It couldn't possibly get more embarrassing than this, is what Olivia thought as she stared at the slick, glistening piece of bacon in Kafka's fingers, still warm and glimmering from where it had been inside her, soaked in her heat, her juice.
He was holding it, cradling it in his fingers, in the middle of a public café, for God's sake. Customers chatting ten feet away. Staff passing in and out of the kitchen.
And she was about to eat it.
Worse, she was actually curious.
About how it would taste.
What the slick coating would feel like on her tongue.
She didn't want to admit it, but the thought of tasting her own arousal, warm and infused into the fatty salt of the bacon, was igniting something carnal, something deep. A perverse thrill curled around her nerves, equal parts humiliation and fascination, and it made her belly coil tighter than before.
She swallowed hard, shame burning her throat, as it hit her again, she was becoming a pervert.
