Taste Of Sin

Lockdown did strange things to people. For me, it sharpened cravings I hadn’t realized I had—cravings for touch, indulgence, and the undeniable thrill of being desired. Weeks of isolation on a yacht moored in the Marseille marina had turned my once vibrant world into a gilded prison. The crew’s routines blurred together; days were defined by cleaning decks, arranging supplies, and waiting for an end to the stillness. Nights stretched endlessly, filled only with the faint hum of waves and my thoughts.

The view from the shipyard was a patchwork of muted colors. The rain often came, streaking the galley’s windows with silver rivulets that blurred the distant city lights. The sea was a restless slate gray, blending with the stormy sky. On the deck, raindrops splashed against the yacht’s polished rails, creating tiny explosions that mirrored the restless energy in my chest. I had never known such quiet, yet it pressed on me like a weight, amplifying every thought and ache for something… someone.

I spent hours staring at my reflection in the porthole glass, wondering who I was becoming. My fingers would skim over my skin, tracing lines of longing. Sometimes, I imagined the feel of another’s touch—warm, deliberate, and grounding. The absence of connection weighed heavily on me, and with it came a restless hunger.

And then, there was him.

---

**First Glimpses**

The first time I saw him was in the galley, about a week into lockdown. I’d been reorganizing shelves, desperate for anything—to fill the time when he walked in. The scent of freshly baked bread preceded him, warm and inviting. He’d barely glanced my way, more focused on kneading a dough ball than acknowledging my presence. But even then, there was something about him—his movements, focus, and hands seemed to coax life out of the flour and water. It was intoxicating.

He was the new chef, brought in to replace the regular who’d returned home just before the world came to a standstill. The crew called him "The Italian Chef," though in my mind, he quickly became *The Italian Job.* His presence was electric, impossible to ignore. The sharp line of his jaw, the confident set of his shoulders, and the quiet intensity in his eyes all hinted at a man who knew exactly who he was.

At first, our interactions were fleeting—a quick exchange of words, a shared glance across the room. But even those moments crackled with unspoken tension, which lingers long after the air has cleared. I’d find myself looking for excuses to linger near the galley, catch a glimpse of him, and hear the low rumble of his accented voice.

---

**A Charged Encounter**

The galley was warm that night, humming with the scent of olive oil and something spicy. I’d chosen my outfit carefully, though I told myself it didn’t matter. A black silk camisole clung to my skin, its delicate straps revealing just enough to hint at what lay beneath. My fitted jeans hugged my hips, and I’d left my feet bare, the cool tiles grounding me. My hair fell in loose waves over my shoulders, a casual effort that belied the hours I’d spent perfecting it.

The crew had vanished into the cinema for another mindless movie marathon, but I’d wanted no part of their chatter. I needed quiet, wine, and the one person who reminded me what it felt like to be alive.

He was there, leaning against the counter, casual but commanding. His chef’s coat hung open, the white fabric contrasting with his tanned chest. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with flour and lined with faint scars that spoke of years in the kitchen. His dark hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His scent reached me first—a mix of citrus, salt, and the faint musk of sweat—an intoxicating blend that quickened my pulse.

But his eyes held me captive—sharp, ocean-blue, and piercing, as if they could strip away every layer of armor I’d built around myself.

“Perfect timing,” he said, his voice rough and accented, making your pulse quicken before you could stop it.

“Didn’t realize we had an appointment,” I replied, smirking over the rim of my glass as I took a sip.

On the counter between us sat an open bottle of Petrus red wine, its ruby liquid gleaming under the galley lights. He poured two glasses, his movements deliberate, unhurried. His fingers brushed mine when he handed me a glass, lingering just enough to make my skin prickle with anticipation.

The wine was indulgent and smoky, with a hint of spice on my tongue. It wasn’t just wine—it was a reminder of life’s forbidden pleasures. I swallowed, my eyes locking with his. “It’s perfect,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I meant the wine or how his gaze lingered on me, making me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in months.

