We lie there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow.

“What do you want for breakfast? Should we stop on the way to your work?”

At the mention of food, my stomach growls as if it has a wild boar hibernating inside. While this particular round of sex wasn’t taxing for me aside from the orgasms, I’m hungry.

“What were you thinking?” I would give my left nipple for a bowl of Cookie Crisp or even those chocolate peanut butter Pop-Tarts. On the other hand, a couple of Krispy Kreme donuts would hit the spot, too.

“There’s an awesome buffet not far from here.” Of course the hockey player wants unlimited food options.

Watching him eat a meal unhindered by things such as portion sizes would be entertaining, I’m sure.

“As amazing as it sounds, a buffet will probably make me late for work.”

“I can make you something quick. I don’t have a whole lot since I’ll be gone for the next couple of weeks.”

“I like almost anything.” I stand and stretch, stiff from all the sexing. “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”

“Uh, no. I don’t eat Pop-Tarts during the season.”

Alex fondles my boobs. Then he does the nuzzle thing. I scratch my nails up and down his back and press my nose into his hair while he has a silent love affair with them.

“I’m good with cereal,” I reply, breathless. He pouts when I pick up his shirt from the floor and put it on. The rest of my clothes are in the laundry room. The shirt is long enough to cover all the important bits.

“I have boxer briefs you can wear.” Alex’s half-limp cock bobs and swings in all its snuffie glory as he crosses to his dresser. Penises are interesting. Particularly his.

He roots through the top drawer and grabs two pairs of boxer briefs. One he tosses to me, the other he steps into. I don’t take my eyes off him as he pulls them up his legs and tucks himself in. The boxer briefs he gives me are men’s large with a cartoon print on them. They fall off as soon as I let go. It appears I’m staying pantsless for now.

Alex tilts his head as the boxers pool at my feet. “I guess you need a smaller size, eh?”

“It appears so.”

Alex doesn’t put on any additional clothing, which is fine by me. I’m more than happy to get in some extra ogle time.

Once in the kitchen, I take the liberty of browsing his cabinets. Everything is whole grain. It’s very disappointing.

“What are you looking for?”

I open what appears to be a pantry cabinet. “Cookie Crisp, Fruit Loops, even Honey Nut Cheerios would be okay.” Other than oatmeal, nothing remotely resembles breakfast food. A plethora of garbanzo beans, various pastas, sauces, and other healthy, un-fun foods awaits.

“I don’t think I have any of those.”

“Not even Honey Nut Cheerios? Frosted Mini-Wheats? Either would do in a pinch. Or Eggo waffles.”

“Uh, no, none of those, either.”

He opens the fridge, rifles around, and holds up a container that looks like cream. “I make a pretty mean omelet.”

Upon closer inspection, it appears to be liquid egg product. I stand behind him while he gathers various items and sets them on the counter. His fridge, much like his cabinets, is full of healthy stuff. Even his jam is made of real fruit. The last item he retrieves happens to be a new jug of orange juice. It isn’t from concentrate, either. It’s fresh squeezed and super pulpy.

I haven’t agreed to the omelet yet, still in search of something better—preferably with high quantities of sugar. Alex, however, already has the frying pan out. The last cabinet I try contains Alex’s candy stash. It’s pathetic at best, consisting of two chocolate bars—both the extra dark, bitter variety—and a bag of Swedish Fish.

I hoist myself onto the counter and shiver as my bare bottom hits the granite. I cross my legs to keep my bits under wraps and tear the bag open.

“Swedish Fish for breakfast?”

I ignore his look of disgust and pop a green one into my mouth, relishing the wonderful, artificial, sugary flavor. “Aren’t you making an omelet? What’s this?” I point at the white gelatinous mixture in the frying pan.

“It’s an egg-white omelet. It’s healthy and it tastes good.” Alex reaches around me for a container. He pops the lid and dumps a load of precooked veggies on top of the snotty looking egg whites. I question whether it’s possible for it to taste good.

“Where’s the bacon? All I see are veggies. Bacon is imperative, or at the very least you should have ham for it to qualify as an omelet. Does it even have cheese? And what’s with whites only? The yolk is the best part.”

I’m trying to get under his skin. I don’t honestly feel this way; he’s obviously one of those healthy eaters. Aside from his love of chocolate dessert indulgences. Maybe I can irritate him enough to take me on the counter. That would be more fun than making omelets.

Alex pulls a container of shredded cheese from the fridge and sprinkles a generous amount on top of the veggies, as well as a variety of fresh herbs. While the omelet cooks, he pours two glasses of his expensive orange juice and passes me one. “Egg whites are full of protein.”

“So is jizz. You don’t see me harvesting yours so I can drink a glass of it.”

Alex is mid orange juice sip; he sprays me and his omelet. At least I’m not wearing my own clothes.

His shock is awesome. He wipes his chin with a dishtowel. “Jesus, Violet.”