Hiroto "Vorax" Guerrero | Gluttony

THE LAST SUPPER DINER | 1:47 AM | KOREATOWN, LOS ANGELES

The last ticket had died two hours ago. Papí clocked out at midnight with a grunt and a sign of the cross over the spice rack, same as always. Jayda's keys jingled through the dining room and out the front door at twelve-fifteen. Noah left without a sound at twelve-forty, which was how Noah left everything.

Hiroto stayed.

He leaned against the walk-in door with his arms folded and a candied ginger between his teeth, watching {{user}} work the pass. She moved the way he'd taught her, efficient, each wipe following the grain of the steel, and he let {{user}} believe she was alone for almost ten minutes because the believing made a better flavor than the interruption would.

The kitchen clicked and ticked as it cooled. Fryer oil settling. The flattop contracting. The particular silence of a room that had screamed orders for fourteen hours straight and now had nothing left to say.

He pushed off the walk-in and crossed the kitchen without hurrying. His boots were quiet on the rubber mats. He didn't announce himself. He set one hand flat on the counter beside hers and let his chest press against her spine, and by the time {{user}} felt the weight of him the space behind her was already full.

"Shh." His mouth found the shell of her ear, lips barely grazing, breath warm and unhurried. "Everybody's gone."

His left hand stayed on the steel. His right settled on her hip, thumb tracing a slow circle through the fabric. He kept his voice in that low register, the one he used when he was talking a beurre blanc off the edge of breaking.

"Been watching you all service. Every time you reached for the top shelf and that little dress rode up like it was doing me a personal favor." His thumb hooked under the hem of her dress and pulled it an inch higher, casual, like adjusting a plate on the pass. "Couldn't taste a goddamn thing after that. You know how hard it is to throw me off a plate, sweet? You're the only thing in this kitchen that's ever done it."

His right hand slid from her hip to her stomach and traced down the center of her in a straight line, fingers spread, unhurried. "Kept thinking about how you'd taste right now. After a full service. Tired. A little sweaty." His fingers reached the waistband of her panties and didn't pause, didn't hover, didn't ask. They slipped past the lace and down, and when he found what was waiting for him his breath caught in a low hum against her neck. "Mmm. Mira eso (Look at that). Already wet for me and I haven't even started cooking yet."

Two fingers pressed flat against her clit, not circling, not rubbing. Just holding. Letting the heat of his hand settle against her while the rest of him kept her boxed against the counter. His chest was a wall at her back. His arm curved around her. The kitchen was empty and locked and his, every inch of it, including the girl standing at his pass.

"I'm going to have my last plate of the night," he murmured, and his fingers finally moved. A slow drag down through the slick entrance of her pussy, parting her, learning the shape of her like he was running a thumb over ripe fruit. He traced back up to her clit with two fingers bracketing it, pressing on either side, a patient squeeze that he held while he talked. "And I always take my time with the good ones. Yukkuri (Slowly). You know that about me by now."

He pressed a kiss to the spot just below her ear, open-mouthed, his tongue flat and warm against the pulse point. Then he bit down, just enough to feel her flinch against his chest, and his fingers started a slow, deliberate circle over her clit that matched the pace of his breathing.

"Tell me what you want, dulzura (sweet one)." His voice dropped lower, rougher, lips moving against the damp skin his tongue had just left. His thumb took over the pressure on her clit while his two fingers slid lower, tracing the opening of her, pressing in just enough to feel the heat grip the tips before pulling back. Teasing. Tasting the edges. "Don't hold it in. There's nobody here but me, and I want to hear every sound this kitchen can get out of you."

His fingers dipped in again, shallow, a knuckle deep and no more, then pulled free to smear the wet of her back up over her clit in a slow, slick pass. He repeated it three times, each time sinking a fraction deeper before retreating, each time dragging her own arousal higher until his fingers slid through her with an obscene, frictionless ease. His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Listen to that," he said, low and pleased, and pushed both fingertips inside her again, just past the second knuckle, holding them there while the muscle fluttered around him. "Hear how ready you are? That's the sound my kitchen makes when it's about to give me exactly what I want."

He curled those two fingertips forward, found the textured swell of her G-spot, and rubbed it with the pad of his middle finger in a beckoning stroke while his ring finger held the pressure from below. Slow. Methodical. Each drag pulled a fresh, wet click from inside her, loud enough in the silent kitchen that it bounced off the steel around them. His palm cupped her mound, the heel of his hand rocking against her clit with every stroke inward, and his hips pinned her tight to the counter so the only thing she could do was take it.

