Fire in the Kitchen | Fuego en la Cocina
"A late-night cooking lesson turns into something far more delicious when abuela's secret recipe requires two pairs of hands"
Fire in the Kitchen
Fuego en la Cocina
The kitchen still smelled of sofrito when he walked in—cebolla, ajo, ají dulce—the holy trinity of my grandmother's cooking filling every corner of my small apartment.
"You're still up?" Marco asked, his voice thick with sleep, wearing nothing but gray sweats that hung low on his hips.
Dios mío. Three months of being neighbors, and I still couldn't look at him without my cheeks burning hotter than the caldero on the stove.
"Couldn't sleep," I said, stirring the recaito with more focus than necessary. "My abuela's birthday is tomorrow. I'm making her arroz con pollo."
He moved closer, and I could smell him—cologne and something uniquely him, warm and masculine. "At 2 AM?"
"The rice needs to absorb overnight. It's the secret." I tapped the wooden spoon against the pot. "El secreto de la familia."
"Family secret, huh?" He was right behind me now, looking over my shoulder. "Teach me."
"You want to learn Puerto Rican cooking?" I turned, and suddenly his face was inches from mine. His eyes were dark, hungry—and not for food.
"Quiero aprender todo de ti," he murmured. I want to learn everything about you.
My breath caught. "Marco..."
"Show me how to stir." His hands found my waist, and he turned me back toward the stove, his chest pressed against my back. His fingers slid down my arms until they covered my hands on the wooden spoon.
"Like this?" he asked against my ear.
"Más despacio." My voice came out breathless. "Slower. You have to be patient with the rice."
"I can be patient." His lips brushed my neck. "Puedo ser muy paciente, mami."
The spoon clattered against the pot. "Ay, Dios..."
His hands left mine to grip my hips, pulling me back against him. I could feel how patient he wasn't being.
"The rice—" I started.
"Can wait." He spun me around, lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. The caldero sizzled beside us, forgotten.
"Eres tan hermosa," he breathed, pushing between my thighs. You're so beautiful. His hands slid up my nightshirt—his shirt, actually, stolen weeks ago. "Mi camiseta se ve mejor en ti."
"You noticed?"
"Claro que sí." His mouth found my collarbone. "I notice everything about you. How you sing when you cook. How you dance when you think no one's watching. How you look at me when you think I don't see."
I pulled him closer by his waistband. "And what do you see when you look at me?"
"Fuego." Fire. His lips hovered over mine. "Veo fuego, and I've been burning for months."
When he finally kissed me, it was like the first bite of something perfectly seasoned—heat and sweetness and depth all at once. My legs wrapped around him, pulling him impossibly closer.
"Bésame," I demanded. Kiss me. "No pares." Don't stop.
"Nunca, mami." Never. "Nunca voy a parar."
His mouth traced a path down my throat while his hands explored beneath the stolen shirt. Every touch was deliberate, savoring, like he was learning me the way I'd asked him to learn my grandmother's recipe.
"Aquí?" he asked, his thumb finding a sensitive spot. Here?
"Sí..."
"Y aquí?" Lower now.
"Dios, sí, ahí..."
The sofrito burned. Neither of us cared.
He carried me to the couch, laying me down like something precious, then covering my body with his. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light, casting shadows across his face as he looked down at me.
"Dime lo que quieres," he said. Tell me what you want.
I pulled him down to me. "Te quiero a ti. Todo." I want you. All of you.
"Soy tuyo, mami." He was already moving, already everywhere. "Siempre he sido tuyo." I've always been yours.
We moved together like a dance—salsa without music, cumbia without drums—finding rhythms that made me cry out in Spanish words I didn't know I remembered. He answered in kind, mixing English and Spanish until language didn't matter anymore.
"Así, mami, así..."
"Marco... por favor... más..."
"Lo que quieras. Todo lo que quieras."
When I finally came apart, I said his name like a prayer, like a song, like my grandmother calling us to dinner—full of warmth and promise and home.
After, we lay tangled on my too-small couch, his fingers tracing patterns on my hip.
"The rice is ruined," I said, smelling the char.
He laughed, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Yo te hago arroz mañana. I'll make you rice tomorrow."
"You don't know how."
"Then teach me." He pulled me closer. "Enséñame todo, mi amor." Teach me everything.
I smiled against his chest. "Con mucho gusto." With pleasure.
And I did.