On the Line

by Naomi Loud

Here’s the thing about cooks: We’re all adrenaline junkies. Feral workaholics. And most of us are incapable of the nine-to-five grind. It takes a special kind of crazy to work in the kitchen. We incessantly complain about the hours, the waitstaff, the guests, and even the debilitating stress. But given an option or way out, we’d be hard-pressed to find something better suited to our non-conformist personalities—if the lifestyle doesn’t kill us first.

“Why don’t you do something a little depraved? Can you do that, sweetheart?” Her eyes are wide, swiftly searching my face. The primal urge to pin her hips with mine is almost unbearable but I don’t move, waiting to see if she’ll object. Finally, she holds up the chocolate bar, looking at me questioningly, before she whispers, “What does this have to do with anything?” Slowly, I grin. I’m salivating. The anticipation of her reaction already tastes so sweet on my tongue. “You’re going to go in the back, unwrap this.” I tap a finger on the Snickers bar. “And slide it up your pretty cunt.” Her breath hitches, and my cock swells against my boxers. “Then bring it back to me.” I crowd her just a little bit more. “I want to taste you on it.”

“If I could swallow you whole I fucking would, consume all of you just for another taste.” I don’t even know what I’m fucking saying, I’m just babbling, my mind feverish and focused solely on hearing James’ perfect little mewls.