Now the washing up and clearing up’s been done, all Emma has to do is wait for the tray she just put into the oven to be ready. She doesn’t have to wait for Dana to get back, though, because there’s the sound of the front door opening and closing (Dana doesn’t quite live here yet, but she’s got a key), and then footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Emma looks up as Dana herself enters the room, and there’s no way that Dana’s wearing that particular top for any reason other than to show off her arms. No way.
“Baking again?” Dana steps closer to the kitchen island, to Emma. “What is it? Is it for me?”
“It’s a surprise.” Emma snaps the cover of the recipe book on the counter shut before Dana can take a look. “But it’s something healthy, obviously. Lots of protein. Something to help you get even stronger.”
She hopes that pretty much answers Dana’s last question – it is for her, though Emma would be lying if she said that the whole strength thing wasn’t for her benefit, too: she loves the way Dana’s body looks, how Dana’s arms feel around her, how it’s just as easy for Dana to hold her down as it is for Dana to lay waste to some hopeless wannabe in the ring.
“Well, whatever it is, it smells good.” Dana’s arms wrap around Emma from behind, and then she’s nuzzling against Emma’s neck, pressing a kiss to her skin. “You smell good, too.”
Emma has to smile at hearing something positive from Dana, knowing she’d never say anything like that to or about anyone else. She’s become the same herself, these days, but she doesn’t think she minds. It just makes what they say and do for each other all the more important, all the more special. It’s them against the world.
“I broke one of my records at the performance centre today,” Dana continues, conversational, as if it’s really no big deal at all, as if it’s just a totally everyday occurrence. It is a big deal, though, and Emma’s proud of her – knows that Dana’s just as proud of herself.
“Of course you did,” Emma tells her. One of Dana’s hands skims lower on her body, fingers brushing against Emma’s skin just below the hem of her shirt, and oh, she knows what Dana wants – what she wants, too. “How about you show me, then?”
When she turns her head the best she can to look behind her, Dana’s smirking, wide and wicked.
“How long do we have?” she asks, her voice low, close enough to Emma’s ear to make her shiver.
Emma glances at the timer on the oven.
“About forty minutes,” she says, though when Dana lets go of her and pulls her by the hand out of the kitchen, across the hall to the couch in the lounge, Emma doesn’t think she’d mind having to put in another couple of hours of work to remake the batch. She won’t have to, because what’s in the oven is for Dana, and there’s no way that Dana is passing up on that, but if she did, she knows that Dana would make it worth it.