Welcome to PAD's crazy kitchen of silly thoughts.
Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight's culinary seriousness.
I just want to tickle some ribs and maybe rub Edward's in the process.
(This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Ohgeefantasy who believed in this story enough to rec it for a TwiFic Fandom LMAO Award. Thank you, Gee.)
Either something is up with him, or he's up to something. It was like flicking a switch. He never concedes that easily to anything. He's being too nice. He needs to understand that this is a challenge for me, too. Doesn't he get it? I want him every bit as badly as he wants me, but we have to behave. If we just start carrying on in front of everyone, it's going to get very awkward.
Dealing with my friends or Jasper or Emmett, one-on-one is one thing, but as a collective, I might as well be dodge-balled. I know the ribbing will be merciless, but I also don't know how Jasper will take this. He's our best friend. I don't want to hurt his feelings if we should get outed before Edward and I have a chance to tell him. I sort of feel that we owe it to them, our friends, but Jasper more specifically, out of respect, not to disclose this in a group setting. But Edward's impulsive, rip-the-scab-off-with-the-band-aid approach is how he likes to deal with things. I just hope he doesn't have something up his sleeve, although, knowing him, I should be prepared to dust off my playbook just in case.
"Edward, we'll be having your cake and stir-fry in addition to wings, ribs, ziti with marinara, shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, mozzarella sticks, spinach artichoke dip, salsa and chips, veggies with garlic ranch dressing, fruit with sweetened cream cheese, my brownies, and chocolate chip cookies. Here's the can opener. Would you please open up these cans I got from the oriental market to go with your stir-fry?
"You've got to be kidding."
"It's jack fruit."
"What is this shit? Are these things packed in semen or something? They look like shriveled, jaundiced, testicles. They remind me of when Eric's liver was fucked-up from mono, but his doctor cleared him to go back to football practice anyway before he was ready. The kid was in the locker room and was still so sick he faced-planted in one of the showers hitting his head on a soap dish before crashing to the floor. They had to carry him out on a stretcher he was so weak. These things are nearly the same color as his balls were."
"Thank you, Edward, for giving me a visual I won't soon get out of my head."
"And what the fuck are these? Lychee nuts? These things are Hollywood-A-movie, creep-fest worthy. Seriously, it's like someone crossed a scrotum with a porcupine. And when I look at these, I can't help but grab my sack just to make sure it's still there."
"Why? Is yours spiny, pink, and prickly?"
"Hell, no! In fact, I've been told I have a very nice scrotum, and if you are so inclined, I'll even take it out and show it to you just to prove it."
He stands up to unbutton, then unzip his jeans, bearing and baring absolutely no shame.
"No, no, no, that's quite all right! I believe, you Edward. If we start comparing pink, shriveled things right now, we'll never get the food out. Besides, I think I remember what it looks like from when we were kids."
"Bella, that was when we were two! My parts aren't anywhere near the size they were then. I assure you, they've gotten quite impressive, and I really want to prove it by showing them off to you. Besides, woman, after having you next to me all weekend, they haven't had much time to contract.
I'm trying to concentrate on stirring sauces and batters right now. I remember feeling just how impressive his parts were, especially when he was riding up and down my backside with them a few days ago, but I have work to do and do not need to be distracted by anymore thoughts of Edward's parts creeping into my mind, so to counter the hotness in here, I'm opening up a window.
Edward really does make me laugh, though, and I'm chuckling now, just thinking about his silliness. I turn toward him after tending the stove, blowing hair out of my face first to see what he's up to. I'm thinking what a long day it's going to be, especially if I have to be the responsible one who will not only be hostessing our guests but will also be taking care of Edward as well as thwarting his advances.
Just as I regain my unhindered sight, I see Edward challenging the Asian food with a bamboo skewer, and at this point, I'm rooting for the fruit to just break out some swords and start retaliating.
"Stop poking them!"
"I just had to make sure they weren't alive. They're still squicking me out."
"Just put them out on a platter with some other fruit. You do know how to slice fruit, don't you?"
"Yeah, I think I can handle it."
"Use the black-handled paring knife. It slices the fruit more easily."
"But I like the white one."
"Fine! Use what you want, but the white one isn't sharp enough. It will just mash the fruit."
"You mean like this?"
He shows me the remnants of six strawberries from his failed attempt.
"Yeah," I expel sarcastically.
Edward takes my advice and concedes to using the black knife after all.
After I get the water boiling for the ziti and a pot out to heat up the marinara, I check on his progress.
"I'm done. What else do you want me to do?"
