****************

 

AN INVITATION TO TEA

(09/13/1999)

 

BY BRENSGRRL   ([email protected])

 

*****************

 

 

Category: ABH  (Anywhere-But-Here),  Romance, AU

 

Series:  1/1

 

Pairing:  Qui/F

 

Rating:  NC-17 (Romantic Smut!)

 

Summary:   Qui-Gon wrecks your Tea Ceremony . . .no furniture broken

though!

 

Archiving:  Anywhere with my emailed permission—but you must tell me

where.

 

Feedback:   [email protected].   Very welcome, but flames will be

used to light the "Fire on Ice" at the rink where my daughter skates...

; >)    This piece hasn’t been betaed,

so feel free to do so and forward comments to me.

 

Disclaimer:  Qui-Gon belongs to George Lucas.  I wish he were mine,

literally, but he is part of the wonderful world of make believe created

by Lucasfilm, Ltd. The special appearance of You is courtesy of  "You,

Unlimited, Inc." .   I'm broke and only writing this for fun, so please

don't sue me.

 

NOTES:

Roji—Garden of a formal Tea House

Chaji—Tea Ceremony, including the meal

 

Chashitsu—The Tea House itself

Chabana—Flower arrangement

 

Tatami—Reed mats used for flooring in the Tea House

 

Koicha—Thick, souplike green tea served as the highlight

              of an authentic Tea Ceremony

 

Usucha—Thin green tea served at the end of the Ceremony

 

Mizuya—Small anteroom to the tea room of the Tea House

              (like a kitchen) used for preparation and storage

 

Mimosa--A breakfast drink made with champagne and orange juice.

 

// // Denotes thoughts

~  ~    Denotes telepathy . . .

 

And—all of the Haiku is mine, except for the one marked with (*), which

is by the poet Ryoko

 

 

 

 

*************************

 

 

Violet ..   High red clouds.   Gray sky above the leaves.

Light streams over the horizon, and you lean against the bamboo gate and

watch your roji garden dismiss the night.   Eagerly, the garden turns

her

face to the faithful sun, yet darkness clings to her private arbors like

a secret lover.   Breathing deeply, you inhale the mingled perfumes of

the honeysuckle vines and the pines that shade the gate, and look

about.  The voice of the cricket is dying,

shouted down by morning and the water cascading into the freeform pond

sprawled a few feet away.   Stone temple lanterns stand sentry at the

entrance of an arched wooden bridge that spans the pond's width; on the

other side, a curving path disappears into the garden beyond.    It’s a

matter of pride for you that you had taken a hand in the placement of

every stone, every bench, every bush, and every flower.  Your choices

reflected your desire that the roji be a place of beauty and peace.

Nonetheless, Mother Nature hadn't cooperated in providing the veil of

dew that you hoped for.   So you decide to cheat a little.

 

You turn the sprinklers on and watch mist anoint the trunks of the young

maple and oak trees, the clumps of pampas grass, the random patches of

bellflowers and peonies, the scattered pots of tropical palms and

monstera, the fragrant evergreens and the moss-covered stones leading up

to the chashitsu that is the roji's centerpiece.   You sigh a little,

thinking once again that you should have trimmed away all of the flower

blossoms in the garden to harmonize with the way of the chaji.   But you

just don't have the heart to get rid of the flowers--not yet.  Besides,

he might enjoy seeing them.   And their scent is intoxicating and

romantic.

 

As is customary for the summer season, you invited your guest to join

you for tea at dawn, before heat and humidity conquer the day.   Despite

the round of festivities that both of you had attended the previous

night, and fatigue, you knew that he would keep his word and arrive with

the sun.   All the more reason for this to be a contrast from the hectic

 

round of media and diplomatic hubbub.  Now that all of the agreements

were signed, there would be time enough later to work out all of the

details of  "Earth System of the Republic".   What was needed now was a

place to leave the world behind.

 

You shut the water off, looking with satisfaction as the vapor settles,

leaving the air fresh and everything glistening with a haze of

moisture.   "It may as well be as traditional as possible. . ."  you say

to yourself, knowing that aside from the setting of the chashitsu and

the roji , little else about the tea ceremony would or could be

traditional.   You hope that

he will be sufficiently impressed to return for another visit.

 

White Peony.  Sprig of honeysuckle.   Bare, twisted maple branch.

