Coffee, made with love

She smiled, her eyes twinkling, and she breathed out a sigh. "What did I do to get this lucky?"

"You gave me a job a few years ago?"

She giggled. "And now you've up and left it!"

"And if I hadn't, would we be here on your bed?"

"Probably not, unless you made moves."

"And how would you have responded to my moves?"

"I'd have kissed you and taken you on the café's kitchen bench," she said, leaning across to me, kissing my lips.

Again we took our time, kissing tenderly, caressing, and again I searched out her slit with my fingers. Under my touch, Miranda became increasingly wet, and soon we'd kicked off our socks and shoes, and together we removed her dress. Facing one another and sitting upright on the bed, she unhooked her bra-strap, letting her breasts out.

"Beautiful," I whispered, admiring her big, curvy, round, pendulous boobs, with big nipples and large areolas, a darker brown than the light pink-brown of my fantasies. She carried a little podge around her waist, in a beautiful womanly way. I reached for her hand.

"Once upon a time I was very self-conscious of my body," she said. "But I'm at an age where I no longer worry about what other's think. I am what I am, so either take me or leave me."

"You know I'm going to take you, Miranda. You are so beautiful. Absolutely nothing to be self-conscious about here."

"You are such a sweetie," she said, smiling and reaching for my shirt, pulling it up as her breasts hung between us when she leant over. I kissed her and she felt my muscles, her fingers caressing my pectorals, over my hard nipples, then down my abdominals, whispering, "Oh, my."

I removed my shorts and undies, tossing them off the bed, my penis hard and fat, excited by Miranda. We kissed, holding one another, and I caressed her breasts, running my finger over her skin, tracing her areola, her nipples growing hard, goose bumps forming.

"You know how to touch me," she whispered.

"You are so gorgeous."

She sighed when I kissed her neck, her chest, down her breast, tonguing her nipple, wrapping my mouth around the circumference of her big areola. "Oh, my."

Then I kissed her belly, running my lips and tongue down to her thighs, her bush glistening. I nuzzled her there with my nose, smelling her distinctive aroma, my lips, tongue on clitoris, tasting her juice, sweet-sour, Miranda gasping, shifting position, lifting her buttocks up, running her hands through my hair, pushing my face to her pussy, my hands gripping her thighs, her juices running into my mouth, wet on my chin and cheeks.

"Oh, gosh, I wasn't, expecting, oh, wow, right there!" Miranda was directing me and I pushed my tongue over her, gently along her pussy lips, into her slit, moving it up again and over her clit again, her breathing increasing. She made several little thrusts with her pelvis, a squeak and a moan and a mutter from her mouth as she went rigid, her snatch pulsing against my mouth, shuddering, while I gasped, tongue pushing down on her most sensitive organ, her legs clamping my face in place.

I could barely breath, my nose tickled by the hairs of her bush, while she held me there for more than a moment, my tongue resting in her entrance now, my lips wrapped over her pussy lips. Then she relaxed, and I breathed a deep breath, pulled away and smiled up at her.

"Wow, sorry about that," she whispered, breathing deeply. "Boy you have some talent. If only I'd known."

"If only I'd known I could share my talent with you."

"You can...come up here."

I kissed her all the way, from cunt to mouth, and we fell into one another's arms, our eyes gazing into one another the moment our bodies joined again, my cock slipping into her soaking wet pussy hole, coupled again as nature intended.

We were in missionary on her bed, her skin against mine, arms wrapped around one another, her legs bent at the knee, as I moved within. And we were way more comfortable than when fucking on the park bench.

We made love slowly, rocking back and forth with a gentle rhythm, kissing tenderly, whispering sweetness, arms wrapped around one another, her legs eventually wrapping around me. Perhaps we made love forever this time around, or more likely for at least an hour, where the physical pleasure built nice and slow between us, and eventually we increased our loving rhythm, our pleasure, our passion growing, bodies locked tight, grinding in unison, both of us riding along the edge of an orgasm, trying to push on over with an intensity neither of us previously experienced, looking each other in the eyes, moaning, kissing, trying, thrusting, pushing, squeezing, sensations combining, overriding, our mouths on each other, loving, me cumming, Miranda cumming, tensely holding each other till we began to relax, cuddling long into the night, and falling asleep in one another's arms.