I look and astoundingly, he's out of strawberries, cantaloupe, pineapple, and watermelon.
"How about the honeydew?"
"Did you just say 'Do me, honey'? Is that an invitation?" He raises his eyebrows at me.
"You wish. Be—have!"
He finishes the melon while I put the wings in the oven along with the ribs.
I hand him a package of fresh mushrooms.
"I need you to carefully remove the caps from the stems of these."
"What? You want me to decapitate them! What about their friends and families? When you said I could help, you never mentioned anything about "veggicide". I don't know if my conscience will tolerate this."
I raise my wooden spoon to him and hold it as I would if I were about to throw a tomahawk, but I catch myself before I do.
"Just cut out the damn stems, Edward."
He looks wounded over my rejection of his attempts to goad me. I know he's hurt and should be recovering from his injuries, and I don't want to beat on him. (Well, actually I do, but only when he's better.)
"You're doing a good job, Edward."
If I can't give him the negative attention he craves, at least I can praise him.
"That's easy for you to say. You didn't just play executioner to a tray full of fungus. Anyways, what do I do with the stems?"
"You need to take the big chef's knife and cut them into tiny pieces, so I can add them to the stuffing."
He's silent as he listens to my instructions, and amazingly, he does the task without chopping off his fingers or any of his other parts. He also cut up a platter of vegetables and stirred up the ranch dressing mix with sour cream for dip.
"What needs to be done now?"
I'm really impressed; he's being a tremendous help.
"Do you feel okay, or do you need to rest? I don't want you to overdo it."
"Would you like to stuff the mushrooms or peel the shrimp?"
"I guess I'll opt for stuffing, seeing as I've already bonded with these fungi and feel partially responsible for their demise."
Okay, I have to give in. He's been really good and a great help. He's trying so hard to egg me on, but he's really lightening my mood in the process. I owe him one.
I walk over to him and stroke his scruffy jaw. I forgot to pack his razor, so he hasn't shaved. I actually like him a little prickly . . . I wonder what his face would feel like rubbing down my neck . . . across my collarbone . . . around my breasts . . . over my stomach . . . between my legs . . . and back up to . . . okay, that's enough wondering.
I give him three lingering kisses on his lips as I stand between his legs and scratch my nails against his thighs. Just as I go to pull away, Edward grabs my hand and places it over his erection, holding it there. Then he gets up probably to begin leading me to his bedroom.
"Uh, uh, Buddy. Back to work."
"Cocktease." His says it under his breath in his quietest voice.
I give him a big smile and go back to tending the stove. I'm finished mixing my brownie batter, so I pour it into the baking pan.
"Edward, do you want to lick the beater?" I start walking towards him with it.
"I might as well, seeing as it's probably the only licking I'm going to be doing, since your port seems to be closed or exercising some sort of trade cut-off with your Bella embargo."
"Edward, I want this . . . (I deliberately grab his dick, giving it a stroke through his jeans and immediately think he's going to have a stroke—judging by the feral look he's giving me if I continue to persist with this action.) But may I remind you that our guests will be here shortly? You know I take great pride in the food I put out. Now is not the time to act on our impulses."
"Bella, due to your hand-action, all I caught out of what you just said was 'put out' because right now I'm hornier than a three-peckered billy goat and would like nothing more than to have you 'put out,' as I plan to fuck you on every visible, horizontal surface we have and probably a few vertical ones, too."
Yikes! His eyes are now black with desire, and I know he means business. I need to treat him carefully.
"Let's see how this afternoon goes. Our blood work isn't supposed to be back until tomorrow. And may I remind you that you are supposed to abstain from having regular intercourse at least until your check up on Friday? But maybe we can fool around if, and only if, you feel up to it after all of our guests leave."
"Wait. Did you just say feel you up?"
I choose to ignore his last remark.
"And before you say it, I will stress that you are not to be a bad host and push anyone out the door early just so you get a chance at becoming a little lucky. And wipe that pout off your face; it's not going to get you anywhere."
I head back to the stove after handing him the whisk-style beater covered with brownie batter. I catch him in my periphery seductively snaking his tongue between the tines, gliding it slowly up and down each one while I'm stirring the marinara. His pronounced "Mmm's" and "so goods" resonate. My inner voice is telling me not to make full eye contact or get sucked into his trap. He keeps doing this, making sure to lick each individual piece of stainless steel while flicking his tongue—and he has a great one. Although it's only been in my mouth, I've heard of its legendary status from members of his tramp harem regarding its other abilities. I feel myself kegeling and begin to cross my legs while I'm standing, just thinking about it. My chest is heaving, and now I'm ready to turn off the burners and drag him to my bedroom when I hear him.
