Cooking Up a Storm
“The object of her fantasies slouched before her dressing table in a worn wicker chair. Her eyes were closed, her arms limp on the low, curved rests. It was Monday — the inn’s off day. Storm had driven to Provincetown to meet one of their suppliers and Marissa had Abby all to herself.
The only thing that would have made her happier was actually having Abby.
Stroking another thick blonde sheaf down Abby’s back, Marissa watched her boss in the mirror. Her breathing was regular, her cheeks pink. One strap of a baby-blue tank top fell off her shoulder. The top was tucked into a pair of khaki walking shorts. The combination was more revealing than her usual twin sets and skirts, especially considering the bareness of her breasts. Beneath the ribbed cotton her nipples rose almost as sharply as Marissa’s own.
Marissa knew Abby must be daydreaming. The flush on her neck told her so; the way she squirmed in the chair and curled and uncurled her toes. She was probably fantasising about Storm, bu...t at the moment Marissa didn’t care.MoreLess
The only thing that would have made her happier was actually having Abby.
Stroking another thick blonde sheaf down Abby’s back, Marissa watched her boss in the mirror. Her breathing was regular, her cheeks pink. One strap of a baby-blue tank top fell off her shoulder. The top was tucked into a pair of khaki walking shorts. The combination was more revealing than her usual twin sets and skirts, especially considering the bareness of her breasts. Beneath the ribbed cotton her nipples rose almost as sharply as Marissa’s own.
Marissa knew Abby must be daydreaming. The flush on her neck told her so; the way she squirmed in the chair and curled and uncurled her toes. She was probably fantasising about Storm, bu...t at the moment Marissa didn’t care.MoreLess
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