13. What You Cook for Yourself
What You Cook for Yourself
Water dripped from Karl’s jacket onto the floor by the entrance. A few drops also fell from the ends of Nadja’s hair onto her shoulders. Her thin jacket had grown damp and cold on the way back from the grocery store, clinging to her back and neck and leaving a dull discomfort beneath her skin.
She didn’t turn around. “Can you cook?”
Karl stopped behind her. A brief silence. Then he nodded. “I can.”
“There’s the stove. The food’s on the table.” Nadja slapped the last package of meat hard onto the counter. “You take care of it. I’m getting out of these wet clothes.”
Her voice was dry, tossed into the room without warmth, as though letting him inside at all was already more than enough. He could figure out the rest himself.
Karl said nothing. He hung his wet waxed jacket over the back of a kitchen chair, rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows, and stepped to the sink. Nadja heard the crinkle of plastic bags, the rush of water, then the scrape of a cutting board being pulled from its rack.
She turned away and went into the bedroom beside the kitchen.
The door closed behind her. The room went quiet. The sounds from the kitchen came through the wall only muffled and dull now.
Nadja slipped off her jacket and tossed it carelessly onto the neatly smoothed white comforter.
Above the headboard hung the framed wedding photograph of her and Markus.
In the picture, Markus smiled gently, neat and respectable.
She stood beside him in a radiant white dress, her hair elaborately pinned up, her face so flawless and innocent that it almost looked unfamiliar to her now.
She stood for a moment in the warm, dimly lit room and listened to the running water in the kitchen, to the rhythmic strike of the knife against the wooden board.
Then Nadja bent forward and unbuttoned her jeans.
The thick denim was still damp from the rain and clung stubbornly to her skin as she pushed it down.
The fabric resisted as it slid over her hips, caught on her full ass, and stretched so tightly that she had to twist sideways and drag it down inch by inch.
The rough material rubbed over her soft skin, tightened around her thighs, and finally caught at her calves.
Annoyed, she gave them one final yank, pulling the jeans down to her ankles.
The damp jeans landed on the floor. The thin sweater followed.
She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. The black lace slipped from her breasts and fell soundlessly to the floor. She pulled her panties over her hips and thighs and dropped them onto the damp pile of clothing at her feet.
The cool air in the room immediately brushed across her naked skin.
Nadja stepped out of the wet clothes and stood in front of the full-length mirror. In the pale yellowish light, her body looked unusually clear and still. Almost mercilessly so.
Her wet brown hair hung in strands over her shoulders. Her skin was white, smooth, still damp from the rain. The chill made her breasts look fuller, firmer. Her narrow waist opened into soft, rounded hips and thighs marked with red lines from the tight seams of her jeans.
Her gaze slowly traveled down her reflection. From her neck. To her breasts. Across her flat stomach.
Then it stopped between her legs.
She was still wet. And not from the rain.
The slit between her thighs glistened in the light, the full lips of her pussy slightly parted, the flesh inside visibly darker than the white skin surrounding it. A thin, sticky sheen coated her folds—naked, obscene, impossible to deny.
The denim had been thick. So thick that Karl’s hand had never actually touched her bare skin.
But throughout the entire drive home, that dirty old hand had rested heavily on her thigh.
Rubbed her. Pressed. Patiently kneaded her through the thick fabric as though he knew perfectly well that all he had to do was keep going until she gave in.
Nadja stared at her reflection. Her expression remained cold. But her pussy was soaking wet.
Slowly, she lowered her hand. Her fingertips barely brushed the damp slit. Only a fleeting touch. But it was enough to feel the warm, slippery wetness on her own skin.
Her throat went dry at once.
She should have been disgusted with herself. She should have been furious that an ordinary, greasy old man like Karl could make her body react this violently with a few crude touches through thick denim.
But the woman staring back at her in the mirror didn’t look like a respectable wife. Her gray eyes shone dark with desire. They were the eyes of a woman who wanted pleasure.
Nadja held her own gaze in the mirror, swallowed hard, and pressed her hand firmly between her thighs.
Her fingertips slid deeper into the wet slit. Her body jerked involuntarily.
She slowly stroked the soft, swollen lips. One finger parted the slick flesh, slid upward, and unerringly found her clit, already hard and throbbing with arousal.
Nadja’s breath caught audibly. For a moment, she closed her eyes, her head tipping slightly backward.
