In the kitchen

She stepped into the kitchen for something to eat and never reached the fridge. The moment her fingers touched the fruit bowl, everything slowed. Grapes burst under her tongue, sweet juice running warm down her chin, and the next thing she knew, her free hand was already sliding under her waistband. Her black hair fell over one eye as she pressed two fingers deep inside herself, slow circles that grew faster with every bite of apricot. Juice dripped from her lower lip, traced the curve of her heavy breasts, and disappeared between them. She caught a stray drop on her nipple, pinched, and felt the wet heat spread straight to her cunt. One foot lifted onto the counter. Toes pointed, flexed, flexed again. She watched them the way a lover would, twisting the sole toward her while the other hand worked her clit in tight, wet strokes. Every moan slipped out around a mouthful of fruit, low, greedy, hungry for more. She never made it to lunch.