Marked by fire

The next day, I drifted between sleep and working from home, the tiredness from the past nights lingering like a soft, stubborn fog. Bob had gone to the office that morning to explain things in his usual concise way. “Deppgrl won’t be in for at least another week,” he told them, “but if she does stop by, no business talk. She just wants to see everyone, check in, and head home.” The message landed well—everyone understood.

In the afternoon, as I answered texts and emails from my staff, Bob and I arranged catered lunch for the office. As I finished up work for the day, I also finished the leftover bottle of wine that Vic and I had started the other night.

A few hours later, Bob came over and let himself in as usual. His eyes immediately caught the melted ice packs scattered across my office desk and nearby surfaces.

“What’s with all the melted ice packs?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I glared at him. “I’m a little sore.”

“Sore from what?” he pressed.

I fixed him with a sharp look. “Ever since you told Vince about my two-week beach-and-fuck fest trip with Randy, you don’t get to be THAT involved in my life anymore. Keep your nose out. Got it? Now get out.”

Bob’s face darkened; he didn’t laugh or argue, but his anger was clear as he turned and left but knew that I was right.

As soon as he was gone, I grabbed my phone and called the chief of police, firmly requesting that Bob’s ability to drive by at all hours of the day to be revoked. As an auxiliary officer, once Bob’s told something by the police, he’s to step down immediately.

About an hour later, Vince showed up with several bottles of wine—both white and rosé—and three full takeout bags from the Italian restaurant we’d been to a few days earlier. The moment he stepped inside, the scent of roasted garlic, tomato sauce, and fresh herbs filled the air, thick and comforting. His gaze immediately fell on the ice packs still sitting out.

“Those from Randy and I” he asked with a teasing smile. I nodded

He set the bags and bottles on the counter and began unpacking them as I put the ice packs in the freezer. There was creamy fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken, its sauce still velvety and steaming; a deep, generous slice of meat lasagna layered with ricotta, ground beef, and tangy marinara; chicken parmigiana, crisp and golden beneath bubbling mozzarella and a thick coating of red sauce, paired with a side of spaghetti tossed in olive oil and garlic.

There was also eggplant parmigiana, its breaded slices tender and smothered in marinara and melted cheese—comforting and rich and pasta primavera—angel hair tossed with sautéed zucchini, red bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, and broccoli, all coated in a light white wine and garlic sauce. A second entrée of shrimp scampi sat in its own container, the shellfish glistening in lemon butter, parsley, and cracked black pepper.

Two foil bags held garlic knots, soft and buttery, dusted with herbs and parmesan, with a tub of herbed olive oil for dipping. The mixed green salad came with roasted red peppers, shaved parmesan, and a container of balsamic vinaigrette. For soup, he brought two kinds: creamy chicken and gnocchi, thick and hearty with pillowy gnocchi and tender chunks of chicken, and a savory beef barley, full of rich broth, vegetables, and chewy grains.

By the time everything was unwrapped, the counter was full, and the kitchen was alive with the aromas of roasted garlic, fresh basil, melted cheese, and buttered bread. It was indulgent, familiar, and unmistakably Vince.

As Vince grabbed plates and bowls, I grabbed the bottles wine and put them in the fridge.

When I turned back, Vince was looking at me intensely. In just three strides, he closed the distance, leaned down, and kissed me. I didn’t – and couldn’t - pull away.

He hefted my fat ass up onto the counter so we could be at eye level, and we continued to kiss, the world around us fading away.

“God, I want you,” Vince said as he pulled away to catch his breath. “Can you handle it?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

Vince picked me up liked I weighed nothing at all and carried me over to the rocking chair. He put me down, we stripped and he sat down on the chair. I slid down his hard dick and I moaned. Vince grabbed my hips and helped me slide up his dick; the rocking movement from the rocking chair made the sex more intense. In no time, we climaxed hard and he poured his cum in me.

“I’m nowhere done with you, my love,” he moaned as he grabbed my hips again as he began to thrust up.

“The food,” I moaned as his teeth found one of my nipples. “Yesssss…”

“I don’t care about the food,” he muffled as he was guiding me up and down his glorious dick. “I care about you!”

As he climaxed, he bit down hard on my nipple and then I felt him cum in me.

“Yessssss,” I moaned as I started sliding up and down him a little faster so I could climax. “Don’t stop!”

Vince’s mouth found my other nipple and I moaned in pleasure. Each time I slid down his dick, he slammed his dick up into me. I screamed as I climaxed…Vince followed again seconds later, clamping down on my nipple as he climaxed. It took him a few minutes to finish pouring his cum in me.

I rested my forehead on his as we caught our breath.

“That was amazing, wasn’t it?” he asked. “The food is waiting, ha ha.”

“It was incredible,” I said. “I was trying to tell you that earlier!”

He chuckled and helped me off of his lap. I threw my shirt on as he put on his shirt and his pants. Before heading back to the kitchen, he bent down to kiss me softly. “Later, old man,” I said as I rested my hand against his face. We headed into the kitchen.

