"Hey, you."

Wrapping my arms around your waist, I press a kiss to your cheek, my body warm against yours. The smell of flour's in the air, powder dusting my hands and the remnants of our baking misadventures scattered around the counter. Flour, sugar, and salt, three containers slightly askew along the side, and the taste of sweetness still on my kiss when I gently twist your head to meet me.

It'd been a crazy idea, spur-of-the-moment, my head rising up out of the covers this morning with a bleary smile and a stray thought bubbling to the surface. Christmas cookies in July. Why not, right?

One thing had led, deliciously, to another, the comfortable bustle and hum of the kitchen coming to life around us mixed with the comfortable chatter between us. You can still feel the warmth of me from the night before, my scent clinging to the olive shirt draped over your shoulders.

You do look cute in it, and I can't resist reaching out to ruffle your hair affectionately when you bend to slide the butter back into the fridge.

I'm glad I met you pretty much all the time, but never more so than now, with a messy charm in your flushed cheeks and eyes like a clear sky after rain. My hands wander up your sides, raising my shirt on you with it, the feel of the apron on me a pleasantly faint scratch against your skin.

Behind us, the oven begins to glow, and I grin conspiratorially, fingers sliding over the faint notches of your ribs.

Those aren't sensitive, you'd said, that first night together, and I still like to prove you wrong. Silly.

"Maybe we should clear a spot on the table," I suggest innocently, palms sliding up to cup the soft swell of your breasts. You blush, of course, but that's why it's so cute. Why you're so cute.

I can see the question in your eyes, and in the warmth of the kitchen, I laugh, and for a moment my eyes flash in that way, my tone dropping to an easy confidence when I speak again. Hands ghost down the length of your arms, and with a gentle kiss at the nape of your neck, my fingers close around your wrists.

"Oh, not for the cookies. Not yet, love. For you."

What could be better than being pinned lovingly to the table and taken from behind, all to the smell of cookies baking in the air? Sugary kisses and charming you-prints on a floury table... I'm blushing a bit just thinking about it. There always is that coconut oil in the pantry...

Something rough but sweet, snuggling up in blankets on the couch afterward munching on the fruits of our labor, sweat still clinging to our skin.

Join me in the kitchen, yeah?

DPP Profile