Sitting on the counter is an absolute no no under Franko's rule.
Legs curled around his waist, I lure him closer until our mouths meet.
“Your turn to do as I say,” I whisper.
“Fuck, I love it when you get sassy.”
“Pantry, now,” I instruct.
I like how it feels to boss him around.
The door is still unlocked.
We keep it open just a smidge.
“We shouldn't…”
“Yes we should,” I insist. “I know you get off on the risk. Don't try to deny it.”
“I guess I do,” he admits.
“You know damn well you do. Now drop your pants.”
I sink to my knees.
And for once Porter does as he’s told.
???
Days later, neither of us can shake it from our minds.
Every time he steps through that pantry door, he bites his lip or turns pink.
You wanted it bad,I grin, as I scrub and stack the trays nearby.
You still can't forget the way I made you feel, can you?
A stolen look between us says it all.
That boy is burning with desire just as much as I am.
We hustle among the chaos.
The usual mayhem surrounds us from dusk til dark.
We barely get a moment alone until midnight.
Boss barking orders.
Chefs hollering along the line.
Pots and pans clattering.
A culinary orchestra of sorts.
But the memory is sweeter than ever.
Kneeling in the pantry, flour on my knees.
