Fic: DWTS, Hines/Kym, NC-17, "Best Loved Recipe"

[mylittleredgirl]

Title: "Best Loved Recipe"
Author: Little Red
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There's a cooking lesson, and then there's just cooking.
Author's Note: More porn-on-demand, written live in comments, not really edited since. I don't really love this one, but I was outvoted by Glitter High Command, so here you go! Helpfully illustrated.



Early rehearsal footage. Yep.

Best Loved Recipe:

Over the past few months, Hines has learned a thing or two about Kym Johnson.

She's a hell of a dancer, of course. Deserves her reputation as a great teacher. Has the kind of body that makes every interviewer comment on how lucky he is that he gets to dance with her.

Then there's the stuff he can't pick up from a google search. The wicked look she gets when she's about to say something funny. She's sweetly gullible - he's not really the type to exploit that, but he watches Mark and Tony pull the same jokes on her that they've probably been pulling for years. She laughs at herself whenever she falls for it. He likes that about her.

He's learning other things, too - how she likes to be touched when they're not dancing, the sound she makes in her throat when she wants him closer, the feel of her feather weight on top of him after sex. She never lets go of him right away. He thinks, from just these two months of knowing her, that if she could always be touching, she would.

She doesn't usually sleep over and neither does he - they both need actual sleep if he's going to keep up with how hard she's pushing him in the studio - but two nights ago, he learned what she looks like when she first wakes up. She smiles before she even opens her eyes.

Kym catches him thinking about it as they're wrapping up the day's rehearsal. He can tell because she gets that wicked look in her eye, like she's thinking of teasing him but can't while the camera is on.

He has learned how to break her composure, how to make her call for a break in rehearsal so they can sneak off somewhere private for a kiss, but he's behaving today. It's Saturday, close enough to performance day to be serious, and he's got Cha-Cha and Tango spinning around in his head along with all the usual items about how to get Kym naked the fastest and what he's going to do to her once he gets her that way.

"Okay!" Kym says after the rehearsal is over. She glances behind her at Charlie packing up the camera equipment and then goes back to changing her shoes. "We've got a little more polish to do in the morning, but you've definitely got it."

He's learning that smile - affection mixed with genuine approval. He grins back. "Hungry?"

She shrugs. "I could eat." Her smile turns coy, the one she uses when she wants something and knows damn well she's going to get it. "You promised me another cooking lesson."

He laughs, because the last cooking lesson lasted all of five minutes before she perched on a barstool and watched him do all the work. She's appreciative, at least. And he knows it's the costumes, it's a girl thing men don't understand, knows she has to maintain that body that gets her in magazines (and drives him not a little crazy), but his Southern grandma's genes in him make him feel like it's his job to ensure Kym eats something, preferably something deep-fried.

"What are we making?" he asks, knowing she will turn it back on him. They'll have to shop for supplies anyway - she doesn't even keep staples on hand. He thinks Kym's kitchen has been used more in the past seven weeks than it has since she and Glenn moved into the place.

"I'll leave that up to you," she says, as predicted, then glances behind her again. Charlie has his back turned, wrapping up some cables, and the coast is almost clear enough that Hines almost thinks she's going to kiss him. She leans toward him, but she's just reaching for her bag.

He rolls his eyes at himself for thinking he'd steal a kiss this easily - Mama always siad you've got to work for what you want.

They're caravanning rather than carpooling - keeping the paparazzi at bay is more important than subtracting one car from the citywide L.A. traffic jam. There's no reason for her to pull into the grocery store parking lot behind him, but it makes him smile. The sheer depths of her culinary inexperience continue to astound him - he's not even sure she knew there were aisles past the produce and frozen food sections at the front of the store - but he appreciates her company if not her actual help.

And her accidental comedy. "I don't have any chicken at my place," she tells him as they head to the checkout. She looks worried.

"I know." A man could starve in her place if there were ever an L.A. food-deliveryman strike. "It's chicken-fried."

Her lips purse like they do when Mark is pulling one over on her, and she suspects something but is about to fall for it anyway.

"How can you never have heard of chicken-fried steak?" There are gaps in her American cultural knowledge a country mile wide.

She crosses her arms and opens her mouth, probably to ask him how he'd never done the Tango before in his life, and he decides to jump in ahead of that with the start of their cooking lesson:

"You can chicken-fry anything, not just chicken."

She still looks like she expects him to tell her it's all a joke.

"Almost anything," he adds, thinking of the time when they were in college and poor and Simone and one of her friends tried to chicken-fry frozen hot dogs. "It's just a way of breading and cooking it."

