The question hangs in the air, bold and unapologetic, while she reclines with the casual confidence of someone who already knows your answer. Her thighs part just enough — an invitation framed in warm skin and deliberate stillness.

You trace the line from her hip downward, your mouth making the decision your voice hasn't yet. She tastes like the answer to something you forgot you were asking, fingers threading through your hair, holding you exactly where she wants you.

Hunger collapses into a single point of focus. The meal can wait. Everything can wait. Right now your only appetite is the one she's been feeding since the moment she asked.