You slept. Silent, lucid, and spent. It had taken you 26 hours to get there, through time zones, airports, and slow fucking.

“You must be starving,” I think, ignoring my own hunger to slide between your legs and feast on you.

I ordered in. Italian. A carbonara.

“Hey, babe,” I whispered you awake. “There’s food.”

“There’s food?” you mumbled, “There’s food!”

We devoured it.

I’m sitting on the floor pulling your robe and knees apart, legs high. Your heel in the empty dish, your breath snagged tight.

I part your slit, suck your nub.

“Dessert,” I groan. “I’ll help myself.”