~0~

"Good morning, gorgeous," I whispered.

"Good morning, sweetness," she whispered back, with a smile and a finger caressing the outline of my jaw.

Sunday was the one day of the week Miranda didn't open the café. Needed nowhere else other than here, in one another's arms, we rested, cuddling, and eventually fucking, slow and gentle, like the previous night, wrapped in each other, joined in body and soul and pleasure, for an eternity.

And then we were hungry, so Miranda left for her kitchen in her loose night-gown and made me a coffee, handing it to me with a smile, telling me, "One coffee, made with love."

"I'm in love with you, Miranda," I whispered, one-hundred percent sure of myself. "I have been for a while."

"Same, Todd," she whispered back, her eyes full of love. "I'm in love with you too."

"Would you like me to make your Earl Grey latte?"

"You know me so well."

"I'm so in love with you. I can't help it."

"I'd love to make you breakfast, my lover."

Using her coffee machine to steam some milk, I made her an Earl Grey latte while she began cooking eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce.

"Here's your tea, made with love," I said with a grin.

She smiled, taking her mug. "Thank you, my sweet. Breakfast will be ready soon. Shall we eat out the back?"

"Sure. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not right now," she said, giving me a cheeky smile. "But later you can fuck me again."

At the rear of her house a large deck overlooked a sparse yard, where four citrus grew down one side, a Jacaranda tree near the end of its flowering season in the opposite corner, leaving a carpet of purple on the grass, and in the middle against the rear fence, a small overgrown vegetable garden bed sat neglected.

"It's a big yard you have here," I remarked, before biting into another delicious mouthful of lovingly chef made eggs-benny. "Heaps of room for more vegie beds if you want to grow fresh produce for this Tucker-Box idea of yours."

"Look at my garden bed over there. It was here when I bought the place and I attempted to grow some tomatoes, but I've been so busy with the café so I've let it go. I've wanted to get a dog too, but I don't have the time to look after anything."

"Married to your job?"

She laughed. "Don't you know it!"

"I'll help you. We can get started today if you like."

"Not today, my sweet. Maybe we can start when I have a better plan."

"Sure. In the meantime, is there anywhere you'd like to go today? We could have our second date."

A wicked smile came over her lips. "How about we go back inside and lie on the bed and think about it, then do the first thing that pops up?"

"Sound's great," I laughed.

~0~

"I used to hate my boobs," Miranda told me as we lay together later in post-coital bliss for the second time since breakfast, my fingers gently stroking her left breast.

"Why? You have magnificent boobs."

"Every man I've known has thought that," she said. "Richard was obsessed with them. Always trying to get me to pose naked for photographs."

"Did you?"

"No, not naked. When we first met he hoped to become a professional photographer, and he asked me to model for him so he could build up a portfolio to send off to a studio. I did some posing, but to be honest I wasn't much of a model. Too naïve and shy about my body."

Caressing down her side, I told her, "Your body is beautiful, Miranda."

She smiled. "I've grown into it. It's only taken me about forty years though. I used to feel ungainly, like my boobs were too big, and my labia protruded too much. None of the girls in the dirty magazines and calendars the boys I knew kept were like me. Those girls all having bosoms that looked perfectly proportioned and all with neat slits between their legs."

"You have no need to feel ungainly."

"I don't. Not anymore, anyway."

"I wish you'd never felt bad about yourself, ever."

Miranda melted with a smile. "I wish you'd been around back when I was eighteen or nineteen."

Even later she pulled out an old photo album. "This is me at nineteen. In Belize, and I'd only recently met Richard. By the look on my face I don't think I was too pleased with him wanting to take photos of me. I suspect he was probably asking me to remove my bikini at the time, because he was always trying."

The girl in the photographs was undeniably Miranda, but she looked so young. She was stunning, young and fresh, and perhaps lacking confidence. In one photo Miranda stood knee deep in the water of a tropical beach, her skin tanned brown and she was clothed in a simple blue and white striped bikini. She looked at the camera with eyes burning with defiance, not smiling, her lips the diamond shape of her resting face, slightly parted and white front teeth slightly visible through the gap.

Models around the world would kill to have her look in this photo. However, it was clear she was reluctant to show her body to the camera, with arms wrapped around chest, covering up her breasts, although still exposing a toned and flat stomach, and her long shapely legs emerging from her neat bikini bottoms.