"Okay, I trust you," Kym says, and picks up a magazine with some plastic woman or other on the cover while the cashier rings them through.

Again, he thinks she might kiss him when he walks her to her car door. She doesn't, but she leans her head against his shoulder for a second while fumbling for her keys in her purse.

She does kiss him when they get into her place, just a peck on the cheek. He's got groceries in his hands so he can only chase after her lips with his own when she hops back.

"I'm hungry," she tells him. "And if we start that, we'll never eat."

He watches his feet as he steps toward the kitchen to make sure he doesn't accidentally kick Kym's dog - Lola is loud when she wants attention, but manages to sneak underfoot in utter silence - but there's no pup to be seen. "Where's the rest of your family?"

With a straight face, like it's not at all a ridiculous thing, she tells him, "Glenn took Lola to his friend Ambrosia's... she does dog massage and acupuncture. Lola loves her!"

It's official: he's never getting used to Los Angeles.

He's also never getting used to her kitchen. A few drawers in, he asks, "How do you not have any plastic wrap?"

She laughs. "Takeout usually comes in its own boxes."

"A tenderizer's probably a long shot then."

"I've got a box of ziploc with my jewelry," she offers. "I think Glenn might have a hammer somewhere."

He does actually find a meat tenderizer after she gets back with the ziploc. It is, for reasons he can't possibly imagine, underneath a stack of cookbooks that have never been cracked.

"You'll like this part," he tells her after he cuts the meat and sticks it in the ziploc bags. "Get all your aggression out."

She gives him her best innocent expression, which is clearly well-practiced. "Who, me?"

She doesn't actually seem to have much rage in her - or, at least, he hasn't seen it yet. She's determined, yes, but even when he knows she's frustrated it's never gets close to real anger. He tells her, "Well, you can pretend."

She barely taps the steak and jumps at the sound. He'd make fun, but it gives him an excuse to stand behind her, wrap his hand around hers to show her how it's done.

She's got it after a few swings, but he stands behind her for a minute longer under the guise of supervising. He can appreciate the precise muscles in her arms better here, when he's not the one trying to learn something new.

She's a less reluctant sous-chef than she has been in the past, maybe emboldened by her success with the tenderizer, or maybe just enjoying the effects of the glass of wine she's almost through. She and her roommate might not keep much in the way of actual food in the house, but alcohol they have in abundance.

"I'm only doing this for you," she says when her hands are a mess of egg and breadcrumbs, but she's smiling. He kisses her, a quick peck on the lips on his way to the sink, like this is nothing special, like making dinner together is just what they do. Last week, she even said that this kitchen seems as much his as hers, and he waited to feel anxiety about a statement that... committed, but it didn't come.

Maybe because she lives in L.A., he lives in Atlanta, and this will probably turn out to be a fling, a crazy thing that happened along with all the other crazy things that happen on Dancing With the Stars.

Maybe it's something else. She's different, and not just because she's Australian and Californian and has never had anything chicken-fried in her life. He's different, with her.

He does most of the actual cooking. "I'm scared of hot oil," she says, and pours them both another glass of wine while she tells his about how she tried to pull a pancake off the griddle when she was five years old. He can't really see the burn mark when she shows him her thumb, but he kisses it anyway. On impulse, he wraps his lips around the tip of her thumb, licks her long-healed injury, watches her face for a reaction.

Her eyes widen. He sees her breath catch, and he feels that thrill that's almost like relief, because she can get him hot with just a look and it's always nice to affect her for a change.

He remembers the steaks just in time.

She returns to chopping vegetables, but keeps glancing back at him over her shoulder. "This is fun," she comments, seemingly popping a carrot slice in her mouth for each one she tosses into the butter melting in the skillet, "but there's something to be said for delivery."

"It's not food unless it's home cooking," he replies, hearing Grandma Ward's voice as he quotes her.

"Or sushi," Kym reminds him. She picks up a carrot slice, pauses halfway to her mouth, and then offers it to him.

It's not a particularly sexy food, as far as things-to-feed-your-dance-partner-turned-lover go, but she has a knack for making simple things impossibly sexy. He's endlessly fascinated by how she puts her hair up in a ponytail, how she slips her dance shoes on and off, how she brings her hand all the way to his lips until he takes the offered vegetable. Even her fingers are graceful.

"Are we getting there?" she asks. Every time he looks at her, it seems like her eyes are always brighter than he thinks they are.

"Almost."

He stirs some things, adjusts lids and temperature settings. Everything's on the stove simmering in something unhealthy - she got a look like she was getting away with robbing a bank every time he told her to add more butter to something - and his hand's been on and off her hip for ten minutes. There's space in the kitchen to walk around each other, so it's on purpose when he slips between her and the counter to get to the sink or the stove, and he knows she's doing the same.

