Let me...

Let me…

Joe’s POV

You have been chopping vegetables up for at least forty minutes.
You insisted that you’re cooking dinner and you decided we're having Chicken Noodle Soup.

In my humble opinion, a quite hard recipe.
I have even made you notice that, but you said it was your super trouper dish.

Even your Spaghetti and Meatballs from two days ago were supposed to be and… Let’s just say I wish I could suffer from amnesia to forget how bad they were.

I walk silently towards you who can’t notice me, as engrossed as you are.
But I wait for you to put the knife down before kissing your nape and make you startle.
And that’s why I waited until you quit with the chopping.

You turn, smile at me and I kiss you, slowly, tenderly.

“Sweetheart, do you need some help?” I disguise with kindness my ultimate attempt of making this dinner vaguely edible, as I peer at your cooking.

Uhm… No sign of burnt food, the chicken seems cooked enough, the sugar is far away from the worktop, before you can easily confuse it with the salt.
I know it because sadly it already happened.

“Thank you, honey, but I have the whole situation under my control,” You grin proudly. “Go read a book, watch TV or simply relax, I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I walk away, sitting on the armchair with a book in my hand.

I can try and read some pages, but relax…

Was Jesus relaxed before his Last Supper?

Half an hour later, here’s your call.

“Come here, Joe, dinner is ready.”

“Coming right up!” I singsong, as I get up.

C’mon, Joe, stay strong. You can do it.

I sit at the table and inspect the dish in front of me.

It looks surprisingly good.

It smells surprisingly good.

Could it even taste that good?

You’re staring at me with oh so much expectation as I bring the forkful to my mouth.

I chew on it, taking my time to savour it and…

“Oh, god, Bronte, this is amazing!”

“Really?” You grin, all proud and happy.

“Absolutely, sweetheart. The way you mixed all the spices, the perfect balance, all the tastes… Probably you were born to cook  Asian cuisine.”

And stay as far as possible from American and even Italian one, thank you.

“Good to know, there’s so many recipes I wanna try!” You cheer, as we keep eating.

I enjoy another bit of this juicy chicken, my palate is literally throwing a party among curry, turmeric, coriander and cumin when a piece of carrots gets stuck in my lower left molar.

And I see stars.

Not because I’m so ecstatic about this food.

I guess I even jumped from my chair.

“Is everything okay, Joe?” You immediately get concerned. “Too much pepper, maybe?”

“Huh? No, no, this is a totally flawless dish, I swear. Actually, it was so good it made me jump.” I rush to explain.

You don’t say anything, but stare at me very suspiciously.

I just pretend nothing happened and I keep eating, just avoiding the left side of my mouth, of course.

--------------------------------- 

It took me longer than I imagined to get that fucking piece of carrot out of my tooth, but it didn’t fix my problem.
It keeps throbbing and it’s annoying the hell out of me.

When I go out of the bathroom, you’re still questioning me with your eyes.
 

I suggest we watch a movie, just to keep you more focused on that, rather than on me.
I let you even pick the movie, and if you’re in the sappy, romantic mood of rewatching ‘Notting Hill’, who am I to prevent you?

“Casually, you chose the owner of a bookstore. You really can’t keep your mind off of me.” I make you notice with a smug smile.

“Casually, I’m not a Hollywood star trying to get some privacy.” You strike back.

And to think that you could have been a TikTok star and yet you refused, in order to protect me; you could have destroyed my whole life so easily and yet you haven’t.

Another of the reasons why I love you so much, Bronte.

“We can always pretend you are.” I wink at you.

“Cool. And, tell me,  can you even make an English accent?” You play my game, smiling at me oh so sexily.

I slide closer to kiss you, something that seems to relieve my ache.

But we part in time to keep watching the movie.

We reach the point where Hugh Grant has to pretend to be a journalist, when you get up.

“It’s so hot today, don’t you think so?” You say, going to the kitchen.

“With you around, it’s hot everywhere.” I shout from the bed.

But my sexy innuendos leave the stage once I notice what you came back with.

Two glasses of water, full of ice.

