What do you want to do first - eat or fuck?

The question hangs in the air while she stretches across the kitchen counter, bare and unhurried, one knee bent like she has all afternoon to wait for your answer.

You trace the answer with your eyes first — the soft inner thigh, the neat divide of her, the way she watches your mouth more than your hands.

Hunger works both ways here. You pull her closer by the ankle and let your decision speak for itself, her breath catching before your lips even make contact.