"Now we wait," he says, nods at the timer he set on the microwave.

Kym looks like she's evaluating the time the same way he is, for the same reason. She takes a step backward toward her bedroom and reaches her hand out to him at the same time.

He grabs her hand, but holds her in place. "We got to keep an eye on it."

He looks disappointed - he clearly didn't manage a seductive enough tone of voice - so he winks and tugs her arm, pulling her toward him. She comes to him easily, a laugh already on her lips.

"You know I don't know where anything goes in my kitchen," she reminds him. She plucks her hand free from his so she can cup each side of his head. Without the heels she wears so often when they're this close, when they're dancing something that makes his brain tie in knots, she seems small, but no less powerful.

"We can improvise," he says, puts his arms around her. No one's watching, he thinks with a bit of a rush, because he's been wanting her this close all day, and all day they've been on camera. "We have to stay by the stove at least until the food's done."

"Fire safety," she says, and he's not sure when he bent his head down, but her lips aren't even an inch from his. "It's important."

She does this in dances, in her choreography - puts her lips dangerously close to his to tempt the audience, tempt him. He thinks of all those lines he didn't cross, and then he kisses her.

She tastes like carrots at first, then the merlot they split, then Kym.

She kisses like she dances: confident and sexy, with unexpected flicks of her tongue or her mouth or the sexy sound in her throat. She always surprises him, no matter how well he knows her now. He's kissed her tentatively (their first time, in his car in Atlanta when he'd been wanting to all night long and thought fuck, what the hell, and was surprised beyond belief when she met him haflway), fun and playful (the next time, when she asked to see his bedroom and he expected the sex but not how fucking amazing it would feel), hard and desperate (two weeks ago, when she showed up at his apartment after rehearsal and was more full of need then he ever expected), even soft and gentle (two days ago, when he woke up next to her and she smiled and rolled over into his arms and said "good morning" between kisses in the accent he somehow once thought he'd never be able to understand).

He knows her. She shouldn't be able to surprise him anymore. One of his favorite things about her is that she always does.

The counters are full of their messy cooking prep, unwashed cutting boards and knives and Kym's ziploc bags. They end up at her breakfast table, him in a chair. He means to pull her into his lap, but she sits on the table instead, legs on either side of him, and then she leans down to continue the kiss.

He closes his eyes to better feel out this new angle, the way her mouth lines up with his. He wonders if this is what it feels like for her, for most women who look up to kiss their partners. Between this and the shoes and the backstage primping, Kym's teaching him more about the fairer sex than he ever thought he'd learn.

That thought makes him smile, and she pulls back. "What?"

He looks up at her. He doesn't often see her from this angle - doesn't think many people do - and that makes him feel lucky, the kind of lucky the interviewers always call him, how's it feel to be the man that gets to dance with Kym Johnson. They don't know the half of it.

She shakes her head. "What?" she asks again, grinning like she thins he's keeping something funny from her, and God if that doesn't make her look even more fuckable than she does in the sexy costumes she wears for TV. This, here on her kitchen table, is his Kym Johnson, the one he's going to remember when he goes back to Atlanta.

The one he's going to try to bring there to visit him as often as possible.

His hands have been sliding up her legs without his conscious effort, just because her legs are there and he loves touching them. At first he just assumed she wore so many skirts to practice for ease of movement - now he can pattern her outfits to her mood, to the way she looks at him, to how reliably she'll ask him to join her for dinner. He didn't know he'd be here when she walked in that morning with this skirt and an extra coffee in hand for him, but he hoped.

He swirls his thumbs in circles on the inside of her thighs, and she breathes out in a hiss. "I love it when you do that."

He smirks, pushes the edge of her already short skirt an inch higher. "You should put it in a routine. Then we could practice it all day long."

Kym picks up one socked foot to rub it against his leg, and her change in stance gives him a view of new skin. It's not new really - with the acrobatics she does in their dance, he's seen every uncovered inch of her already today - but it feels new every time, even if it's only been a few minutes. Especially when he's here, and he can touch.

He pushes up her ankle, and somehow just from that she knows what he means to do, smiles down at him as she extends her leg over his shoulder like the strange pose isn't even a stretch. He kisses the inside of her knee, moves up her thigh, and she leans back, stretching her hands out behind her for leverage.

He could fuck her right here, he realizes, calculating the moves like he's laying out a play - his pants, her underwear, lift her hips off the table. She's trong enough to hold herself with just her arms if he's gentle.

