Cooking up something naughty

Orchidea and Sally cook. Bare feet on cool tile. Knife on the board. Steam rises from the pot. When everything is done, they strip off aprons and start to season the real ingredient. Their neighbor Lori, twenty-eight and glossy, knocks once, steps inside in a tight red dress that clings like poured lacquer. She senses the heat, raises one brow, offers a wrist. Sally sniffs it like wine. Orchidea smiles, slow, predatory. The door latches. Three pairs of heels click across the kitchen, pulse racing under silk. Lori’s dress lifts in their hands, skin meeting air. The sauce pops on the stove behind them, but the women ignore it; lips part, tongues find salt, mouths stain skin the same deep red as the wine they have yet to pour. No talk of age or innocence—just three bodies circling the island, hungry and unhurried, intent on consuming every inch before the sauce burns.