Wet?
He lays the new sheet over top before dipping his fingers into a bowl of egg wash. My lips part. He submerges his thick fingers into the liquid and draws them out once, then twice, before the liquid carries up with him like a long tether before it breaks.
I swear I gasp. Just not loud enough for him to hear.
I’m blinking too fast, glass lifted to sip but suspended in the air because I am locked in, completely hypnotized by the way he’s slowly tracing a circle around the little mounds of goodness.
It’s slow, circling around and around gently ... torturously ... just like ... My eyes close as I remember something I shouldn’t.
“I know how much you love to talk shit—”
I nod, watching him dip his thumb into his drink before he puts it in my mouth, his other hand traveling further south.
“—so let’s keep your mouth busy while I work ... Suck.”
I’ve never been accused of being a good listener until today.
“Mmm,” he hums, pulling up my dress and tucking his strong fingers inside my panties.
He’s rough but not aggressive. Kind of like his personality. I bet he’s crude in bed too.
I don’t have to wait around for the answer because two fingers push inside me, dredging my lust back out and over my clit as he slowly, teasingly circles it.
“You like that?”
I nod, but he tsks, correcting me. “Yes, Chef.”
I faintly hear the sound of the pasta cutter clicking before I shiver, pulled from the delicious memory, and an exhale escapes. I’ve completely forgotten where I am because I bite my bottom lip, slowly opening my eyes.
That is until I realize the sound’s stopped. Full fucking stopped.
Oh god. He’s looking at me.Is he looking at me?
He is. My eyes grow wide.
What is wrong with me?
First off, I’m thirst-trapping a live person. I’ve turned him into those guys I watch for countless hours who slap bread dough like it’s your ass or indecently finger a grapefruit. And second, I have to figure out how to cancel the subscription to the area of my brain that keeps tuning in to the damn wedding.
He clears his throat quietly before the clicking starts again, but now that’s just the representation of the bars closing at the jail I should be thrown in. I’m depraved. Unfit for society. A flagrant debaucherous lech.
The verdict is in: I am not, and frankly may have never been, fit for human consumption.
The heat on my neck rises, heading directly for my cheeks. But I try and ignore it while also ignoring the fact that I canfeelChase still staring at me.
I lift my glass to take another swig of wine, but it’s empty. Jesus, how did I get through it so fast?
“Have another.”
Two words. They just hang there, surrounded by quiet. Not really a question, not really a demand. But I don’t know what to say because I am living my humiliation.
I admit it. I am attracted to him. I also admit that if I stay here for three more minutes, he will probably say something that will make me wonder if the census can even count him as a human.
He is not the one. Will never be the one. Because I say so.
I push from my stool and place the glass on the counter, trying and failing to avoid eye contact.
“Have anything. Just stay,” he offers, looking directly into my eyes before they drop to my lips, then back up.
