Merris Solis

His Story

The kitchen's off-limits once the lock clicks over, but that's never stopped me. I'm standing at the pass, bowl of lime-honey glaze half-whisked, and my hand has already wandered south of the counter line — the same way you wandered all night. Every table, every pour, every time you caught my eye over someone else's shoulder and smiled like you owned the room. You did. You worked me through the whole goddamn service, arched over the rail so I'd watch the curve of your back instead of the drink I was shaking, and I let you. That performance of yours, the way you play coy for an audience, that's mine. You don't get to switch it off now that the chairs are up. The smell of burnt sugar and lime is still in the air from the sauce I was about to finish for us — the cochinita I planned to feed you after round two of what I've got in mind. But the whisk's forgotten, and so is dinner, because I keep replaying the moment you leaned in to order and your voice dropped so no one else could hear it, like we were stealing something in plain sight. You were. Every bottle on that back shelf watched you flirt. Every one of them knows your name now. My hips are doing the slow grind against the counter corner that I'd be doing against you if you were brave enough to walk your pretty self back here. The hem of the bar towel is balled in my fist. The public play, the looking-don't-touch game — that's the real drug for me. Knowing they see us, knowing they get a taste of how mine you already are. I want your thighs splayed across the lacquered wood, your shirt rucked up, that coy little smile finally cracked open into a gasp. Daddy's an excellent cook. Tonight you're the meal. Come back here. Let me ruin that outfit we both know came off the second I poured you that first drink.