In the next photo, taken soon after the first, young Miranda was smiling, or perhaps laughing at a joke, her mouth forming the familiar D on its side, head cocked to the right, arms now out-spread, breasts large and round, young and firm, skin spilling around the edges of her barely fitting bikini top. Her long wavy dark-brown hair fell down from her head, curving over her shoulders, disappearing down her back. She was a cutie back then, no doubt about it. Completely gorgeous.

Strangely for a moment I was jealous of Richard, the man who fathered her two children and married her, in a time when she was youthful and also vulnerable, potentially the most beautiful girl on Earth. I pushed those thoughts aside, because the beautiful, vulnerable young woman in the photographs was my beautiful, confident middle-aged woman standing beside me, and most definitely still the most beautiful woman on Earth.

"Gosh, I look so young, don't I?" she said, almost like she was surprised.

"I can't believe how tanned you were. Not like your pasty stuck-in-the-kitchen shade of white skin these days! You could've been a swimsuit model back then."

"Swimsuit model," she said mockingly. "You sound like Richard used to. You can see how self-conscious I was of my body in those days."

"I don't know why. As far as I can tell you've been beautiful your whole life, Miranda. If only the nineteen year-old girl in the photo knew how absolutely stunning she is, and how stunning she'd still be at forty-three."

"If only the nineteen year-old girl in the photo knew she'd fall pregnant a few months later and soon head off to start a new life in Australia with the man who took the photos! The same man who'd cheat on her years later, like others did and would."

"If only the girl in the photo knew how her adventures would cause her to become a strong, independent and confident woman, learning how to be a talented chef and eventually running her own café in Brisbane! Where one day she'd employ a young man desperate for a job close by his house, and who'd eventually yearn for her more than anything on Earth. A man who'd never dream of cheating on her."

"If only we could send the young man back in a time machine to sweep the young woman off her feet before she met all these other boys."

"The other boys were fools. Anyone would be off their rocker to want anybody else once they were yours."

"I think we all might be fools," she said, smiling at me now.

I smiled back and said, "I'm a fool for you, I know that much."

"I'm in love with you, Todd."

"I'm in love with you too, Miranda."

We leant into each other and kissed.

~0~

LAST NIGHT...

Arriving home, I parked the car in the garage, entered the house through the inner door and could hear Miranda talking on the phone. My ears pricked up when I heard her mention my name as I carried my luggage into the house.

"No, Todd definitely would not be interested," she said, her voice casual, almost with a hint of humour like she was about to laugh. "You know he likes his privacy."

Miranda's statement further piqued my curiosity because I certainly do like my privacy. She must be talking to someone we knew, most likely a friend, and I wracked my brain trying to determine who from the snippets of conversation.

Once I'd stowed my luggage in our bedroom, I found Miranda in the kitchen standing by the granite island bench, her phone to her ear and a chopping board with a knife and half-cut mushrooms beside her. She turned to me and smiled.

"Yes...no...okay, I'll make sure," she said into the phone, pausing again, and noting my raised eyebrows she gave me a full eye-roll in return. "Okay, thanks, Wendy, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early...Okay, sure...Yes...I'll see you then, Wendy. Bye bye."

She hung up.

Wendy, of course!

"Hello, gorgeous." I received another smile for this. "Was Wendy stressing over the sausage sizzle tomorrow."

"Does Wendy ever not stress? It's her favourite pastime." Wendy, the head volunteer and treasurer at Tucker-Box, had helped Miranda for almost ten years. Tomorrow they were conducting a fundraising sausage sizzle at one of the Bunning's hardware stores on the Gold Coast, raising money to supply fresh food to disadvantaged families. I could only imagine how anxious Wendy was becoming, worrying about everything that might go wrong. Her heart was in the right place, and she was invaluable, but she left Miranda exasperated no end.

"Better you than me," I said, earning a frown. "So what's Wendy asking about my private life for?"

Miranda's frown became a grin. "My, you've got such big ears, don't you? I didn't even hear you arrive home when I said that!"

"All the better to hear you with, my dearest. Which I couldn't help because you were speaking so loud that I reckon I heard you from the letterbox!"

She poked out her tongue and loudly said, "Eh? Can't hear you? Going deaf in my old age."

I laughed, which is the best I could do for a comeback.

