Cooking during holiday

She missed the taste of home enough to pull on an apron and start from scratch. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders, she chops onions at the kitchen counter, knife flashing, hips moving with the rhythm. The stove clicks on. Oil heats. Steam rises as she adds the meat, seasoning it with a practiced wrist. Her thin top rides up every time she reaches, showing smooth skin above the waistband of her shorts. She leans over to stir, breasts pressing softly against the edge, a faint gasp escaping when the spoon slips. The camera lingers on her hands: delicate fingers gripping the wooden handle, the faint sheen of sweat on her wrist. She tastes the sauce straight from the spoon, tongue flicking out, eyes half-lidded with pleasure at the first real bite. A bead of sauce runs down her chin; she catches it with her thumb and sucks it clean, slow, deliberate. When the pot simmers she steps back, wiping her palms on the front of her shorts, the motion tight across her thighs. The kitchen smells rich. She looks satisfied already.