He takes a cooling breath, trying and failing to regain control of his thoughts - they're in her kitchen, they're making dinner, he's barely done a thing to warm her up, who knows when her roommate's going to get back from the dog astrologer or wherever-

- overthinking is his problem, she always says, and now he's thinking steaks and side dishes and the timer and the bare expanse of her legs and how easy it would be to pull her out of her whole dress -

- and then she says, "Do it."

"How did-?" he looks back to her face, and Kym's smiling that hungry smile, the one he's never seen in any of her photos.

He thinks she's held this power all along. She barely understood a word he said when they first met, but she could always read his body.

"We're on a timetable," she says, sitting up a little on the table so she can use her hands, can put one on his face, one on her skirt. "I can see the timer from here."

Her voice, her voice in that tone that always makes his dick heavy in his pants, makes him stop thinking about anything except her and how warm she is, how soft and inviting and strong and her hands her mouth her-

(He'll have to ask her what they call in down under, and he feels a little hotter thinking of how he'll have to ask it the next time he's down there, because he loves asking her unexpected questions when she's nearly ready to come on his tongue. Her accent gets thicker, her language vulgar, and he hears need with every syllable.)

"Eighteen minutes," she says.

"You sure now how to motivate a guy." He reaches up her skirt, curls his fingers around the string elastic of her underwear, begins rolling it down her thighs. He can smell her, even over everything they're cooking, like she's the only thing in the room.

"When that buzzer dings, I plan to eat chicken-fried steak," she says, awfully primly for the way she's lifting her legs up to help him disrobe her.

"Nice to know your priorities." When she's free of her underwear - she's still wearing her green striped socks, he notes - she leans over to reach for his belt buckle. Normally there's nothing hotter than her undressing him, but she's at the wrong angle.

He helps her, would probably find it easier to just undo his jeans without her fingers in the way, but it's nice of her to show her priorities (and next time, he thinks, he won't change before they leave the studio, will keep on the workout pants that she can just peel off with no effort).

And fuck, when she pulls him out of his underwear with those hands he's obsessed with, those hands that touch him all day to shape him into dancing angles that feel oh-so-unnatural but are so worth this, there's nothing in the world he's going to complain about.

He loves this, growing harder in her hand, blood rushing to meet the points of contact between them, but they're on a timetable that doesn't allow him to just enjoy, and besides, he's not going to leave her there spread wide for him without touching her, sliding his hands across the damp skin between her thighs.

"Sixteen minutes," she says, eyes flashing wickedly as her pelvis shifts into his touch, coming just slightly off the table. She's leaning back on her hands again, legs apart in nearly a midair split. "Want you. Slowly."

She's slick but not wet and her body fights him at each slow push, giving way as she sighs and relaxes. There's concentration in her eyes mixed with pleasure, and he can't look away - she's letting him in, slowly, and his cock is hardening inside her, deeper and deeper as he rocks in and out, and he can't even imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else in his life but right here, every sense full of her.

When he slides in all the way, she tilts her head back. He puts a hand on her stomach, pushes to feel through her dress the way her stomach muscles ripple as she makes room for him. He loves this, learning the little quirks of her body, the way she shifts when she's fitting herself around him, the way he can see her every muscle at play. He holds still, one hand on her, one on the edge of the table, until she tilts her hips just so, leans back farther on her arms, just says, "Yes."

And he moves.

She's always tight around him this, this, he wants this, all the time, wants her on her kitchen table and his bed in his rental apartment and his bed back in Georgia, wants her so barely ready that she moans on each thrust, wants her when they've been fucking for hours and she's limp and sweaty and hot, wants her looking at him with want and need and her uncanny physical intuition and love and joy and release, wants that.

He feels a victory when her eyes close, when she stops looking at the clock, and he plans his move before thrusting hard to bring their bodies flush together. He wraps his hands around her arms and she already knows, knows to wrap them around his shoulders, knows where he's going, what he wants her to do just from his body.

If he'd known about what dancing with someone does to your sex life, he might've taken it up sooner, but then he'd never have met her.

He can kiss her here, and her muscles flutter on each thrust, guiding his angle. The kiss is sloppy, teeth crashing against each other as he tries to get closer.

There's a sizzle of somethin behind him and he breaks the kiss, starts to look around. She grabs his head in both her hands. "It's fine," she says, looking past him - she's the one with the view. "I'm watching."

That's good for fire safety, but not at all what he wants to hear.

Something about her here, her hands curling behind his neck, reminds him of something that settled in his fantasies back in Week 1.

He wants to see how it really feels, when they're not just pretending.

