The Perfect Blend

Hazel’s wiping down tables when Aria storms in half an hour early. "You’re eager," Hazel smirks. "Shift ain’t done." Aria drinks her in—the black apron stretched tight over her waist, jeans riding low—and says she’s never seen her look hotter. Hazel bites her lip. "We’ll get busted." Aria laughs, points at the empty room, says they’re alone. The kiss hits hard. Aprons and bras land on chairs, jeans puddle on tile. Aria drops to her knees, tongue finding Hazel’s wet heat right there against the counter edge. Hazel gasps, hips jerking, but Aria stands, spins her, bends her over the table, works two fingers deep while Hazel claws at the napkin dispenser. They tumble onto the carpet. Aria rides Hazel’s thigh, her breath hot against Hazel’s ear, then Hazel flips her, spreads her open on the worn sofa and licks until Aria claws her shoulders. Legs hook over counters; the sink ledge leaves red lines on skin. Someone could walk in any second. Every wet sound echoes too loud, every moan feels like a siren, and neither of them can stop.