Cucumber salad

I had to make cucumber salad. Laima showed up at the door, ready to drag me outside, but I had to stay in. I pulled her into the kitchen with me instead. She leaned against the counter, watching me slice cucumbers, her skirt riding up each time she shifted her weight. I kept glancing. She kept catching me. Then her hand slid down to rest on my thigh, and everything slowed. She tasted the first piece I held out, then took another bite straight from my fingers. Juice ran down her lip. She leaned in and kissed me before I could wipe it away. It was soft at first, almost careful, until her tongue brushed mine and her hand moved higher under my dress. We forgot the salad. We kissed harder, pressed tighter, and before I knew it her fingers were slipping past the edge of my panties. I let her touch me right there, back against the fridge, cucumbers scattered on the counter. Her mouth stayed on mine while she stroked me, slow and careful, like she knew I’d stop her if she rushed. I didn’t. I spread my legs a little more, and she took it as an invitation. She dropped to her knees on the tile floor. Her tongue found me the way her fingers had, licking between each fold, pulling soft sounds out of me I didn’t know I could make. I held on to the edge of the counter, knees shaking, until she pushed me over the edge with slow, steady pressure. Afterwards, we got back to the salad. We kept looking at each other while we worked, both of us flushed, both of us quiet. The cucumbers still needed dressing. We tasted it together, then kissed again, both tasting the vinegar on each other’s lips.