Knitted Hearts by Amber Kelly

Foster

We need to talk.

I read the text from Wendy and press Delete. I wonder what it is this time.

Did her car break down again? Does she need more money this month? Is the water heater out?

Whatever it is, she’ll have to deal with it herself. I’m trying to get the silo clean for my date with Sonia tonight. Or as clean as I can in the hour I have. I’m not a complete slob, but I’m not exactly a great housekeeper. I don’t leave dirty dishes sitting around, and I keep the toilet clean and take out the trash, but I usually come in and drop my muddy boots on the floor, and most of my clothes come out of the dryer and sit in a pile in the chair in the living room until I wear them again.

She’s coming over, so we can make dinner together, and I don’t want her to think I’m unable to run a vacuum.

Sue hides under the kitchen table while I furiously straighten up. Once the house is reasonably tidy, I go outside and fetch a couple of bundles of firewood and pile them on the stone hearth.

I take a shower and change into a pair of well-worn jeans and a white V-neck tee.

I hear her car pull up as I toss a few logs into the fireplace and top them with kindling. I manage to get the fire started before I hear her footfalls on the porch, and then I open the door to greet her.

Her arms are loaded down with grocery bags. I relieve her of them and walk them to the island.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to get George,” she says, and I catch her before she makes it back out the door.

“Hi,” I say and lay a kiss on her lips.

“Hi yourself.”

“You sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’ll go fetch George,” I tell her as I guide her to the couch in front of the fire.

The weather took a turn the past few days, and the temperatures have been falling into the freezing numbers at night.

I slip on my moccasins that are by the door and run out to her car. George has her paws up on the dash, looking out the windshield and tapping her displeasure at being left behind.

I open the door, and she launches toward me. I can barely get the door shut as she claws at my chest, trying to get to my face to lick her thank-you.

“I missed you too, baby dog,” I tell her as I carry her into the warmth of the silo.

I set her down, and she runs to Sonia and starts jumping up and down.

“Settle down, baby. Mom’s right here. We have got to work on your separation anxiety.”

“I heard doodles tend to have that as puppies,” I tell her.

“She definitely does.”

Sue decides to bark at that moment, and George redirects her attention from Sonia to her buddy. She gallops toward the bathroom door and starts scratching at it.

“You fickle woman,” Sonia calls after her.

I walk over and open the door, and she goes in and starts pawing at Sue, who is curled up on the cool tiles, gnawing on a teething bone. I toss a second down for her, and she lies beside him and sniffs it. Sue stops what he’s doing and paws at the bone in front of her until she starts chewing it. Then, he returns to his.

I keep the door open but secure the doggy gate.

When I return, Sonia is in the kitchen, unbagging the supplies she brought.

“Are they in jail for the night?” she asks.

“If they are, they’re content in their sentence because they are cuddled up, munching on some turkey tendons and loving life.”

She smiles.

“Actually, I just wanted to make sure they didn’t come bounding out as soon as they smelled food in the oven,” I tell her.

“Good plan.”

She fishes a frying pan from the drawer under the stove and sets it on one of the eyes. Then, she turns and gives me a challenging look.

“Are you ready to learn how to make chicken marsala?” she asks as she picks up and waves two bottles of wine in the air.

“I’m at your service. Just tell me where you want me.”

“Do you have a meat tenderizer?” she asks.

“Is that the metal thing that looks like a hammer and you beat steaks with it?”

“It is.”

I walk over to the drawer that is between the stove and refrigerator. I slide it open and produce the utensil.

“Perfect,” she says as she takes it from my hand. “First things first. Open the bottle of cabernet, please.”

I get the cork out of the bottle and look to her for the next step.

“Pour a glass.”

“What?”

“That wine is for drinking while we cook,” she says.

I pour her a very generous glass of wine and hand it to her before I grab myself a beer and pop the top.

She takes a sip and sets it down before approaching me. She takes a gray apron and pulls it over my head, and then she threads her arms around me to tie it at my back.

“Follow me,” she beckons.

I do as she asked, and we walk over to the island. She has four chicken breasts sitting on the butcher block. She covers them with plastic wrap and begins to gently pound one with the mallet until it’s about a fourth of an inch thick. Then, she hands the mallet to me.

“Do that to the other three,” she directs.

I continue to follow her instructions as she pours olive oil into the pan and turns on the burner.

“Okay, what’s next?”

“Remove the wrap and salt and pepper both sides. With the pink salt and the pepper I set over there.” She points to the fresh peppercorn mill.

She adds a little flour to a shallow dish, and after I finish with the chicken, she uses tongs to dredge both sides of each breast, shaking off any excess, and places them on a plate.

She passes it to me with the tongs. “The oil should be hot now. Cook them until they are golden brown. About ten minutes on each side.”

Once the chicken is done, I put them on a plate covered with a paper towel to absorb any extra oil.