---

**A Game of Cravings**

He moved to the counter, brushing chili-infused olive oil over a thin crust. The motions of his hands—precise, fluid—felt hypnotic, and I couldn’t stop watching. Each movement seemed to carry an intimacy of its own as if he wasn’t just making food but creating art.

“Hungry?” he teased, his lips curving into a wicked smile.

“For pizza?” I shot back, though we both knew food wasn’t what I craved.

We worked side by side, assembling the toppings: avocado slices, shaved truffle, and a sprinkle of sea salt. His fingers brushed mine as we moved, each touch deliberate and electric. When I reached for the truffle shaver, his hand covered mine, guiding the motion.

“Feel that,” he murmured, his voice low, his breath warm against my ear. “Soft. Yielding. Perfect.”

The air between us was thick, crackling with unspoken promises. Every glance, every brush of his hand sent my senses spiraling.

When the pizza went into the oven, he turned to me, pouring more wine. “And now,” he said, smirking, “dessert.”

---

**Awakening in the Galley**

He reached for another ball of dough, kneading it with deliberate strokes. My eyes traced the flex of his forearms and the strength in his hands as they worked. The galley filled with the scent of Nutella and freshly whipped cream, a sensory symphony that made my mouth water.

“Taste,” he said, holding out a spoon coated in cream.

Instead, I dipped my finger into the bowl, sliding it between my lips. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he watched me suck it clean.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice a raw scrape.

The dessert pizza went into the oven, but we didn’t move. He stepped closer, his body radiating heat, his eyes fixed on mine. He tipped his wine glass, letting a slow trickle spill over the curve of my collarbone.

The first drop slid down my skin, pooling at the swell of my breasts. His gaze followed it, his lips parting slightly.

“You’re a mess,” he growled, setting the glass down.

His mouth followed the wine, his tongue hot and wet as he licked it from my skin, trailing down my neck and over my collarbone. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, and then his lips crashed into mine, tasting of wine and chocolate.

He lifted me onto the stainless steel counter, the cold surface shocking against my thighs as he pushed my dress higher, his hands exploring every inch of me.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his fingers sliding between my legs.

“Maybe it’s the Nutella,” I whispered, though my breath hitched as he pushed my panties aside.

“Let me taste,” he growled.

He dropped to his knees, spreading my legs wide, his hands firm on my thighs. The first flick of his tongue was slow, teasing, but it wasn’t long before he devoured me completely.

His mouth was hot, wet, relentless. He sucked, licked, nipped, his tongue circling my clit before sliding lower, exploring every inch of me.

I leaned back, my palms pressed against the counter, my body trembling as he buried his face between my legs. My moans filled the galley, mingling with the soft hum of the oven and the faint thrum of the R&B playlist.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned against me, his voice muffled, raw with hunger.

I was dripping, soaking, my body arching against his mouth as he brought me closer, his tongue stroking, his lips wrapping around my clit and sucking hard. My fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as the pleasure built and built until it exploded through me, leaving me gasping and shaking.

He gave it to me like a man possessed—his tongue sliding deeper, swirling, stroking every inch of me like he’d been made for this moment. The sounds he made—low, guttural, like he was savoring every single taste—drove me wild. I couldn’t hold back the gasps, the moans, the soft cries that spilled from my lips.

His stubble scratched against my inner thighs, a delicious contrast to the wet heat of his tongue and lips. I could feel every flick, every stroke, every maddening suck as he pushed me closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re fucking dripping for me,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to look up at me. His lips were glistening, his blue eyes dark and ravenous. “I want to drown in you.”

My thighs trembled as his tongue found me again, this time softer, slower, teasing me until I was gasping his name, my body arching against his mouth.

“God, please,” I whimpered, my voice barely audible. “Don’t stop… please.”

He didn’t. He spread me wider, his hands firm and unrelenting as he buried his face deeper between my legs. His tongue lapped at me, long, wet strokes that sent jolts of pleasure racing through my body. He sucked my clit into his mouth again, his tongue circling and flicking while his fingers dug into my thighs, holding me exactly where he wanted me.

