The way he lays the strips down is sexy. He knows exactly what he’s doing to the viewer on the other side of the screen, but then he disappears into his own head, like he forgets he’s recording.
The sound alone is obscene.
Crackling.
Popping.
A performance, but is it?
I shift, my panties wet.
Is it even about the recipe anymore?
He flips the bacon, and it bends, glistening, perfectly like his sweaty body.
Focus.
It’s just food.
Pork. Grease. Protein.
But then he leans closer to the stove, and his chest catches the light. No one should be allowed to look like that while cooking.
It’s a thirst trap disguised as brunch.
Next reel.
Bread kneading this time. Strong hands pressing, folding, and stretching dough until it gives in completely.
My phone feels warmer in my hand. Or maybe it’s just me. I’m on fucking fire.
This is not a baking account. It’s foreplay with a recipe. I’m being seduced by bread and bacon.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I watch another one. And another.
A knock on the door jolts me. I jump, and my phone goes flying.
“Shit.”
It hits the carpet, but I don’t lunge for it. I just take a second to press my hand against my chest and calm down. It’s no use. My heart is pounding like mad. My core thrumming.
Another knock. “Shay?” A sexy rumble pushes through the door.
Oh my god, it’s him.
And I’m ready. I’m really ready.
For what?
Sex?
Am I going to sleep with either?
Yes. Maybe. No.