She had only meant to check herself for a second. But the warm, pulsing ache that instantly shot deep into her lower belly forced her fingers to keep circling rhythmically over her hard clit.
Her free hand moved upward and closed firmly around one naked breast. She kneaded the soft flesh as her nipple hardened sharply beneath her thumb.
Nadja bit down hard on her lower lip.
There she stood, naked in front of the mirror, one hand masturbating her wet pussy, the other gripping her breast, watching through half-closed eyes as her own body responded to the crude touches of a man she deeply despised.
The thought should have disgusted her. Instead, it only made her hornier beneath her fingers. Wetter.
She was beginning to lose herself completely in the filthy pleasure when a loud metallic crash came from the kitchen.
Something heavy struck the stove. Nadja’s eyes flew open. The sound ripped her brutally back into the bedroom.
Karl was out there. In her kitchen. With his sleeves rolled up, moving through the groceries he had paid for as though it were the most natural thing in the world, cooking her lunch as though he already had a permanent place in this apartment.
Nadja quickly pulled her hand from between her thighs. Her fingertips gleamed wetly in the light. She looked at them for one second in the mirror, then slowly wiped her hand clean.
She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a short beige knit dress. With her other hand, she reached for the black lace panties lying beside it.
In the mirror, her gaze fell on the whisper-thin fabric in her hand.
And at that exact moment, the image forced its way back into her mind: the worn bundle of bills Karl had slapped hard onto the checkout counter.
The raw aggression with which he had nearly gone after the cashier simply because the woman had dared mock her.
Her fingers clenched around the black lace so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Nadja exhaled deeply and threw the expensive underwear back into the drawer. The drawer slammed shut.
She raised her arms and pulled the tight knit dress over her head. The soft fabric slid directly over her bare skin. The elastic knit stretched tightly across her uncovered breasts, mercilessly outlining her hard nipples. The hem ended dangerously high, barely below the curve of her ass.
Underneath, she wore nothing. No panties. Nothing. Only bare thighs in the cool bedroom air, and between them her still-wet, softly throbbing pussy.
Nadja twisted up the lipstick and drew a thin, pale layer across her lips. In the mirror, one corner of her mouth pulled into a sharp smile.
She drew a deep breath, her chest rising. Then she opened the door and stepped through the short hallway back into the kitchen.
The kitchen was heavy with the rich smell of hot fat.
Karl gave the handle of the cast-iron pan a practiced jerk. Slices of potato danced and hissed in the hot oil, browned golden and mixed with thick cubes of bacon and rings of onion. Everything sizzled and crackled continuously.
Karl stood planted in front of the stove, sleeves rolled up, his sinewy, work-hardened forearms bared.
With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tossed the pan.
“You really can cook,” Nadja said.
Karl didn’t turn his head. One corner of his mouth rose.
“When a man lives alone for thirty years, he has to learn. If no woman cooks for you, you cook for yourself.” He nodded toward the sizzling fat. His voice was rough and dry.
Karl half turned and reached for the pepper mill on the shelf. Then he saw Nadja.
His arm froze halfway through the movement. His dull old eyes traveled down her body with almost naked hunger.
From her cheeks to her neck. Then to the two firm peaks pressing unmistakably hard through the thin knit. Farther down to the extremely short hem. To her bare white thighs. And finally to the dark shadow barely concealed beneath the fabric.
Karl swallowed audibly. The deep wrinkles around his eyes tightened, and a dirty, hungry grin spread across his face.
“If you’re coming out of the bedroom dressed like that…” His voice rasped. “It almost would’ve been easier if you hadn’t put anything on at all. For lunch.”
Nadja walked straight up to him and smacked his upper arm with her open hand. The sharp smack echoed through the kitchen.
It wasn’t a hard hit. Not nearly enough to knock Karl off balance. But the message landed.
“Pay attention to your damn pan.”
Karl let out a deep, throaty laugh. Still grinning, he rubbed his upper arm while his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the short hem of her dress. “Well, look at that. Still got some strength in you.”
“If you want anything to eat, shut your mouth.”
“I’m only talking about the food.”
Nadja stared at him without expression.
Karl bent provocatively slowly over the pan and stirred the potatoes as though he had just said the most innocent thing in the world.
She opened the refrigerator and took out two brown eggs.