13. What You Cook for Yourself #2
Then she slid past him deliberately close, her body almost brushing his, and cracked the eggs on the rim of the pan with practiced ease.
The yolks slid sizzling into the hot fat.
Karl instinctively stepped half a pace back. “Do we have any onions left?” he asked.
Nadja opened the crisper drawer and silently handed him half an onion.
With quick fingers, she tore the lettuce leaves and sliced the cucumber thinly. Olive oil and vinegar mixed in the glass bowl. She took a spoon and tossed everything together while her gaze briefly shifted toward the sizzling potatoes.
Karl stood directly beside her. Much closer than the space required.
There was more than enough room along the long counter, but he deliberately crowded into Nadja’s personal space.
His shoulder nearly brushed her arm. The heavy warmth of his old body, the smell of his sweat-damp shirt, cold tobacco, and rich frying fat mixed intensely with the sharp freshness of the dressing in the kitchen that suddenly felt far too small.
Nadja paused.
Karl’s right hand reached past her body for a small fork beside the cutting board. His left hand slid naturally behind her back, brushed briefly over her waist, then slowly traveled lower over the soft knit dress.
His broad, rough palm settled possessively on Nadja’s ass.
The spoon in Nadja’s hand froze.
Without concern, Karl leaned forward, speared a browned piece of bacon from the pan with the fork in his right hand, blew on it briefly, and put it into his mouth. His jaw moved slowly as he chewed.
His left hand remained firmly on her ass cheek, lightly kneading the thin fabric as though standing beside her at the stove like this were the most natural thing in the world.
“Tender,” he said hoarsely.
Nadja didn’t answer. She only lowered her gaze and looked sideways at his gripping hand.
Karl swallowed the bacon. One corner of his mouth twisted into a greasy smile. His bony fingers pressed deeper into the full flesh beneath the dress.
Not brutally. Just insistently, testing, as though savoring the warmth and softness through the knit.
“Your ass,” he added quietly. “Oh, no. I meant the meat.”
His hand slid shamelessly a little lower, following the curve beneath her ass cheek toward the hem.
Nadja immediately set down the salad spoon. She said nothing. She grabbed Karl’s wrist, firmly pulled his hand away from the hem of the dress, and placed it higher again on the rounded curve of her hip.
The movement was decisive. Detached. But she didn’t slap his hand away. She didn’t push him from her.
Karl paused in amusement. One heartbeat later, he understood the unspoken rule. He didn’t try to reach beneath the dress again. His hand stayed outside.
Stroked the hollow of her waist. Slid down to the full curve of her ass. Squeezed gently. Released. Moved back up along the soft roundness, the rough calluses of his palm scratching faintly against the thin knit.
Nadja picked up the spoon again and calmly continued mixing the salad.
The fat in the pan crackled aggressively. The heavy smell of fried potatoes and bacon hung thick in the air. Outside, rain beat monotonously against the old kitchen window.
They stood so tightly packed together in the cramped kitchen that Karl’s rough forearm brushed her waist whenever he moved the pan; every time Nadja reached for the salt or a plate, her round ass inevitably pressed more deeply into his palm.
Karl tested the boundary once more. His fingers slowly traveled downward again, feeling for the naked gap beneath the hem of her dress.
Nadja immediately caught his wrist again. She pulled his hand upward and unmistakably placed it back on the full outer curve of her ass.
This time Karl chuckled softly, a dirty laugh deep in his chest. Then he stayed almost obediently within the boundary she had set.
From that moment on, his hand touched only the outside of the knit. Sometimes he slowly stroked her back. Sometimes he firmly grabbed an entire ass cheek and held it compressed in his rough palm. Sometimes he slid from her narrow waist down over her hips and kneaded the same spot again.
Dirty. Shamelessly brazen. But in some bizarre way intimate, as though they had already played out this exact foreplay a hundred times in the kitchen of an unsuspecting husband.
Nadja kept slicing the cucumber. The blade struck the wooden board in a hard, steady rhythm.
Karl leaned forward and tasted a piece of potato directly from the hot pan. His left hand remained possessively on her ass.
“Perfect,” he murmured with satisfaction.
It wasn’t entirely clear whether he meant the food— or her.
Nadja only lowered her head and tossed the salad a few more times. Her mouth didn’t smile, but her shoulders were no longer nearly as tense.
She simply allowed that old, foreign hand to stroke and knead her through the fabric of her dress as long as he respected the boundary she had silently drawn.
The sizzling from the pan grew louder. A hot drop of frying fat jumped up and struck the back of Nadja’s left hand. She flinched slightly, pulled her hand away, then calmly went back to cutting.
Eventually, the meal was arranged on the small wooden table.
The fried potatoes gleamed with fat in the cast-iron pan. The fried eggs had perfect crisp brown edges. The green salad shone with oil from the dressing. Beside them lay thick slices of fresh dark bread.
Nadja remained standing, her gaze fixed on the grain of the wooden table.
Two white porcelain plates sat directly across from each other.
In the middle of her own kitchen, beneath the cold light of the ceiling fixture, Karl’s rough hand reached for the back of the heavy wooden chair— Markus’s chair— dragged it backward with a loud scrape, and sat down with his legs spread.
Nadja placed her hands on the back of the chair opposite him, pulled it across the tiles, and sat down.
Her eyes remained wide open, motionless, fixed on her own plate.