 

At the garden shed you lift the pan of water containing the chabana and

turn to select a bamboo vase from a nearby shelf.   Of all the cuttings

you gathered, three seemed most

appropriate.   You gather the arrangement between your palms and drop it

into the vase

all at once, in a single breath.   //Perfect.  //

 

"Yes.  A beautiful morning in a beautiful place. . ."

 

You look around and see the Jedi Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, standing beneath

the overhang of the covered waiting place, sipping water from a pottery

cup.  How long had he been waiting there?  Was he watching as you

arranged the flowers?  //Yes. . . perfect. // you say to yourself as you

watch his fluid movement through the gate.   His smile warms you as you

approach.

 

"You honor me with your presence.  This way. . ."  you gesture.

 

"The honor is indeed mine."

 

Ever since your first meeting, you have been entranced with him,

captivated by his graceful beauty, his unselfconscious charm, the timbre

of his voice as he spoke-- all Earth languages equally embraced by his

mesmerizing accent.  But most of all, it is his calm that enchants

you.    He exudes a deep and abiding serenity that is as comforting as

an embrace.    In his presence your soul seems to grow as fathomless as

the sea.

 

And now he was here with you,  following you down the daybreak paths of

your garden and your heart was singing.

 

Cool moss.   Fingers of dawn.    Secluded hut overgrown with tall

grasses.

 

You breathe in the moist earth smell as you  make your way to the tea

house.

The stepping stones shine in the early morning light, moist and

refreshing, like a path through a forest.   There is a sense of

bridging, crossing over, as you proceed deeper into the garden and leave

the cares and dust of the world behind.

 

On the steps of the tea house, you assist him in removing his outer robe

and

boots, and you remove your sandals.   You squat and ladle water from a

low stone basin next to the steps and rinse your hands.  You gesture for

him to hold out his hands and you pour water over them.   When he

stands, you hand him a small linen towel for drying and gently place

your palm on his chest, gathering his attention.  Your eyes meet.

 

"There is one rule for the tea.  No troubles of the outside world may be

discussed.  Or we may discuss nothing at all and keep silence.   For a

while, this is the whole cosmos."   He nods assent.

 

You kneel at the low entrance, slide the door open and scoot into the

room while still on your knees.     He follows, crawling in.

 

In the sunken stone hearth at the center of the room, water simmers

gently in an iron kettle on a small brazier. Opposite from the hearth, a

low black lacquer table stands, laden with trays containing the light

meal for summer tea.  A few cushions are neatly stacked next to the

table, a concession to your guest’s comfort.   A scroll hangs in an

alcove directly facing the door.  Below the scroll, water sheets across

the flat stone face of a fountain, and gently splashes into a catchment

basin at floor level.

 

Your ankle bracelets tinkle softly as you rise and cross the tatami to

raise the reed blind.  A breath of the early morning breeze enters,

swelling the sleeves of your kimono.

You glance away from the window and smile as you watch him walk over to

the alcove to study the fountain and the scroll.    It's almost as if he

knows the guest's role for the tea ceremony. // He,  of all people,

would. // Moving back to the center of the room, you retrieve the

dampened pottery tray containing the first course, jicama and orange

slices, rice and gazpacho, and sit it down in front of his place on the

tatami.   You arrange yourself on your knees across from his place.  He

is still looking at the scroll and so you sit back on your heels and

wait.   The silence doesn't bother you; in fact, you welcome it.   There

is no hurry.   You lean into the quiet, hearing only the yin of bubbling

water and the yang of birdsong.

 

Little sparks float skyward as you add charcoal and sandalwood to the

brazier, and he moves to his place and gracefully folds himself into a

cross-legged position across from you.

 

“The doorway is interesting.”

 

“It’s traditional for a tea house to have a low door.  It's an equalizer

of sorts.  Everyone

entering must bow down to get in.    No matter how rich or how poor or

how powerful,

you’ve got to crawl in if you want to get in.    It helps people to

remember that everyone is

the same.”  you reply.

 

"What is the significance of the artwork?"

 

"It's called a scroll painting and it holds the theme for our tea

ceremony."

 

"The theme may vary?"