“It’s very important to hydrate yourself.” You hand that sort of lethal weapon to me, as you drink your glass, effortlessly.

And you are sneering.
Who would have ever guessed you could be so sadistic?

And why does this thing sort of turn me on?
But I’ll deal with my needy cock later.
Okay, Bronte, I know that now you want to challenge me, but I can do it.

I hold the glass in my hands in the useless attempt of making it a bit warmer and then I bring it to my lips.

I’m just going to take a few sips…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck!!!
 

The glass slip from my hand, getting half bed wet, as I curse in every language  know, even the ones I don’t know.

“My goddamn tooth!” I yelp, bringing my palm on my left cheek.

“Ah-ah. So you admit you have a toothache!” You back me into a corner.

“Yes and it’s killing me!” I give in.

You walk closer to me.

“C’mon, let me have a look…”

“No fucking way!” I back off. “Don’t think I forget who you really are!”

A fucking dental hygienist.
And I know where that path would lead me to: a dental visit.
No. Fucking. Way.

“Yeah, that’s why you should let me check. I can help you, Joe!” You insist.

“But I don’t want your help. I know my body, it’s just a matter of keeping quiet for one day, two at the utmost, and then I’ll be as good as new.” 

I’ve been extra fine for decades without seeing a dentist and I mean to go on this way for a very long time.

I guess I should blame two people for this situation.
You, R.I.P. Love, for all the sugar you put in all the delicious treats you gave me and now these are the fucking results.
And you, soon-to-be R.I.P. Louise, if you don’t quit trying to snoop around inside my mouth.

“I guess you should resume watching the movie.” I suggest and you approve.

I’m so engrossed by William’s ride towards Anna’s press conference, along with all his friends, so much that I don’t even think about my tooth anymore, I’d dare to say I feel better.

“See, this could be us if we took a trip to London?” I comment,holding you as we’re seeing the final scene, with Will and Anna cuddling on the bench.

Pregnancy included.
Why not? Let the dream be fulfilling.

“Aww, Joe.” You snuggle closer to me. “Also getting your son back, maybe?”

Even more fulfilling.

---------------------------------------- 

I spent the night fighting every urge I had to whine.

I get up earlier to prepare breakfast.

Chickpea hummus.

The less I chew, the better.

“So, ready to come back to Mooney’s?” I ask you as we eat.

“Sure, I would have preferred to start with something more solid in my stomach, but yeah, I’m ready and eager, also to test my poor ankle.” You don’t miss the chance to make a snide remark.

“Which is improving day after day.” I smile at you.

“So, aren’t you coming with me?” You ask me, as you get dressed.

“Of course, but I won’t stay there all day long. I have many business to attend to.”

Such as googling every possible natural method to cure toothache.

“Okay, let’s go then, I’m ready.” You inform me, as we are about to leave.

On the threshold, as I’m busy locking the door, you grab my shoulders and make me turn to you.

“C’mon, Joe, open up and let me check your teeth.”

Get thee behind me, girlfriend possessed by a dentist wanna-be.

“There’s no need, really. I’m more than fine, it was just a temporary nuisance.” I shrug, pretending everything is okay.

And you seem to buy it.

------------------------

I’ve rinsed my mouth with water and salt, I’ve put some ice over it, I’ve -very carefully- chewed on a clove, I’ve even used sage infusion; but nothing seems to work.

When you’re back, I’m already busy cooking dinner, grilled salmon for you who need solid food in your stomach; smoked salmon mousse for me, for reasons.

At least you didn’t ask me about my teeth anymore.

My Bronte is back.

After dinner we’re enjoying some tender moments on our bed and I thank my lucky stars that kissing doesn’t hurt.

“Joe… what about spicing things up a little?” You suggest, out of the blue.

“Do you mean a ‘Notting Hill’ foreplay?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Nope, I was thinking about what we did at the Sandbox. I’d like to try again.”

Oh, Bronte, this is music to my ears.

“Sounds good, sweetheart; just give me the time to take the silk ribbons…”

“But with switched roles.” You add.

What?!

“Do you mean…” I waver, as I hand the silk ribbons to you.

