Dessert First

Mona leans against the counter like she owns it, a slow curve of hips and heat. She tastes sweet without even touching the peaches on the plate, but the real hunger sits between her thighs. The main course can wait. She offers the warm, wet center of her body instead, slick and ready, the kind of dessert that makes you forget what came before. Her mouth opens, warm and willing, and she takes him deep, tongue tracing every inch with lazy hunger. He groans. She swallows. And when he finishes, the thick white ropes paint her face in messy, deliberate strokes across flushed skin.