 

"Yes.  The theme depends on the host's feelings, who the guest is, what

the season may be, any number of things.   But it's always a reminder of

the importance of spiritual things, and it provides a focus for the

setting of the tea ceremony.    For today, I chose MU, the

'nothingness.'    Simply put, it means 'less is more.'  It encourages

quietness, closing out outside distractions.  "

 

"It sounds very similar to a Jedi philosophy.   We call it emptiness

attribute.  One must empty the mind of everything except the task at

hand in order to fall completely into the Force, to feel the Force move

within.  'Power in brevity', that sort of thing. "

 

"Yes.  It is something like that.  Here on Earth it is frequently said

that cleansing the mind of thought will help one to gain clearer

insight.   An ancient philosopher once said 'from the mind that abides

nowhere comes forth the essence of enlightenment.'  That's the meaning

of MU."

 

"But you don’t fully agree with it. "

 

You are surprised at his insight.  "Of course not.  To tell you the

truth, I chose MU mostly

because of its beauty.   Can you imagine the danger of a totally blank

mind?  There's no telling what kind of thoughts and God knows what else

would fill up the space.  Nature abhors a vacuum."

 

He smiles, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands

clasped beneath his chin.

"Hence the philosophy engraved on the fountain?"

 

"Yes.  Instead of filling up with nothingness, one should consider what

is good and look

for the best in all things.

 

'Whatever is true,

whatever is worthy of reverence

and is honorable and seemly ,

whatever is just,

whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely and lovable,

whatever is kind and winsome and gracious,

if there is any virtue and excellence,

if there is anything worthy of praise,

think on and fix your mind on these things. . .'  you recite as you

offer the tray containing the first course.

 

"Are you the author of the fountain philosophy?"  he asks, taking a bite

of jicama.

 

"I wish.  No.  It's ancient as well.  It comes from a very important

book.  All of what we've

talked about can be found in books."

 

"I should like to read these books."

 

"It would be my pleasure to show them to you sometime."  you offer the

rice and soup and

pour mimosa into a small pottery cup.

 

"You aren't eating?"

 

"I have a tray back in the kitchen.  That's the traditional way."

 

"I came here to spend time with you.  Surely we can dispense with

tradition just this

once.   Won't you join me?  It looks like more than enough for two. "

He places a cushion and motions for you to sit next to him.

 

"Of course."   You cross to his side and seat yourself, curious to know

how you'll manage with only one spoon and a single pair of cedar

chopsticks.

 

Answering your unspoken query, he begins to feed you from his dish as if

you are a child, skillfully using the chopsticks, first taking a bite

for himself and then bringing morsels of food to your lips.   You wonder

if he realizes how suggestive this is.  He does.  The crescent of his

smile is soft as he places a piece of orange in your mouth.    And

suddenly

fruit has never been sweeter. . .

 

As you share each course, he tells you of his life as a Jedi, his bond

with his Padawan, and the mission that brought both of them to Earth.

You raise questions, and

harvest answers.    To clear the palate, hot water flavored with sage

blossoms is served.

Then you reach over and place the fifth course of  ‘mountain’ and  ‘sea’

foods, in front of him.

 

"I have told you of our code.  But you have told me nothing of yours.”

 

“Terrans don’t have a single unifying philosophy.  Surely you have

learned this in your

travels here thus far.   Many people go through life ‘making it up as

they go’.   Others live according to their own religious belief.   Some

view any rules as tyranny. . . “

 

“I mean your code. “

 

He arranges the remaining cushions and lounges on his side behind you,

reclining up on one elbow, his knees bent, catching you in the curve of

his body.  You are surrounded, retreat cut off by a wall of man.

Serenity flees, replaced by nervous anticipation.  Butterflies

flutter in your stomach, yet you are seized by an impulse to lean back

against him and snuggle into the crook of his hips.

 

“My philosophy of life?  It’s nothing complicated, really.   One part is

‘first,do no harm’.  That doesn’t mean that I believe that people

shouldn’t defend themselves.   A person shouldn’t be an aggressor.

Another part is to ‘walk modestly, do justice and love kindness.’  And

the third part is to treat others as I want to be treated. “  You fidget

on your cushion as the words leave you in a rush.

 

“And how do you want to be treated right now?”

 

//Does that mean what I think it means? //

 

There was no mistaking his implication.    An implication made

provocative by his nearness, the bracketing of your body with his, and

the smoky tone of his voice.  You steal a glance at his face, and meet a

gaze that is primal, sultry.   His lapis eyes search yours, reading the

deepest parts of you, waiting for your answer.    A deep thrill runs

through you, stealing your breath.   This is seduction.    //I think

that I will skip the koicha under the circumstances.//   You swallow to

moisten a dry throat and decide to ignore his question.

