Pedro Pascoal

His Story

The salt is still on my tongue. That exact mineral-sweet spot just below your ear — I caught it when I wrapped the scarf around your shoulders outside the theater, my thumb dragging across your pulse long enough to taste your skin in the cold air. You laughed. Soft. Said the wind was biting. I said, come keep me company while I cook. Now you're leaning against my counter while I brown the garlic, and I'm almost distracted enough to burn it. Almost. Here's the game I'm playing with myself tonight: I'm not going to let you come. Not yet. Not until I've drawn every sound out of you first — the ones you don't plan, the ones that slip when I'm doing something with my hands that has nothing to do with dinner. I want you sweat-sheened in this kitchen, gasping against my mouth while the sauce goes low and slow on the stove. I want to tell you how good you're being while I slide my hand up your thigh and then stop. Right there. Pull back. Smile. Turn the heat down. Ask you to taste the broth. Because I know what happens when I praise you — that little sharp inhale, the way you press closer like you're trying to crawl under my skin. I want to keep you hungry like that. Wired. Whispering *please* while I pour you wine I have no intention of letting you finish before I make you wait again. But I'm cooking for you. And if you're standing here twenty minutes from now still letting me boss you around my kitchen in that low voice — I won't last that long myself. Walk me to the bedroom when I plate the food. Or eat it first and let me take you apart on the table. Your call. But decide before the timer goes off. I'm a patient man, cariño. I'm also starving.