“Fuck, you taste so fucking good,” he growled, the vibration of his voice making me shiver. “I could do this all night.”

My breath came in ragged gasps, my fingers gripping his hair, pulling, needing, desperate. The cool steel of the counter pressed against my back, grounding me as my body spiraled out of control.

“More,” I begged, my voice raw, trembling. “Don’t stop, fuck, I’m—”

And then it hit me. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, pulling me under and drowning me in heat and pleasure. My body convulsed, my hips grinding against his mouth as my cries filled the galley.

He didn’t stop. He stayed with me, his tongue softening, stroking me through it, drawing out every last shudder, every previous gasp.

When I finally returned to myself, my body trembled, my skin slick with sweat. I looked down at him, my breath catching at his sight. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, and his hair a mess from my fingers.

“You’re a fucking mess,” I managed to whisper, a shaky laugh escaping me.

He smirked, his lips curling in that infuriating, devastating way. “You love it.”

And I did. I fucking loved it.

He stood, his hands sliding up my thighs as he pressed himself against me. His body was hot, harrowing, and ready, the evidence of his own need pressing against my stomach.

“You’ve ruined me,” I whispered, trembling.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Not yet,” he murmured, his voice dark and dangerous. “But I’m about to.”

He turned me around, his hands on my hips, bending me over the counter. The cold steel pressed against my stomach, and I gasped as his hands slid up my back, pulling my dress over my head and tossing it aside.

“Look at you,” he growled, his hands gripping my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. “Bent over my counter, dripping for me. You’re perfect.”

I felt him against me, hard and hot, teasing, pressing against my entrance but not giving me what I needed.

“Don’t tease me,” I gasped, my voice desperate.

“Patience,” he growled, leaning down to kiss the back of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel it every time you step into this galley.”

And then he was inside me, one brutal, deep thrust that made me cry out. He filled me, his body pressing against mine, his hands gripping my hips as he set a relentless rhythm.

The counter rattled beneath us, and the wet sounds of our bodies colliding filled the room. The faint hum of the oven mixed with the soft thrum of music still playing in the background.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his voice rough, guttural, his hips slamming into mine. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

My hands gripped the edge of the counter, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he drove into me more complex, more profound, faster. The pleasure was overwhelming, building with every thrust, every filthy word that fell from his lips.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back.

I moaned, my voice breaking. “I don’t even know your fucking name,” I gasped.

He chuckled darkly, leaning down to bite the back of my neck. “Then scream for The Italian Job,” he growled.

And I did. My cries filled the galley, raw and desperate, as I shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through me like a firestorm.

He followed moments later, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he buried himself inside me one last time, his body shuddering against mine.

When he finally pulled back, his hands slid down my sides, his lips brushing against my shoulder. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

I turned to face him, my legs trembling and my body buzzing with the aftershocks. “And you,” I whispered, my lips curling into a smirk, “ruined this counter for me.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The galley was quiet, save for our ragged breaths and the faint thrum of music still playing in the background. My body was limp, spent, my legs trembling as I leaned against the counter, his hands still warm on my skin.

Liberation

The galley became our world—wine-stained, sugar-dusted, and pulsing with heat. The taste of the pizza lingered on my tongue, its crust crisp and buttery, the truffle’s earthiness melting into the creamy avocado. It was decadent, indulgent, and utterly perfect—a feast as sinful as the man who’d made it.

Afterward, I lay on the counter, trembling, the calm steel grounding me. My fingers traced my skin, the ghost of his touch still burning. I felt awake, alive, and utterly unburdened for the first time in an eternity.

But when I turned, he was gone.

A note was on the counter, next to the empty wine bottle. A single line, scrawled in dark ink: Grazie. For everything. Until next time. —S

I pressed the note to my chest, feeling the ache of something unfinished. But as I stood there, his lingering taste on my lips, I didn’t feel alone anymore.

I felt awakened.

And for the first time in months, I smiled, knowing that some cravings are worth waiting for.