As we unpacked the food, we were happy to feel that the foil containers were still held their heat. We decided to plate our food into ceramic bowls and heat up in the microwave and heat up both kinds of soup on top of the stove. Vince grabbed a bottle of rose and white wine and opened them as I took four wine glasses out…many years ago, I learned that you don’t pour different wines into the same glass….if you have multiple bottles of wine, you get as many glasses as there different types of wine.

As the kitchen filled with the rich smells of roasted garlic and melted cheese, I moved with quiet purpose, transferring the food from the ceramic bowls to serving dishes. I set the chicken parm, eggplant parm, lasagna, pasta primavera and shrimp scampi aside. I then focused on the soups—creamy chicken and gnocchi, and the beef barley—went into small saucepans on the stove to warm slowly.

Vince stood nearby, pulling plates and silverware from the cabinet, his movements easy, like he’s done it in my kitchen a dozen times before. He glanced over as I slid the large serving bowl to the side of the stove.

“You still working while you’re off?” he asked, leaning one hip against the counter as he opened a bottle of rosé.

“Just a few hours a week,” I said, accepting the glass he handed me. “Emails, check-ins. Mostly making sure Bob doesn’t burn the place down.”

Vince smirked. “He seems like a solid brother. Loyal.”

“He is,” I said, my voice softening slightly. “Even if he did overstep.”

“He did,” Vince said, sipping his wine. “Still, good to know you’ve got someone like that in your corner.”

“What about you?” I asked, lifting the lid on one of the soups to stir. “What’ve you been up to the last few days?”

He set his glass down and rolled his shoulders. “Helping a couple friends with some house projects. Replacing a broken window, fixing a leaky faucet, that sort of thing. Golfing. Drinks with friends. Keeps me busy.”

“You ever miss teaching?”

Vince took a moment to answer, eyes flicking to the bubbling pot. “Sometimes. But I don’t miss the red tape. The politics. I did what I needed to do. Now I help where I can.”

I nodded as I pulled the heated pasta from the microwave, swapping it for the next dish. “That suits you.”

He smiled, then stepped in closer. His hand slid around my waist, warm and grounding, his fingers settling just above the curve of my hip.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

I hesitated. “Still processing. A lot’s happened.”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand tightening slightly at my waist. “But I don’t regret a second of it….that night with Randy.”

Neither did I.

“Me too,” I murmured. “But don’t put me in that position again.”

Vince leaned in, still holding me close, and kissed me gently—no hunger this time, just something warm and unspoken. His lips lingered on mine, unhurried, before he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.

"Or positions?" he asked.

I laughed.

The soups bubbled behind us, the wine shimmered in our glasses, and the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around us like a slow breath.

Dinner moved slowly, the kitchen filled with the warm smells of garlic, tomato, and roasted vegetables. Between bites of chicken parm, pasta primavera, and the perfectly layered eggplant lasagna, we sipped on rosé and white wine, the coolness of the drinks softening the day’s edges.

I caught Vince staring at me again, his eyes lingering like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“You’re looking at me like you’re trying to memorize how I look,” I said, holding his gaze.

He smiled, a little shy but honest. “I didn’t realize just how beautiful you are until now…I always knew you were beautiful, but tonight? You’re incredibly beautiful—you’re absolutely stunning.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Thanks,” I said softly.

Curious, I asked, “So what are your plans for the next few days?”

He relaxed into the chair and grinned. “Golf in the mornings, drinks Thursday night, helping some friends with small repairs around their houses—just little stuff like fixing leaks or shelves. And the concert Saturday night.”

"What concert?"

"Bruno Mars and The Weeknd."

"You know, you’re a little too old to be seeing Bruno Mars and The Weeknd,” I joked.

He laughed, eyes sparkling. “Maybe, but I’m not about to miss a good show.”

“True,” I said, smiling.

“Yeah, I like to keep moving,” he said. “What about you? What’s your plan while you’re off?”

“Working from home a few hours a week, mostly giving myself time to rest and clear my head.”

“That sounds good,” he said softly.

I raised my glass to him. “What are you going to do differently this time around with me?”

His eyes locked with mine. “Let you set the tone every time we meet and cherish you more—really cherish you. That’s something I didn’t do enough before.”

The weight of that promise made me pause.

As I started clearing the plates, Vince stepped close, his hand resting gently on my waist.

He held my eyes for a moment longer before leaning in to kiss me—soft, deliberate, like a promise.

We finished cleaning up slowly, sipping more wine, the clinking of dishes mixing with our quiet laughter.

When the counters were clear, Vince asked, “Want to get dessert?”

I smiled. “Yeah, where do you want to go?”

“Aditi’s,” he said. “She makes some incredible Indian desserts—creamy mango kulfi that melts on your tongue, cardamom-spiced gulab jamun soaked in sweet syrup, and pistachio-studded ras malai that’s light but indulgent. Perfect way to end the night.”

I smiled, imagining each bite. “You’ve got me craving all of it already.”

Vince caught my hand, pulling me close. His lips found mine in a deep, passionate kiss—slow and intense, full of promise. When he finally pulled away, he smiled softly and whispered, “Go get dressed. I’ll wait for you.”

I nodded, heart racing, and headed off to change while the night stretched deliciously ahead of us.