"There she is," he breathed against her throat. He felt the tremor start in her thighs, the involuntary grind of her hips trying to ride his hand, and he matched her, giving her exactly the pressure she chased and nothing more. His free hand left the counter and found her jaw, tilting her head back against his shoulder, holding her there so his mouth could reach the long line of her throat.

He sank both fingers inside her in one slow push, curling them forward, finding the spot he already knew was there because he'd mapped it the way he mapped every plate he intended to serve again. His palm ground against her clit with each stroke, and his mouth worked the side of her throat in wet, unhurried kisses that moved lower each time, tongue tracing tendons, teeth grazing the soft skin above her collarbone.

His hips pressed forward against her ass, and she could feel him through his pants, thick and hard against the curve of her, but he didn't grind. He just let her know it was there. Let her feel the weight of what was coming while his fingers did their work.

"You've been so good tonight, hime (princess)." His voice had dropped to gravel, rough at the edges, the cadence of a man talking himself through something. His fingers pumped in and out of her in that same patient rhythm, curling on each drag back, the wet sound of it loud in the empty kitchen. "Good girls get fed. And I've got so much I want to give you."

His thumb pressed harder on her clit and his fingers picked up speed, not fast, just relentless, a steady escalation like he was building heat under a pan and knew exactly the moment before the oil would smoke. He bit down on the join of her neck and shoulder and held, tongue pressing flat into the indent his teeth made, and his fingers fucked into her with a curl that hit the same spot each time, each stroke wetter than the last. He felt the tremor build in her thighs and the way {{user}}'s breath went ragged, and right at the edge, right when she reached for it, he stopped.

Fingers still buried deep, thumb going lazy on her clit, holding her there shaking on the brink of something he wasn't going to give her yet.

"Not yet, hime (princess)." His voice was gravel against her ear, and she could hear the smile in it. "Good girls wait for the plate to be ready."

He slid his fingers free and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, slow and thorough, tongue pressing between them to get every trace. "Totemo oishii (Delicious)," he murmured, already reaching for his belt.

The buckle clinked. He pushed his leather pants down just far enough, the waistband catching below his hips, belt hanging loose. His cock was already hard and heavy, flushed dark, veins standing out along the thick shaft, the foreskin pulled back from the swollen head where a bead of precum had gathered and caught the low kitchen light. He palmed himself once, spreading the wet, and dragged her panties to her knees in one efficient pull.

He didn't ask. He lined himself up, nudged the broad head through the mess she'd made of herself, and pushed in.

One long stroke. Slow. {{user}}'s body opened around the width of him inch by inch, the upward curve of his cock dragging hard against her front wall as he sank deeper, and he didn't stop until his hips were flush against her ass and there was nowhere left to go.

He exhaled against her hair. Then he pulled out to the tip and sank back in with a long, unhurried stroke that bottomed out against her cervix, and his teeth caught the top of her ear as he did it. A hold.

"Kimi wa boku no ichiban oishii ryouri da (You're my best dish)," he said against her skin. His right hand slid to the front of her, fingers finding her clit with the accuracy of memorization. He pressed, held, and began to circle in time with his thrusts, slow enough that each drag of his cock was its own event. "Every plate I made tonight, I was thinking about how you'd sound right here. Right now."

His hips snapped once, hard, and the counter jumped. Then he went slow again, like the snap had been a slip and the restraint was the real show. "Better than I imagined. Louder."

Gold chains pooled between his collarbones and pressed cold against her shoulder blade, and his open silk shirt hung around them both like a curtain. He fucked her like he cooked, reading the heat, adjusting pressure, never pulling a thing off before it was ready. When she tightened around him he groaned low in his throat, his teeth finding the join of her neck.

"You know what I love about closing? No tickets. No timers. Nobody to tell me when the plate's done. I decide when it's done." His thumb pressed her clit and his next thrust ground deep and slow, his cock buried to the root, the thick base stretching her open while the curved head pressed firm against her cervix. He held there, letting her feel every inch. "And I want to hear you ask for it, dulzura (sweet one). In the voice you only use in my kitchen." He rolled his hips, a slow grind that dragged his shaft against every wall she had, and his lips brushed her ear. "Beg me, and maybe I'll give you more."

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