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“Good.”

By the time the onions hit the pan, Heather’s made me ask for the knife four times. Potatoes require another three because she keeps setting it down within reach and taking it again the second my hand moves toward it.

When I have enough cut to work with, Heather puts the knife on the far side of the counter and opens a cabinet. She pulls out a folded piece of white fabric and shakes it loose.

My apron. It’s cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. The stain beside the pocket is gone. So is the grease at the hem and the old burn mark that never quite washed out completely. It smells like her laundry soap instead of smoke, garlic and fryer oil.

Heather slips the loop over my head before I can decide how much I hate that.

She smooths the front down my chest with both hands. Her hands move around my waist and pull the ties tight. She knots the apron behind me and leaves one hand at my waist.

I turn back to the stove. She reaches under the apron, frees my cock, and wraps her hand around it while I’m still trying to get the potatoes moving. I miss the pan with the spoon. Jamie laughs.

I look over my shoulder. “Enjoying yourself, rat?”

His fingers close around the key. “At least I don’t need permission to hold a spoon.”

Heather palms me once, slow, and the laugh dies in his mouth.

My attention snaps back to the stove.

She presses in behind me so every reach has to account for her. Her fist works my cock under the apron, dry at first, then easier once I leak over her fingers.

When I lean for the salt she leans with me and doesn’t lose the rhythm. When I turn the potatoes she changes it, slower, root to tip, and I have to lock my wrist so the spoon stays useful. My hips chase her. She takes her hand away.

“Fuck.” It comes out at the onions.

The onions hiss.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” she says. Her hand starts again at the same mean pace, thumb dragging under the head on every other pull.

I move the pan off the hottest part of the burner and reach for the eggs. Heather follows, her other hand settling against my hip while the first keeps working beneath the apron. I crack the first egg one-handed. The shell almost goes. I catch it on the rim.

Heather makes a small pleased sound against my shoulder and tightens.

Jamie has stopped laughing. Oliver is staring at his coffee like it might save him.

My cock is heavy in her fist, wet at the head, and every time I get close to a rhythm she ruins it. Faster when I need steady. Nothing when I push back. I crack the second egg. Then the third.

The pan needs turning, the onions need heat again, and Heather doesn’t give me an inch of space.

“Those are going to burn,” she says, and gives me one long stroke that makes my knee bump the cabinet.

I move the pan.

“Good,” she says. Her hand starts again.

The eggs are almost done when she decides. Her fist stays tight and even, the same pace she’s used since the second egg. My thighs start to shake and the spoon gets stupid.

“Finish the eggs,” she says.

I brace my free hand on the counter. She strokes my cock through the last turn of the pan.

Come hits the inside of the apron in thick pulses while the onions go soft. I keep the spoon in the pan.

She works me through it, then closes her hand around me again before I can put myself away. “Plate it.”

Across the table, Jamie’s mouth has gone tight.