"Oh sit, Bewah. My cungue is caught."
Edward's tongue is wedged between the tines and is being pinched at the base of the beater. It's being jailed. This serves him right for flaunting it and working me up.
"Ow wuh! Ow wuh! Bewah! Gig it off! Gig it off!"
"Hold still. I have to spread the bars."
"Ow wuh, Fu kuh!"
I know it hurts, but the more you move, the harder it will be for me to break you free."
I don't want to tell him this, but his tongue is turning blue. I'm still getting nowhere, so finally I just say, "Fuck it," and use both hands like I'm a female gorilla springing her male mate from the bars of his cage at the zoo.
"Oh Gog! Cank you."
Edward's now holding his tongue trying to make sure it's still in one piece.
Meanwhile, I take my whisk beater and try to rectify the mutilation I caused it.
"Are you ready to concede for a while and at least give up for now and try to be good?"
"Never! But, I may have to tone it down a bit."
"For your sake, I hope you do. Two hospital visits in one weekend would be a first, even for you. At least the admitting nurse wouldn't need to give you another I.D. bracelet." I point to the one he's still wearing like a badge of honor.
"Fuck that. Over my dead body; I'm not going back."
He grabs the kitchen shears and tries cutting left-handed with the right-handed pair. Frustrated now that he can't cut the plastic, he starts gnawing at his wrist like a rabid raccoon trying to detach its own limb, and I can't help to wonder whether the blow to his head didn't loosen his faculties or swell his brain like rabies would to cause him to act as such. But I remind myself that this is Edward, so nothing should surprise me. As I watch his ridiculousness in amazement over his lack of problem-solving abilities for this task, I'm crossing my legs for an entirely different reason, having something to do with my not wanting to pee on myself because he is just that funny.
As I gather my composure, I sigh and wipe the tears from eyes as I figure he's had enough. I grab the scissors off the counter, and without cutting his pinky or gouging out his eye, I release him from his torment with one, quick snip, freeing him from the confines of his plastic, yellow shackle.
He gives me a look mixed with embarrassment and relief.
"Thank you, again."
"You're welcome. Maybe you ought to rest on your bed or on one of the couches for a while; your BP must really be up. You've honestly been a great help. (And he has.) We've gotten nearly everything done, and it's almost time for everyone to arrive. You're a lot quicker than I am at peeling and slicing and are truly a natural at this."
"Thanks." Maybe you're right. I think I need a break. I still need to pee, but I don't think I can go yet. Maybe if I have a beer or two, it will help things along."
"Do you think that's wise?"
"At this point, what else can happen?"
Do you really want to go there?"
"I suppose not. I'll just have one beer—two at the most. I think I earned it. Besides it will help numb my tongue."
"I'll get one for you."
He pops the top and takes a sip from the bottle before setting it on the counter and pulling me towards him.
"I don't say this this often enough, but I don't know what I'd do without you."
He catches me off guard and pulls my face to his, kissing me with his now tepid, wet, Guinness-flavored lips and cold roving tongue. Edward begins his assault, first by slowly attacking my mouth. Next, he nuzzles under my ear. Then he works his way down my neck and across my collarbone. He's moved his hands to my breast, trying to grasp my nipple between the fabric of my shirt, and shamelessly, I just let him.
He pinches my left nipple and begins to roll it slowly back and forth between his thumbnail and index finger, pausing occasionally to scrape his nail against the hypersensitive he compresses both digits and plucks me like a harp string, making me elicit notes like one in the process.
"Oh, Edward, that feels soooo good . . . Keep going . . . Do the other one."
And just like that he stops and pulls away. That bastard! His little bit of ministering has my body tingling, and now the other nipple's jealous. I feel lopsided, off balance. That shit! I can tell by his smirk that this was his intention all along, but I think he's forgotten who he is messing with.
"Okay! If that's the way you want this."
I grab my silicon kitchen mitt and slap him across the face with it, stunning him in the process, while letting it cascade to the floor. My regret over striking him will come later, but for now, he had better watch out.
Our little clash comes to an abrupt halt when the doorbell chimes.
"Edward this is your only warning—my gauntlet's officially been thrown."
Bring it on.
Should Edward be worried?
What are these two going to do to each other, especially with company?
Review me your thoughts.
Thank you to Chayasara, my wonderful beta. I'm proud to say she's never had to throw down her gauntlet.
Thank you also to Monica Solis, aka CaliGirlMon on FF, who made my sweet banner.
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As always, thank you for reading.