Sonia adds the mushrooms she sliced to the pan the chicken was in and hands me a spatula. “Keep turning them until they are soft. You can add a tad more oil if you need it.”

She sets a pot with peeled and chopped potatoes to boil on the burner next to me. Then, she adds chopped onions and minced garlic to the mushrooms.

“Keep stirring. You’re doing a great job,” she says before finishing her glass of wine and pouring herself another.

Then, she opens the marsala wine and starts pouring it into the pan. “I eyeball this part. You just want it to cover the top of the mushrooms and onions and then let it reduce down a bit.”

Then, she adds the chicken stock. “Scrape the bottom of the pan with the spatula. Make sure you get all the good, crispy chicken bits off the bottom,” she says as she leans into my back and peeks around to watch me.

Her body against mine is distracting, and my mind blanks for a moment.

She pulls back and coaches me, telling me to let it reduce a little more before adding a teaspoon of butter and the chicken back into the pan with the sauce. Once it thickens, I’m supposed to taste the sauce and add salt and pepper.

She drains and mashes the potatoes, adding a pinch of salt, butter, and a dollop of sour cream.

By the time they are ready, she has finished her second glass of wine.

She adds a helping of the potatoes to a plate and then spoons the chicken and sauce over them.

I grab another bottle of beer and top her glass off as she hoists herself up onto the island and takes a bite.

“Mmm,” she moans.

My mouth starts to water.

I set the beverages on the counter and remove the apron. I stalk over to her, and I step between her legs. She grins as she loads her fork again and turns it to me.

I take the offered bite.

“Damn, that’s good,” I say. And it is. It’s restaurant quality.

She smiles a triumphant smile and takes another bite herself.

I lean in and lick a drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth.

“Do that again,” she dares.

I dip my finger into the potatoes on her plate and smear a line down her cheekbone. Then, I trace it with my tongue all the way to her ear.

She sets the plate aside, and her hand fists into my tee. She pulls me forward, and her mouth is on mine. She tastes of wine and smells of honey. Suddenly, all thoughts of food fly from my brain, and the only thing I want to taste is her.

I bring my hands to the sides of her hips. She’s wearing a pair of black leggings and a long-sleeved Colorado Rockies tee. I grip the hem of her shirt and pull it up. She raises her arms to help me, and I toss it to the floor. She’s sitting before me in a pink lace bra. I take one strap between my fingers and slide it off her shoulder. The strap drops to her elbow, exposing one flawless breast. I glide my hand up her rib cage and cup the curve while running the rough pad of my thumb over her nipple.

A tremor runs through her, and the bud tightens into a taut pink pebble. I release her and reach behind her back to flick the fasteners holding the undergarment in place, and it falls from her and between us.

I take a step back and look at her.

Fuck, she’s perfect.

My eyes meet hers, and I can see the need burning there.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“I am,” I say as I lower my head and suck one of her nipples into my mouth.

Her hands come to the back of my head, and she holds me to her. I pull back and switch to the other breast. Her hips begin to rise off the island as I rake my teeth across it.

Her hands fall from my head to my sides, and she yanks at my tee.

“It’s not fair that I’m sitting here, topless, and you still have all your clothes on,” she whispers.

I disengage and step back, letting her remove my shirt. She scrapes her nails down the front of my chest.

“Where did you come from?” she asks the strange question as she tugs at the scattering of dark hair above my abs. “It’s like you’re one of those marble statues,” she continues.

“One part of me is as hard as stone,” I growl, and her hand ventures lower until it cups my groin.

My cock jerks at the contact, and she squeezes in response.

“Fuuuck.”

Her eyes shoot up to mine, and she fists my erection through my jeans again.

“Does that feel good?” she asks.

“Honestly, it’s a little uncomfortable,” I grunt.

She releases me and brings her fingers to the button of my jeans, popping it open. Then, she frees me. I reach around, grab her hips, and pull her to the edge of the island. Her hands fly back and plant on the surface. I go to my knees, taking her leggings down with me. I pull them from each foot and let them drop to the floor. Then, I hook one of her ankles, and I kiss my way up the inside of her thigh, bringing her leg up and over my shoulder.

She is watching me, and she lets her other leg fall to the side, welcoming me.

I take my two fingers and part her lips, opening her to me, and I drag my tongue through her wetness. Her hips flex at the contact, and I suck her clit in deep. She moans, and one of her hands finds my hair, holding me to her. I devour her. My tongue finds her opening, and she starts moving against it. I give her what her body wants, and she rides my tongue until she is panting and whimpering my name.

Then, I bring my mouth back to her bud and slide a finger inside her. I twist and curl, listening to her sounds until I find the spot that makes her cry out. I add another finger, and I nip at her clit until her legs begin to quiver and she clamps her thighs at my ears. I continue to lick as she gets lost in the sensations carrying her away.

Once her breathing slows and her grip on me eases, I stand. I lift her from the island and start walking to the steps that lead up to my bed.