 

You lift an empty tray and rise quickly to your feet, turning aside to

hide your blush.  “I have to clean up and prepare the room for the tea

service.   It’s the custom for guests to go out and enjoy the garden for

a bit.   I’ll let you know when tea is ready. “  Despite hearing the

command in your voice he smiles boyishly as he rises and leaves.

 

Sighing, you try to calm yourself  and gather the rest of the spent

trays and take them into the mizuya room.    As you remove the MU from

the alcove wall and enclose it in its case, a sudden strong breeze lifts

the reed blind at the window, making it rattle.   You are ‘rattled’

too, shaken by a wind more powerful than any gale.  So many things to

consider—including

the fact that he is from somewhere very far away and is leaving soon.

You really didn’t know if you wanted to get yourself so deeply involved

in something that couldn’t last.

 

Yet. . .

 

Your hands tremble a bit as you arrange the tray with the tea items.

Another breeze mingles the aroma of charred sandalwood with the scent of

the junipers.   You tend the brazier and leave the tea house to get the

flower arrangement.

 

Lark song.   Morning light.    Floating leaves in the pond.

 

Your thoughts meander along the path to the garden shed where the

chabana waits. That wasn’t the correct way to address a guest.  Your

manners seem to have fled.    You hadn’t even offered the tray of

sweets.   This tea was turning out to be anything but relaxing for you.

Yes, you do want to get closer to him.    He is gorgeous and fascinating

and you enjoy being alone with him.    This was much too fast, though.

It is almost as if he knows.

 

 //Yes, he knows.//

 

He knows how much you want him.  And he wants you.

 

He is as calm and straightforward in seduction as he is in

negotiation.    No games here. He'll probably wait all day, patiently,

for an answer to his question.   And if you don't give him the answer

soon, he'll probably telephone to get it later.   What would have

happened if you responded right away, telling him the first thing on

your mind?

 

 // Truth is, Qui-Gon Jinn I want to be treated like your lover.   I

want you in my bed;   I want you pillowed  next to me every night. . .//

 

And how would he treat a lover?

 

You visualize his hands on you, your bodies twined on the tatami.

 

//Was that a wish or a prophecy?//

 

The very notion sets your heart pounding, your imagination racing. Your

pace slows as you allow yourself to wonder what sort of caresses he

might like and you both might enjoy.     You retrieve the vase of

flowers and turn back to the path.

 

Then you catch sight of him, sitting cross-legged on the grass in the

dappled shade of an oak tree, lost in meditation.   His eyes closed, his

face serene, his lips slightly parted;

a large hand resting palm up on each knee.    He is stunning.   A swirl

of energy, a power, is radiating from him, breaking against your

consciousness like a wave.  A zephyr caresses his long brown-silver

hair, setting it floating about his head like a shadow, and you are

transfixed.   //An angel, a seraphim//  your thought spills.   A desire

to touch his face consumes you.   Temptation bids you to kneel and kiss

those lips. He remains motionless, seemingly unaware of you.   Blue

light gathers in his hands, dancing on his fingertips.   Suddenly, you

feel like an intruder.  You turn to hurry back to the tea house with

your vase.

 

"Wait.  I'll go with you."

 

You freeze without turning, hearing the slight rustle of his clothes as

he rises and comes to your side.   And slips his arm around your

waist.   Your hands tighten around the vase in a death-grip as you walk

together in silence.

 

No one spoke.  The host, the guest,  the white chrysanthemums. *

 

You place the vase of flowers directly on the table-like face of the

fountain.   Momentarily,

you dip your fingers into the water swirling  about the base of the

vase, and longing claims you as your mind replays the vision of him in

the garden, the feel of his hand on your body

as you walked together.   Oh, yes.  He will have his answer before the

morning passes.   Your reverie breaks with the realization that he is

watching you with knowing eyes.   Wordlessly, you pass each other by as

he moves into the alcove to admire the flowers and you cross to the

mizuya to get the tea utensils for usucha.

 

You swallow hard when you return and see that he has taken a seat next

to your

place.   You bow once to him and take your seat, placing the tray in

front of you.   Then you sit back for a few minutes and try to compose

yourself.    Meditation is so very important

to the ceremony, but you are so aroused that contemplating anything but

his kiss is almost impossible. . .