"Yeah. Me, tying you up, this time. How would it feel, Joe?” You ask me, as you caress the ribbons the way you’re probably planning to caress me.

I guess this could also strengthen the mutual trust level we’ve already reached.

I nod and you instantly straddle me.

You kiss me as you hold both of my wrists, taking measurements in your mind.

You deal with my first wrist, wrapping the ribbon around it multiple times and securing it to the headboard with some rather determined knots.

I stare at you fascinated as you repeat the same actions with my other wrist.

Here I am, Bronte. Trapped, for you to do with as you will.

You scratch lightly my shoulders and my forearms, as your lips land back on mine.
Mm.
This kiss is so enjoyable, unless you don’t plan to poke my poor molar with the tip of your tongue, but you can’t be that sadistic, right, Bronte?

Mmm. You are not.

Then your kisses move down to my chin, jugular and collarbone, then back to my neck, sucking the skin harder and harder.
That’s it, like this, Bronte, Louise. Gimme more.

“Why don’t you close your eyes, Joe?” You suggest me as your tongue plays with my left nipple.
 

I obey.

I can hear a soft noise, like a rubber band being pulled.

Then you caress my cheek and, wait… are you wearing latex gloves?

Mm. Sexy.

I feel your rubbed fingertips on my lips, softly pressing them.

“Open your mouth, Joe.” You whisper in my ear.

Can’t wait to find out the sexy game you’re about to play.

I eagerly open it.

“A bit wider, honey…” you plead.

I please you and.. why are you holding it open with your fingers? What did you put on my mouth? A little wooden stick? What’s this long, cold tiny thing, a spoon?

Time to open my eyes.

“Oh, look at the second lower left molar. Poor number 37 has such a hole, poor baby.” You say as you are looking inside with a head torch. “I’m afraid a filling is needed.”

Where did you take that -perversely sexy -head torch?
Along with the dental mirror and the tongue depressor you are using.
And who is supposed to be the ‘poor baby’, me, my tooth… both?

“I had hidden all this stuff under my pillow, I was just waiting for the right moment to use them.” You answer my silent question, since at the moment I can’t even fucking talk.

You, cheater. You, traitor.
In our ‘Notting Hill’ roleplay in my mind now Will is burying Anna’s corpse beneath that fucking bench.

“I just wanted to help you, Joe, and since you didn't let me... I resorted to other methods.”
 

Little did I know, one day a dental hygienist in black lace lingerie would inspect my mouth by trickery.

Pissed off, beyond any possibility.

Also, extremely turned on.

"I'll have to check what kind of toothbrush you use, how you use it, how many times you pass the floss..."

Okay, all my libido is gone now.

"I don't have a floss." I confess.

You glare at me as if I killed anyone.

Oh, well…

“Tsk-tsk, Joe, that’s not good. Proper oral hygiene is important.” You lecture me, as you free my mouth and take off the head torch and the gloves.

“It’s another oral that I prefer.” I strike back, as you also undo the ribbons around my wrists.

“Pig!” You laugh, giving me a quick peck on the lips. “Does it hurt much?”

Back to your concerned tone.

Somewhat sweet.

“Just a little…” I shrug. “And I had much worse.”

Like a temporary missing pinky that Doctors sewed back on my hand just in time.
Two chopped toes, by myself.
Got beat up, more than once.
All In all, maybe a dentist’s drill in my mouth is not the worst that can happen to me.

“Oh, my poor baby.” You ruffle my hair. “But don’t worry, tomorrow I’ll get you an appointment with the best Doctor in town, I still have some connections thanks to my old job.”

You really care about me, Bronte, maybe in a way too nosy way, but you do.

“However, Bronte, I guess I’ll need an incentive after the filling.” I murmur, as I trace the lace of your Brazilian slip with my index.

“Such as?” You ask me, intrigued.

“You gotta lend me your head torch and let me play the speleologist between your thighs.” I make my shameless request.

You grin at me.

“I was afraid you’ d never ask, honey!" 

Ohhh, kinky.
My soulmate.

And then we kiss again.

On second thought, I guess that Will can still enjoy with Anna the time of his life on that bench.

--

THE END