; I was in heaven. I imagined I was hearing bells. It was at least a minute before I realized that I could actually hear bells. Someone was ringing the front doorbell. Someone was opening the front door, calling out, "Is anyone home?"

Fuck! I wasn't going to even get to cuddle myself this morning.

"I'm coming!" I yelled.

I rose, grabbed a handful of Kleenex, and took a quick swipe at my slippery core. Snatching my short robe from the chair in the corner, I tossed it on as I ran into the hallway. I was tying the sash as I reached the bottom step and saw him, standing in the doorway.

"Shit!" I whispered and ran a hand through my tousled hair.

"I am so sorry, Kathy," Tim said. "I hope I didn't wake you?" Damn that sexy, mischievous smile.

"Oh, no," I giggled. Idiot. "I've been awake for a while."

I watched his eyes quickly survey my body, lingering for just a second on my legs, and on the exposed skin between the lapels of my robe.

"I usually bake on Saturdays, and the wind must have shifted, because I could smell this wonderful coffee coming from your house," he explained. "So I thought maybe we could work out a deal."

My stomach was flipping back and forth. No deal, it was saying. We couldn't possibly.

My heart was singing. Yes, it exulted. I have just what you want.

My brain was going to have to decide, and I became conscious that I was standing there far longer than necessary.

I smiled.

"Come on in."

The authors would like to thank Hermit and Penny for their excellent editing skills.

Tickledkitty would like to thank MarshAlien for his great kindness, generosity, and wonderful friendship.