Kafka tilted his head, a slow grin creeping onto his face as he watched Olivia's suspicious expression.
"Dangerous?" He echoed, voice smooth and amused. "No, no. It's not dangerous at all."
His tone was too innocent. Far too smooth. And that gleam in his eye, the one that always appeared right before he did something wildly inappropriate, only deepened.
"I was just thinking..." He said, resting his elbow on the table, fingers curled loosely under his chin as he leaned toward her. "...of applying a glaze. You know. Like how people pour honey or syrup over bacon to give it a sweeter taste."
Olivia blinked. "...A glaze?"
"Mhm." He nodded, lips twitching. "Except this glaze doesn't just give you sweetness. Or salt. It's something in between. A balance. Sweet and savory, with a third taste that hits deeper."
"Rich. Personal. Like...something tailored perfectly for your tongue."
Her brow arched. Her fork lowered just a little.
"And I absolutely love that glaze, so I think you would to." He said, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
That caught her.
Olivia's gaze flicked to the table almost instinctively, scanning the plates, searching for something, anything, that might match the mystery he was describing.
Her eyes moved over the jam jars, the syrups, the small glass dishes with amber-colored drizzles, the ramekins with butter and berry compote. Her voice came quickly,
"Wait, what is it? Did the chef make it? Is it here somewhere?"
She was already leaning forward, scanning for a bottle, a jar, anything he could be referencing.
But Kafka gave a slow shake of his head.
"Nope." He said simply. "The restaurant doesn't serve it. They don't even know how."
Olivia blinked, confused. "Then what—"
Kafka leaned in across the table, bringing his voice down to a husky murmur, thick with amusement and just a hint of heat.
"It won't be here since it's not a traditional glaze made in a kitchen but made..." He said softly. "...by a woman's body."
She froze.
Color flooded her face in an instant, a pink bloom high across her cheeks, flushing to her ears. Her lips parted wordlessly, eyes wide, lips twitching as if caught mid-thought and completely unsure whether to laugh or gasp or look away.
She finally managed to croak out, voice barely above a whisper, "What...What do you mean it's made by a woman's body?"
Kafka's grin didn't falter. If anything, it grew more pleased.
"It's a certain liquid." He said with a hushed smile. "Viscous. Like honey, but heavier. Warm. Slick. And the flavor? It's impossible to fake. Sweet, salty, deep. It's made when she's...excited. When her body's alive and pulsing and craving touch. That's when it starts to flow."
He paused just long enough for the words to really sink in, while Olivia stared, mouth slightly open, her fingers curled against the edge of her plate.
Kafka's voice dropped to a low purr.
"It's sticky. Tangy. It clings to your tongue and makes you want more. You taste it once, and you never forget it. Makes you greedy for it. Addictive."
Her knees pressed subtly together beneath the table.
"And the best part..." He went on, his tone still casual. "...is that every woman makes it a little differently. Some sweeter, some saltier, some like melted sugar laced with something wild. But you..." His eyes flicked pointedly to her lips. "...yours, Mom, would probably drive me insane."
Hearing this absurd statement, Olivia turned away, eyes wide, face redder than it had ever been. Her voice came out a whisper, barely audible even to herself.
"You're not talking about...actual glaze."
Kafka just smiled, a lazy, sinful curve of his lips.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Mom."
Olivia sat frozen, the soft clink of cutlery and hushed murmur of conversations around them fading into a dull buzz as Kafka's words sank deeper into her consciousness.
Her fork trembled faintly in her fingers, the half-bitten piece of crispy bacon on her plate completely forgotten. She blinked, rapidly, as if trying to recalibrate her own thoughts.
Just seconds ago, she had been genuinely excited.
He'd said something about a special glaze, one she hadn't heard of before. And this town was known for its eccentric recipes and hidden delicacies, so of course she had leaned in, hoping to discover some rare, tantalizing condiment she could smear onto bacon, add to toast, maybe even recreate at home.
