Playboy Pilot

“Not long. Maybe a half-hour.”

Smoke was billowing from the frying pan behind him. “Umm…I think you’re burning the bacon.”

“Shit.” He rushed to the stove and twisted the dial to turn down the flame. The sizzling bacon made a loud crackle, followed by a snap, right before a burst of hot oil splattered hitting Carter in the abs. “Ouch. Shit! Damn it.”

I giggled. “You might want to think about putting some pants on before you burn the good parts.”

Waving the spatula at me, he said, “The good parts, huh? You mean my hands?”

“Well…those are pretty good. But not what I was worrying about you injuring.”

He pointed to his lips and grinned. “My mouth? That must be what you’re worried about.”

“That’s definitely good, too. Especially that little thing you do with your tongue where you swirl it around and then flutter.”

His pupils dilated, and his voice was low and gravelly. “You like that, huh?”

My cheeks flushed thinking about how he’d brought me to orgasm more than once with his mouth. I nodded.

Without taking his eyes off of me, he reached back, turned the flame completely off, and slid the pan from the hot burner to the cool one to the right. “I don’t even remember what we were talking about anymore.”

“I had suggested you cover up a certain body part so it didn’t get burned with bacon grease splatter.”

“Oh I’m gonna cover it alright.” He took a few long strides to where I was still standing and surprised me by scooping me up and tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. “Gonna cover it with your gorgeous pussy in about ten seconds.”

He swatted my ass as he headed toward the bedroom.

“What about the bacon?”

“Fuck breakfast. I’m going to eat you.”

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON before we even thought about real food again. Carter had just microwaved one of the Tupperware containers in his fridge, and we were sitting in bed eating goulash by passing the container back and forth between us. He slurped an egg noodle into his mouth while making his eyes go cross. It was something a six year old might do, and that made me wonder what Carter might have looked like as a young boy.

“Do you have any photo albums?” I asked.

“Not with recent photos.”

“Do you have any of you as a boy?”

“I do, actually. When I moved down to Florida, my mother made me an album of old family photos. I found it with a letter when I was unpacking. She wrote that she wanted me to remember how much I was loved and asked me to look at the album at least twice a year—on my birthday and hers.”

“That’s so sweet.”

He handed me the almost empty container, and I declined my turn at stuffing my face. “I’m full. You can finish it.”

“I like eating with you. You only eat half, and I get to finish off the rest.”

“Better watch it. Might wind up with a pot belly eating two dinners all the time.”

“We’ll work it off and then some.”

I had no doubt we would. Carter handed me the water bottle we were sharing and I took a sip. “Do you do what your mom asked in her letter? Look at the album twice a year?”

“I do.”

“When is your birthday, anyway?”

“July Fourth.”