 

Your movements are rhythmic and smooth as you,   wipe the tea scoop and

the outside of the tea container with a silk cloth and place them in

position.      You then carefully fold the silk cloth and set it back on

the tray.   Some of the hot water from the kettle is ladled into the tea

bowl, and then you place the tea whisk in the bowl, rinsing it and then

holding it up for the ceremonial inspection of its tines.  You discard

the water into another container and  wipe the whisk and tea bowl with a

linen cloth.   You place these next to the tea container and lift a

small black lacquer tray of light and dark chocolate truffles.

 

“Please partake of the sweets. . .” you turn toward him and bow,

offering the tray in the traditional manner.   After a moment has

passed, he still hasn’t taken the tray and you raise your eyes to see

what’s wrong.    His gaze locks with yours, immobilizing you.  He takes

the tray from you, places it aside on the mat and pulls you into his

lap.

 

He turns your body so that you are sitting on his thighs, slightly

reclined, wrapped in his arms.   Moments fade into eternity as his eyes

hold yours, and you begin to feel warm and boneless.   Then he kisses

you.

 

At first, there is only the warmth of his breath, his lips just grazing

yours, a feathery

touch.  His mouth is cool and firm.   You feel a hint of his beard, yet

everything is gentleness.   So sweetly gentle that you are barely sure

it's happening.    He pulls away, just a little, and kisses the bow of

your lips, then the corners of your mouth, then your lower lip.

Then his tongue, warm and moist, takes its circuit of your lips,

beginning with where the

kisses started.   Your lips part and your breath catches.   Your body

arches toward him, and you desperately want to hold him.    But your

arms are locked to your sides in his embrace.     He wants you to

receive, not give.  Not yet.

 

Now he wants to give himself to you.

 

His lips claim yours totally now, hungrily,  his tongue thrusting deeply

into your mouth, penetrating and exploring, foretelling what he wants to

do to your body.   Without hesitation you return his ardor,  touching

your tongue caressingly to his, tasting him,

inhaling his breath, delirious with the sensual pleasure of his kiss.

As he continues to make love to your mouth, his arms press you closer,

exploring the hollow of your back, the

swell of your hips.   You can feel his growing hardness.     And

something else.  A tender yet

insistent flickering against your awareness, his plea for entry into

your mind.  You let

yourself yield completely, and his radiant presence fills you,

heightening your perception

and the sensation of the kiss.    You are lost in wonder as you

experience both kissing and

being kissed at the same time.

 

~ I want you. . .~ echoes hotly in your mind as one of his hands travels

to cradle your neck while the other moves down to your breast, covering

it.  He swallows your moans as he fills his hand with you, squeezing

softly, massaging.   His thumb caresses  your  peaked nipple, and your

body slams urgently against his.    He breaks the kiss and  holds you

tightly, tenderly, swaying  gently.   He murmurs aloud, softly, love

words in a language your ears have never heard before, but that your

heart understands perfectly.    Gently he releases you, letting you rest

on the tatami, your head on a cushion.

 

His hands find the sash of your kimono, undoing it.  And then he unworks

the sash of your inner shift, and draws your body out of both garments

as if you are a doll.

He hooks his fingers under the waistline of your silk panties and skims

them down, and off.

He studies you for a while, his indigo eyes hot on your body.

~Beautiful, you are so beautiful.~ his thought sounds inside your head

with a reverence bordering on prayer.

For a split second, you can see yourself, through his eyes, your hair

fanned out on the

tatami, your chest heaving, a look of wide-eyed astonishment on your

face.

 

Your eyes slide shut as he strokes the underside of your breasts with

his fingers.  ~So soft.~   His hands are hot against your bare skin as

he grasps the fullness of both of your breasts, lightly stroking and

lifting them, coaxing your nipples to full attention.   When your

nipples are pebbled, hardened,   he lowers his head, taking first one

and then the other between his lips, and you are lost in the sorcery of

his mouth.   First the shattering kisses, now these incredible

caresses.  Heat swirls through your center, moistening you.   Your body

reels against him, and you clasp his head with your hands as you cry out

his name.

 

He kneels between your legs as his mouth travels lower,  lovingly

covering your waist and then your belly with little kisses and bites.

He takes his time, mindful of your pleasure.