Her mind had practically lit up with possibilities. She had imagined something golden and sticky, a bottle tucked away in the back of the restaurant's kitchen, something sold only to insiders.
But this?
Her face flared red, deep and hot across her cheeks and ears, as Kafka's words looped again and again in her head.
Made by a woman's body.
Viscous.
Tangy.
Addictive.
Sweet, salty, and something else entirely.
Her mind spinner so much that she had to put her fork down. She didn't even realize she had scooted to the far corner of her seat until her side brushed the edge of the booth wall.
She turned slightly, trying to angle her body away from him, to shield herself, shrink into herself, hide, maybe. She wished she had something to throw over her head, like a towel. Or a curtain. Or a tablecloth.
But Kafka didn't give her the space.
He simply followed.
Scooted over just as easily, smoothly sliding closer until his side was flush against hers. The heat of his body was immediate, warm and solid and present, and her breath hitched as she tried to lean away without falling off the booth entirely.
His arm rested along the seat's back behind her, and he turned his head to look down at her, unabashed, his expression playful but intense. Like a predator amused with the way its prey trembled.
Her heart thudded erratically. She could feel her knees pressed tightly together, fingers curled against her lap, thighs clenching in mortified reflex.
She then finally managed to whisper something, her voice small and strained and utterly mortified.
"Th-That's not...That's not even a real glaze..."
Kafka tilted his head, pretending to be confused. She caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and pressed on, voice picking up volume as she tried to reclaim some control.
"W-What I'm saying is that i-it's not something you eat, okay? I mean, it's, scientifically, it's vaginal lubrication!"
"It's a natural secretion produced by Bartholin's glands, and it serves a reproductive purpose, it's not meant for culinary commentary or, or tasting!"
She huffed at the end, proud of the explanation, her hands fidgeting slightly in her lap.
Then she lifted her chin just a little and muttered with forced authority. "And it's not tasty. At all."
She might as well have slapped a red ribbon on it, there, explanation complete.
But Kafka didn't back down. He simply chuckled, low in his throat, and leaned closer still, his voice dropping into that maddening purr again, every syllable drawn out and dripping with mischief.
"That is one purpose..." He murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. "Sure...it's there to help a cock slide in more easily. So you don't end up tearing that tight little pussy of yours when it gets stretched wide open."
Olivia let out a choked squeak and instantly covered her face with both hands, but Kafka wasn't done. Not even close.
"But you're thinking like a scientist." He went on smoothly. "I think like a lover. And to me...her love juice isn't just some biological lubricant. It's a treasure."
"...A subtle, warm, living flavor that pours out only when she wants it. When her body's burning for touch."
She shook her head furiously under her hands, but he gently took her wrist and coaxed her to lower them, wanting to see every twitch in her flustered expression.
"And when I'm down there..." He said, almost reverently. "I don't just taste it. I drink it. I savor it. It coats your tongue like cream, but with heat. With hunger. It's the taste of a woman losing control."
Olivia was certain she was going to catch fire right there in her seat.
And then came the real blow.
"You've...tasted it?" She asked, eyes round and fingers clenched tightly in her lap, unable to stop herself. "Whose was it? Whose did you, was it...was it Abi's?"
Kafka didn't hesitate. He gave a simple, casual nod.
"Of course it was hers."
Then, with absolute audacity, he went on, his voice silk, his words vulgar.
"Her taste...Mom, it drives me mad. Her love juice had this richness to it, like wild honey mixed with something darker."
"It sticks to my lips even as I I pull away. Sweet as sin. Every time I went down on her, I lose track of time. I don't even want to make her come at first, I just want to keep drinking her in. There were days I'd wake up craving it like coffee."
His eyes glittered, sharp and knowing.
"Sometimes, I'd spread her thighs, just to get my mouth on her again. No fingers, no teasing, no foreplay...Just lips and tongue, sucking her pussy until she soaked me."
He turned his head slowly and looked directly at her.
"That's the kind of glaze I meant."
And Olivia couldn't answer. Couldn't even look at him.
She was on fire.