The first thing he noticed was the apron. It should have been the woman, but there was something about the way she had cinched the ties around her waist, accenting her figure, that got his attention right away. The smears of flour where she had wiped her hands, to answer the phone -- or just as likely, to answer the door -- created light where there should have been shadow. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail; no bangs, just a stray strand or two that had somehow escaped fluttering near her eyes. Those eyes themselves held his attention for longer than either of them thought natural. He was making a conscious effort not to look at her figure, the way men do, mentally erasing clothing and doing all but licking their lips in anticipation. She liked that about him, and the fact that his favorite clothes seemed to be the things he had settled on in his mid-twenties, paying no attention to fashion but definitely owning his own style. He handed her the parcel, smiled, and was turning to go when she offered him a cold drink on this hot day.

"I'm really not supposed to," he said, with the air of a man who says one thing and means something else. "But it is a hot day, and I'm ahead of schedule. Thank you." She stepped aside to let him through, the screen banging hard in its frame when he let it go. He followed her from the hallway through the dining room and into the large kitchen. Two baker's racks filled a wall: baking pans and cooking equipment on one, pantry items crowding the other. He smiled to himself: this was a kitchen built to be used and not simply admired. But admire it he did.

She waved him towards the center island while she made for the refrigerator. He sat on a stool and watched her, taking in the shape of her back and the easy, fluid movement of her body while she filled a glass with ice and then lemonade from a pitcher. He noticed the gentle line of her arm, the rise and fall of her breast under the apron when she reached for the pitcher or stooped for the ice, the curve of her hip and how it, too, shifted magically whenever she changed her posture.

"Thank you," as she handed him the glass. "Strictly speaking it's against the rules for me to even come inside."

"So you said. Your secret is safe with me. You're safe with me." it was such an odd thing for her to say, he thought. He wasn't sure how to react so he put the glass down, looked her square in the eye and cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes," she said simply, and took his hand to lead him out of the kitchen. He stood and started to follow, then grabbed the glass off the counter just before it was out of reach. When they reached the stair she turned to face him, then backed up onto the first step before putting her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. He still held the glass, sweating in the damp summer heat. When he kissed her he touched the glass to the back of her neck and felt, rather than heard, her moan while the icy condensate trickled down her spine. He stretched his arm far behind her to set the glass down on the stair, then rubbed her neck with his cold fingers and was rewarded with another moan, softer this time but more audible.

His hands moved to her hips now, feeling them sway beneath the fabric of the apron and her thin summer shift. He found the string and pulled to release the canvas, breaking the kiss only long enough to slip it over her head. He could see now -- feel now -- that she was braless under the shift, and reached for the glass again before putting his cold hand to her breast, feeling her through the thin cotton, feeling her moan into his mouth while her nipple stiffened against his palm and he continued to knead her through the damp cloth.

He picked up the tumbler and used it to raise her skirt. Both of them were startled: he, to learn that she was pantyless as well as braless; she, to feel the crystal against her buttocks, cooling her body even while it excited her passion. She felt the glass slip and slide: now wide across both cheeks, now vertically. Her body warmed the vessel; the melting ice within cooled it; and the resulting condensation rolled down her ass to the point, between her legs, that connected to every sensation firing in her body just now. She squirmed and wriggled in his arms. He seized the moment to step back, look her up and down, and slowly pour the melted ice across the front of her dress. At first she flared with anger but the cold water heated something else. She smiled and began to unbutton her shift. He grabbed her hands and pinned them behind her back, her two small wrists in his large hand, while his other hand roamed across her breasts and found her stiff, chilled nipples through the cloth. She closed her eyes and he watched her drift into a different place. He had imagined her there when she opened the door -- it hadn't occurred to him that it would be anything more. He unbuttoned the shift and slipped his hand inside, massaging and pinching, pinching and twisting, to drive her deeper into herself.

She tried to pull her hands free but he held them fast, then released her breast. While he tore the shift off her she pulled at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons before losing patience and yanking the front open. She took a little more care with his pants, loosening the belt and unbuttoning the fly before pushing them to his ankles. He shook his head slightly, wanting to feel her hands and mouth all over him but wanting, too, to control the moment himself. His route would bring him back this way, after all; she would have her chance another day. In the time it took him to formulate the thought, he spun her around so that she faced the stairs.

He plucked her apron from the floor and spread it, as neatly as he could in his haste, across the bottom two steps. Then pushed her to kneel on it, her hands high above her on the sixth tread, her breasts hanging just above the fourth. He gripped her hips and thrust hard into her. She was ready -- more than ready. She was eager to feel him inside, how long had it been since she had been possessed this way, taken; and in being taken, recognized. For a fleeting moment she thought about the open door, the neighbor who walked his dog at this hour, the unmistakable sounds of passion passing beyond the screen. She was strangely aroused by the idea and pushed back into him, onto him, hard, harder now. The two of them found their rhythm and increased their tempo: the unspoken communication of two bodies merging to make a unique and unforgettable music with no words but an indelible story.

They collapsed together without a word and might have remained on the stair had they not heard the neighborhood children drifting back from wherever they'd spent the day. Silently she tilted her head towards the door: "Better go. Come back tomorrow," was the clear but unspoken message.