I think about the banana scones that were raw in the middle and charred on the outside. I think about the angel food cake that was salty. I think about the wet zucchini cookies I inhaled over the sink.
“I eat all of it.” I keep pressure on Cassandra’s hand, and it moves with mine as I slide my palm up her thigh until I can feel the heat radiating off her pussy.
It takes focus to stop there. I want to do more. Want to grip her there.
The woman I’ve been focused on for over a year just admitted that she started her blog because of me. She made that food for me.
And I want to devour her for it.
I want to strip every shred of clothing from her body and tell her how much she means to me. I want to feast on her flesh and tell her I’ll eat anything she makes me.
But we’re about to pull into the airport. And as much as it would simplify my life, I can’t make Cassandra miss her flight.
