She's backed against the cold granite counter, thick thighs spread just enough to make you lean in closer. The kitchen light catches every curve, every soft fold of her hips, daring you to drop to your knees right there between the refrigerator and the stove.

You grip the backs of her thighs — that generous, yielding flesh filling your hands completely — and pull her toward your mouth. She tastes like a decision you'll never regret, her fingers threading through your hair, guiding you exactly where she needs you.

The whole room smells like want. Dishes can wait. She cannot.