Olive Bread Afternoon

By the time we finish the apple pie on our little table outside the cafe, I have given the newspaper to you and picked up my book. But my mind isn't on the book, it is on you. The sun is now high enough to be clear of the buildings across the canal. It is one of those lazy bright weekend mornings when sunlight suffuses everything with a brilliance without being blinding.

I study you as you read the newspaper. Your bright eyes, the unruly wisps of hair on your forehead, the curve of your mouth opening in time for the coffee cup you raise to your lips every now and then, the pale skin of your neck and throat moving as you swallow the coffee, the visible collarbone at the base of your neck and the beginning of your shoulder that I have kissed a thousand times, the unbuttoned top half of your soft white silk shirt moving with your body as you lean forward for the coffee revealing the curve of your right breast, your left elbow resting on the table, your hands holding the newspaper aloft at reading distance. All so familiar and yet it stirs an inevitable desire in me that I fight to subdue.

When the sun is at its peak in the sky and we are tired of reading, we head back to the airbnb stopping first to buy provisions for lunch at a bakery near the cafe.

As you put down the bag with the olive bread, the fresh wine-red grapes, and the triangle of brie cheese on the kitchen table, I envelop you in my arms from behind you, kissing the back of your neck, my hands reaching under your shirt for your breasts. You squeal in surprise and then in pleasure as I cup and squeeze your breasts and pull gently on your nipples. I burrow my face against the side of your neck, kissing urgently, biting downwards towards your shoulders. 

Voice hoarse with desire, I whisper "I want you. I have always wanted you". 

You reach back with your hands and pull up your skirt. "I know, baby. I could feel your eyes on me".

Lust took its course as I tear into you with my need, pinning you down onto the kitchen table, in time savagely emptying into you from behind. 

The urgency now tempered, I pick you up in my arms and take you to the couch to take care of your needs more slowly and gently in the striated light of the afternoon sun coming in through the window blinds.

Afterwards, as you rest I go back to the kitchen table to pull the olive bread apart into chunks and grind some fresh black pepper and sea salt onto extravirgin olive oil in a shallow dish. I think about the grapes but instead pour two glasses of the unfinished Malbec from last night. Pulling up a chair to sit next to you, I feed you lunch as you lie propped up on the couch cushions.