Risotto…

The TV is murmuring quietly in the background as she potters about the kitchen, collecting ingredients and fetching pans out of the cupboards. She is soothed by the simple actions of preparing the meal – peeling and dicing the onion, slicing the peppers into fine slithers. This risotto is a recipe that she can prepare without thinking, almost unconsciously going through the motions.

A knob of butter melts in the heavy-based pan and she stirs in onion and garlic, the comforting smell already making her mouth water. As they begin to brown, she adds the rice, coating the grains in the buttery sauce before pouring in a glass of wine white. The liquid scorches and bubbles in a violent cacophony that spits the delicious smells higher into the air around her. The sauce thickens as the moisture is absorbed by the rice, and she adds more stock to keep the mixture wet. Sipping wine and gently stirring, she throws in the vegetables and cooked pieces of chicken and bacon, humming to herself as the dish comes together. It’s a satisfying process, watching such simple ingredients transform into this shiny, tempting mess.

But she knows that the satisfaction of cooking wasn’t the only reason why this dish always makes her smile. It was a good thing that she could cook risotto with her eyes closed because her mind is now rarely on the job.

Instead, she remembers another time she cooked it. And who she had cooked it for.

He had stood behind her as she slowly stirred. Pushing her hair aside, he kissed the back of her neck and she quickly lost focus, holding the spoon still instead.

‘Don’t stop,’ he murmured, his breath cool against her skin, ‘I’m hungry!’

So she carried on; mixing, adding stock, tasting and seasoning. But every time she reached into the cupboards for ingredients, stretching up for the mixed herbs on the top shelf or bending into the fridge for tomato purée, he would touch the skin exposed by the new movement. A glimpse of her back above her waistband, the tops of her thigh as her skirt rose higher.

All the time, the frying rice seemed to cackle at her as it jumped in the heat, mocking her and constantly requiring attention as she struggled to feign indifference at his insistent, roving hands. The rich, salty smells of wine, butter and bacon surrounded her, merging with his smell and creating a heady, intoxicating mix. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her back against his body.

Still pretending she was able to ignore him, she lifted the spoon to her lips to check if it was cooked. The thick, almost creamy sauce was exactly how she wanted it, but the rice was still crunchy. Not yet ready.

Pouring in the rest of the stock, she turned down the heat so this last liquid could be fully incorporated. Sensing perhaps that the cooking needed marginally less attention, or maybe just giving in to impatience, he started sliding his hand across her arse, lifting her skirt and delving deeper between her legs. Her underwear was soaked, revealing to his fingertips quite how unsuccessfully she had been ignoring his touch. The fabric was soon pushed aside and she gasped as he easily slid his fingers inside her. Her body arched back, forcing him deeper, and she dropped the spoon to brace herself against the counter, widening her stance for him. He had unzipped his trousers by now but just held his cock against her cunt, teasing and rubbing it up between her folds, but ultimately holding back. Every time she moved towards him, he just stepped further back.

‘I think that’s burning,’ he taunted. ‘Why have you stopped stirring?’

She grabbed the spoon in frustration and whipped it through the risotto. As soon as she started stirring again, he thrust inside her, fucking her deeper and harder until she was bent so far over the stove that the heat from the pan scorched her face and she feared her hair might catch fire…

Shivering slightly now at the memory, she tips the steaming risotto into a bowl and grates over a generous amount of Parmesan. The final result is perhaps technically better than that last time with a more delicate balance of flavours, but she would certainly be lying if she claimed it tasted as good.
Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

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