He pulls out of her. She moves almost to chase him, and his hips are tugging back toward her and how good she feels. There's a question in her eyes, but he thinks it'll be worth it.

She laughs when he lifts one of her legs to his shoulder, like she already knows.

"This feels familiar." Her voice is deeper than the one she uses for the cameras, for her friends, for him when they're not doing this. She stretches her leg out, pulls herself toward him.

He can feel the stretch in her muslces when he pushes back into her. They both moan.

"This," he says, and he doesn't know what he's planning to say, because his thoughts are something scrambled about how they should have just fucking done this when she first showed him this move like it was just another part of the Cha-Cha, that they should have forgotten about the competition and all the other dances and just fucked for the past ten weeks of rehearsal time, no cameras, no interviews no press lines just him and her and this.

This.

"Oh, fuck," she says, drawn out, fu-u-uck as he pushes in, gritting his teeth to keep moving slowly, to let her body adjust to this strange pose, to let him feel every change in her.

One of her hands moves between them, fingers feeling around her skin and his where they're joined together, and he'd help, but his arms are around her back, holding her balance. Her other hnad flutters for a moment, from her leg to his face to her neck to finally grabbing a fistful of the fringe on the collar of her dress.

He hears it, that sound she makes that he can't describe that means yes, yes, now, and then she says, "Do it, come on," the same thing she'll say when she's encouraging some new step he's stumbling through (maybe the thing she said when they first tried this move with clothes and cameras and he hadn't even kissed her yet). The same words sound totally different here, now.

He moves, in and out, at first watching her face to make sure she's not in pain (he couldn't do what she's doing, not for the life of him), and then she tightens around him, pulling him in deeper, and he can't think of anything at all except her body around him, how amazing she feels and how amazing she is and he's inside her. He's exploring her by feel alone, her muscles warm and wet and moving, pulling, holding him there. He can feel the pulses of tension ripple through her from where she's touching herself, moving rubbing pinching and he shouldn't know her body this well, even like this, shouldn't be able to know what she feels so clearly, but he knows the exact instant she starts to let go.

Her moan comes exactly in time with the frantic beep from the microwave, and he thrusts up hard into her. He tries to hold himself still, but she's clenching blissfully tight around him and he can't help but move, but push, but follow every wave of her muscles until he's pounding blindly against her trying to feel more more more, all his nerves racing toward center, toward her, and she sucks in a breath, pushes her cheek against his, says something he doesn't hear, and he comes on her aftershock like she turned him inside out.

Maybe she has.

He kind of forgets they're cooking dinner.

Her leg slides down off his shoulder as he kisses her lips, her cheek, her closed eyelids. It's a kitchen table, hard and small and awkward, but he wants to lay her down on it and curl up next to her, sleep it off with her still in his arms.

He thinks he could convince her. She lets him get away with a lot.

Her stomach growls, and he smiles into the soft skin of her neck.

"That smells amazing," she says.

He's sure it does. "So do you."

She kisses the top of his head, tilts his face up slowly with her hands, drops little kisses down his forehead and nose in a line. "I'm hungry," she tells him when he pulls away to look at her. She's smiling, adorably, and he feels something strong in his chest, something that makes him want to hold her and be beside her and, yes, feed her.

It still takes a few seconds to let go of her, with only a few kisses to soften the blow of separation.

"I'll get plates," she says, stretching out her legs as she climbs down from the table. "You check the chicken and stuff."

"Steak," he reminds her. "From a cow."

"You know what I mean. Just... go see if we were successful." She catches herself before he has the chance to decide which comeback for that he wants to use. "At cooking."

The steak's a little overdone, but good. Their side dishes fared less well left to their own devices, and there's a mess of burned butter and carrot on the bottom of one of her pans (that he bought her, because she had none he could work with, but they're hers now).

"My compliments to the chef," she says anyway, raising her glass of wine in a toast. He's finding it hard to focus on the food or the wine, though, when her underwear's still crumpled in a ball under the kitchen table.

"You did the hard part," he says, miming whacking the steak with a mallet. "That's what makes it tender."

"We did it together," she says, smiling brilliantly, and he wonders if he's going to have another chance with her tonight, if maybe they can clean off the smell of steak and burnt carrots in her shower, if he can sleep in her bed tonight with the excuse that the pans need to soak and he can't possibly leave without helping her clean up.

He raises his glass, clinks with hers. "Teammates."

She gets up from her chair wjust to kiss him before going back to her seat. Her look is new, another one he's never seen in photographs. "Always."

He's not quite sure what yet, but he thinks he just learned something new about Kym Johnson.

*end*