Standing The Heat, Being In The Kitchen

Kim's cheeks, hair, and clothing are bespattered with gobs of batter.  So are the walls.  Her gaze is glazed.  Her pulse is pounding.  She is in visible shellshock, wandering between

"Ron!  Help me!  Don't desert me!"

and  

"Ron!  You're overprotective!  Don't be so clingy!"

Ron stands behind her.  His hold on her is firm but gentle, both to guide her hands, to keep her from bouncing off the walls, and to partake of the guilty pleasure…of the intoxicating closeness…of her presence…

…Correction…of the intoxicating closeness of both their presences.  His hand is slowly guiding hers as she stirs the spoon.  She wishes he would wrap his arms around her waist and spoon her.  She finds herself pressing her body harder against him, as he finds himself pressing harder against her

Their cheeks are caressing.  She likes the feel of his stubble and the whiff of his aftershave.  He likes the feel of her soft tresses and smooth skin, and the hint of her fragrances, the strawberry shampoo and mint body splash.  Their scents mingle and blend.  It is a heady brew, as potent as  pheromones and intoxicating as liqueur.

"After we get this batter stirred, we can grease the pan, and after that, we can pour the batter in and get it in the oven," he murmurs.

She gulps, and stirs the batter faster, both to hasten the dinner preparation, and to get her mind off the mental images of oiled hands stroking the pan…  

Head in the game, Kimmie,

she tells herself…

stir, stir, stir.  The oven heating…the spoon stirring…the dough rising…why does cooking have to be so sensual, she asks herself?  It's…distracting.

He hears her breathing faster, and wants to nuzzle her neck and nibble her ear.  She feels his breath on her neck, and wants to turn in his arms and smother him with kisses.  His hands tighten on hers, as her hands tighten on the spoon and bowl.  He clasps her a little tighter, and she presses against him a little harder.  The little unspoken signals are being both sent and received.  They are tuned to fever pitch.  All it would take is for one to make a move and both would ascend to the crescendo of desire…

…Behind them, they hear a sound…a grumble and a clearing of the throat.  They feel a fatherly glare on their backs.  Mr. Dr. P.  is frowning formidably and staring disapprovingly.  "How's dinner coming?" he asks, the stern tone of reproof barely suppressed.

The two young would-be lovers jump, startled.

"It's going…" begins Ron nervously.

"…Fine," finishes Kim hastily, finishing her BF's statement as handily as the Tweebs finished each others' sentences.

"That's what I want to hear," responds the wary protective father, sounding less intimidating and more gregarious.  "I can hardly wait to eat."  He has made his point.  He would keep his daughter unsullied, safeguarding her virtue from her boyfriend's amorous advances.

Mrs. Dr. P. overhears.  She inaudibly clucks her tongue and sighs.  She isn't quite sure which factor is the greater impediment to her daughter's romantic fulfillment, her sons' intrusive spying, or her husband's relentless vigilance.  "James?  Could you help me set the table?" she entreats.

"Right away, dear," he responds jovially.

And in the kitchen, the young couple slowly descends from the apex of their almost-passion.  They visibly relax.  

"Thanks for inviting me over," murmurs Ron.

"It's no big,"  murmurs Kim.  She blushes and giggles.  "Thanks for helping me make dinner.  You're saving my world…and the kitchen."

"I'm all about saving your world…and your kitchen," he chuckles.  "Maybe my folks will let us do it at our house next week."

"Sound's spankin'."

Their awareness is mutual.  For now, they will resign themselves to their sitch.  The fulfillment of their ardor will wait for the consummation of their union at their nuptial night.  She leans her head back and gives him a peck on the lips.  And they resume the preparation of the meal.