What do I like?
A memory surfaces—hazy, golden, almost dreamlike. Sitting at a kitchen table much smaller than this one. Sunlight streaming through lace curtains. My mother, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, flipping pancakes on a griddle while I swung my legs and giggled.
"Can I have extra syrup, Mama?"
"Of course,milaya.As many as you want."
The memory fractures. My mother died when I was four. After that, there were no more pancakes. Too many carbs. Too much sugar. Papa said I'd get fat, and fat girls are worthless.
So I learned not to want them.
"Pancakes," I whisper.
Dante's eyes search mine. "Yeah?"
“I…I like pancakes. With syrup." My voice cracks. “I think.”
"Then pancakes it is," he says decisively.
He stands, squeezes my shoulder once, and turns back to the stove.
I watch him work—cracking eggs, measuring flour, heating a pan—and a tight knot inside me unravels just a little.
When he sets a plate in front of me—three perfect golden circles, butter melting on top, syrup pooled in a little dish on the side—I stare at it like it's a painting in a museum.
"Go on," he says. "Before they get cold."
I cut a small piece, dip it in syrup, and bring it to my mouth.
Oh.
Oh god.
It's sweet and fluffy and warm, and the taste of it is heaven.
I take another bite. Then another.
By the fourth bite, I'm actually groaning.
They're the best thing I’ve tasted in forever.
Dante doesn't say anything. He just pours himself coffee, leans against the counter, and watches me.
Dante
Every bite makes her eyes flutter closed. Every swallow comes with a soft hum of pleasure that goes straight to my cock.
I shift my weight, adjust my stance, take a long pull of coffee, and try to will my dick to deflate.
At least the island hides me from the waist down, because watching her eat breakfast is pure porn.
Her tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup on her bottom lip.
Fuuuck.
I'm a sick bastard for finding this erotic, but here we are.
She takes another bite, slower this time, savoring it, and a moan escapes her lips.