She chuckled. "You know Wendy's always wanting to know other people's business. Especially mine."

"Your private life or our private life? I heard you tell Wendy how I wouldn't be interested in something because I like privacy. And too right. I wouldn't tell her anything about our private life."

"Come on, Todd! Wendy's lovely. You should get to know her better. She likes young men."

The wicked look in Miranda's eye made me laugh. "I think you're going to have to tell her I'm already taken."

"Wendy wouldn't want you anyway," Miranda chuckled, picking up the knife and chopped the mushrooms at speed with practiced hands. "You're a bit over the hill for her."

"Ah, yeah, she likes that poor Stephen bloke doesn't she?"

"Wendy still thinks she has a chance," Miranda said, her smile lingering. "Young Stephen is too nice for his own good, but fortunately for him he's also attracting the attention of our new volunteer, Michelle."

"He's dodging the Wendy bullet, hopefully." In her early sixties, Wendy apparently developed a crush on young Stephen, an enthusiastic and good looking young lad who'd volunteered with Tucker-Box for two years now. He was so nice to everyone, but Wendy mentioned to Miranda on several occasions how handsome she thought Stephen was and how he flirted with her. After observing their interactions, Miranda and I both came to the conclusion Stephen was simply being nice to Wendy and not flirting in the slightest.

When we'd first met Wendy and she'd found out I was Miranda's younger man, she appeared overly keen to know more about our private life, asking seemingly innocent questions here and there. Over time we came to realise she liked any young man, so we put her interest in Stephen down to a fantasy of hers.

"Anyway, what did Wendy want to know?"

Miranda finished chopping the mushrooms, sliding them into a stainless steel bowl. "If you must know, Wendy was telling me about a TV show that is looking to interview couples with large age disparities. I said I wasn't interest in going on TV, especially for that sort of thing, and you definitely wouldn't either."

"Hey, how do you know I'm not interested in doing an interview?" I said, opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of Riesling. "Baring our private life to the world sounds fun!"

Miranda smiled and shook her head at my sarcasm while I poured the wine. She took my offered glass and clinked it against mine, and we sipped the sweet, crisp liquid, the perfect antidote to the long week and drive home.

"You'd use the show as an excuse to talk about the dogs. Who I've already fed tonight, by the way."

"Thanks." I chuckled, mentally noting to visit their kennel on the back deck before dinner. We'd agreed they'd be outside pets. "I'll tell the audience how you call 'em our fur babies."

"I believe it was you who introduced the term fur babies to our household!"

"Nah, you were totally the first to call them fur babies." I chuckled again. "I'd tell the nation about how we barely manage to cohabitate, because you take up all the room in our walk-in-wardrobe with a hundred dresses."

Miranda's eyes sparkled with cheek. "Yeah, and then they'll wonder how I can stand being with a man who owns a total of three shirts and two pairs of trousers."

"Hey, I own three pairs of trousers thank you very much, and I'd own more if you gave me some room in our robe to put them."

She raised her eyebrows. "And then there's the fact you also only have two pair of shoes."

"Three pairs, if you count my thongs. Anyhow, maybe they want to know about your fifty pairs of shoes and how you only wear three of them." I took another sip, eyeing my cheeky wife over the rim of my wine glass.

Miranda, my cheeky wife, who raised her eyebrows while she sipped her own wine. It was fifteen years since she first interviewed me for the job of kitchen-hand at her café, and twelve since we had sex on the picnic bench in the park by the bay. We were married nine years ago. Many people said we'd never last, but here we are, living in domestic bliss.

"Twenty pairs of shoes is probably closer to the truth," Miranda said, smiling, which was only one of the reasons why I loved her so much. "See, I don't think we'd be interesting candidates for such a show anyway. We're too normal." She put her glass down and picked up an eggplant, cupping it with her hand, her eyes twinkling. "Unless maybe they want explicit details of our sex life."

"There's a thought," I said. "Might even increase the show's ratings. And then you'll have bloody Wendy watching, recording it for all the juicy details."

Miranda gave me a sour look, put the eggplant on the chopping board and sliced it clean in half, quick as you like. "In second thoughts, I wouldn't want Wendy knowing a single thing about our private life."

I laughed. "She's harmless. And she looks up to you. Is it so terrible she wishes she could have a virile young man like you do?"