He lifts your legs over his shoulders and spreads his hands wide over

your derriere as he draws you to him.   His mouth descends yet again,

and he kisses and licks the cleft of your womanhood with gentle

fervency.   Your cries of pleasure drive him to tongue you deeper  . .

.. and the two of you moan in unison as your release uncoils within you,

swirling outward, growing like the ripples on a pond, breaking as you

climax.

 

Releasing you, he rises to his feet, catlike, and begins to undress

slowly, letting his

garments settle into a pool at his feet, his eyes never leaving yours.

You slowly come to

your knees to study him, want burning brightly within you.   You want to

learn everything,

all the smooth places and the rough places and the secret places.  You

want to

archive him in your memory.

 

Finally, he is naked.

 

You can only think that, despite the scars that arc over one of his

shoulders, he looks

magnificent, like a thing of natural splendor, something that belongs in

the untamed beauty of a deep forest or a jungle.  You marvel at the flow

of muscles beneath the skin, the power shown in the broad shoulders and

muscular legs, the vulnerability of the little V at

the small of his back before it flares into firm buttocks, the dusting

of fine brown body

hair peppering his chest and clustering darker and thicker about his

erect sex.

 

~You're gorgeous.~

 

He smiles at your wordless compliment as he moves toward you with easy

grace.  And you

reach out to him. . .

 

Your breath stops for a moment as you take him in your hand and rub your

palm against

the head of his hardness.    It moves and swells under your hand,

stretching higher,

the crown of it rising proudly, steel and velvet.    You slide your

fingertips down its length, and his body tenses with need, his breath

hissing between his teeth. You begin to stroke him with both hands,

fingers wrapped around him,  and he moves against you, finding a rhythm.

 

His eyes are closed as he fully opens himself to the pleasure of your

touch. You bend your head and touch the silken tip with your tongue.

Wanting more, you slide your tongue around the ridge and then draw as

much as you can of the length of him into your mouth, sucking gently,

your lips advancing and retreating.   You can almost hear his control

breaking as his hips begin to rock.   Knowing that he is so close to his

release ignites your lust, and you take him deeper.

 

~Gods!~  You hear his groan inside your head, as his fingers tangle in

your hair.

 

He withdraws from you and drops to his knees, sweeping you into his arms

and cradling you against his broad chest.  Your arms encircle him and

your lips meet his in a kiss so sweet that tears spring from your eyes.

You bury your face in the curve of his shoulder, inhaling his scent,

imprinting him on your mind.   He lays you down on the tatami once more,

places a cushion under your hips and stretches out his body over yours,

slipping between your thighs.    You sigh and raise your hips to him as

he enters you, filling you perfectly, sliding slowly inside your wet

warmth.

 

The white heat of passion grows, and your body begins to move, little

pulses at first, searching for the answer to a timeless question.  And

his body responds,

matching your rhythm, thrusting, joining the two of you in an ecstasy

beyond your

wildest dreams as the sensation of his pleasure fills you body and soul.

 

You are lost to reality, completely caught up in the storm of emotions

flooding you.  There is

a tensing of every cell of your being as you surge toward completion.

Your hands fist in the mane of his hair, drawing his head down to lay

against your own.   Your legs lift

to wrap around his waist.      Sensing the nearness of your release, he

increases the

rhythm of his thrusts, each stroke drawing a little sob from you, until

he gives one final

stroke, sheathing himself fully as he joins you in orgasm.

 

**********

You awaken to find yourself in his arms, your head pillowed on his

chest.  The kettle had long since ceased its boil, the fire in the

brazier being nearly out.   For a while, you simply lie there, listening

to his breathing, watching dust motes dance in the late morning

sunbeams.    His hand grazes your cheek, letting you know that he is

also awake.

 

“I hope you realize that you ruined the Tea  Ceremony . . .”  you say

languidly as you stretch

in his arms.

 

“How so?” he whispered.   “ I was a proper guest; I obeyed all the

forms.  I didn’t talk about problems.  I shared the meal with you. . .

and how could I ruin it when it isn’t finished yet?”

 

“What?”  You raise yourself up against his chest and look into his eyes.

 

His hands begin to caress your back as he looks up at you.

 

“You seduced me.” you continue.

 

“No.  You offered the sweets and I partook. . .”   his embrace

tightened.     “you can serve the tea later.”

 

His laughter peals in your head as you kiss his smiling mouth.