Room Service, Extra Dirty by Aurora North - FF Sapphic Romance book cover

Bonus Chapter: Counter Service

Room Service, Extra Dirty — Bonus Content
by Aurora North

An exclusive scene set after the novel. Too hot for Amazon. Just for you.

Counter Service

The apartment smelled like garlic and olive oil and something Iris couldn’t identify from the hallway, which was unusual because Iris could identify most cooking smells within a five-second window and this one was new.

She unlocked the door. She set her bag down. She kicked off her shoes.

Sloane was in the kitchen.

Sloane was in the kitchen wearing an apron.

Sloane was in the kitchen wearing an apron and nothing else.

Iris stood in the doorway of their apartment and looked at the woman she loved standing barefoot at the gas stove in a navy linen apron that covered her front from chest to mid-thigh and left her back entirely, comprehensively, devastatingly bare. The apron strings were tied in a loose bow at the base of her spine. Below the bow: the curve of Sloane’s ass, the long line of her legs, the bare feet on the hardwood floor. Above the bow: the planes of her shoulder blades, the nape of her neck where her hair was pinned up in a messy twist, the vertebrae visible through skin that was flushed pink from the heat of the stove.

She was stirring something in a pan. Humming. She hadn’t heard Iris come in.

Iris leaned against the doorframe and let herself look. This was something she still hadn’t gotten used to — the luxury of looking at Sloane without the clock running, without the elevator waiting, without the professional distance of a uniform and a cart. Here, in their apartment, she could look as long as she wanted. And she wanted.

The apron strings shifted as Sloane reached for the pepper grinder. The bow loosened slightly, the linen sliding a quarter-inch lower on her hips, and the new angle revealed the dimples at the base of her spine — two small indentations that Iris had kissed so many times she could find them in the dark by feel alone. Below those dimples, the full, round curve of Sloane’s ass, bare and unselfconscious and framed by the apron strings like a gift someone had wrapped and then deliberately left half-open.

Iris’s mouth went dry.

“What are you doing?” she said.

Sloane turned. The front of the apron confirmed what the back had suggested: underneath it, she was wearing absolutely nothing. The fabric shifted as she moved, offering a flash of hip, a slice of outer thigh, the shadow of a breast where the apron’s neckline dipped. She’d chosen this apron on purpose — the one with the low neckline, the one that showed the inner curves of her breasts when she moved a certain way.

“Making dinner,” Sloane said. Casual. As if the wooden spoon in her hand and the complete absence of clothing were not in direct, aggressive, intentional conflict.

“You’re naked.”

“I’m wearing an apron.”

“That is not the same as wearing clothes.”

“It covers the important parts.” Sloane turned back to the stove. “I’m making risotto. It takes forty minutes. I have a plan.”

“My plan involves cooking in an apron while you watch and slowly lose your mind, and then when the risotto is done, we eat it, and then after we eat it—” She looked over her shoulder with pure provocation. “We christen the counter.”

“The counter. You’ve been staring at it since I bought the apartment. Every time I’m cooking, you stand behind me and put your hands on my waist and I can feel you thinking about it. Tonight. Counter. You. Me. Whatever you want.”

Iris had been home for approximately ninety seconds and she was already wet. She could feel it — the immediate, physical response to the sight of this woman’s bare back and the sound of her voice saying whatever you want with the calm authority of a woman presenting a business proposal.

“Thirty-five minutes,” Iris said. “Fine.”

She crossed the kitchen in four steps. She stood behind Sloane at the stove and put her hands on the bare skin above the apron strings and felt Sloane’s whole body shiver.

“Keep stirring,” Iris murmured against the back of her neck.

“You said thirty-five minutes. I’m going to use them.”

She kissed the nape of Sloane’s neck. She tasted salt and warmth and the specific, permanent flavor of Sloane’s skin that Iris would know anywhere for the rest of her life. She kissed down — the top of her spine, the ridge of her shoulder blade, the place where the apron strap crossed her back. She used her teeth to pull it aside and kiss the skin underneath. Sloane’s breath caught.

Iris’s hands slid from Sloane’s waist down to her hips. She ran her palms over the curve of Sloane’s ass — slow, proprietary. She felt the muscle tense under her hands and then relax, felt Sloane’s weight shift backward, pressing into the touch.

She gripped. Both hands, full grip, pulling Sloane’s hips back against her own. Sloane gasped and Iris could feel the heat of Sloane’s bare ass through the denim of her jeans.

“That’s not fair,” Sloane said. Her voice was already changing — lower, rougher, the version that only Iris got to hear. The version that begged.

Iris’s right hand moved around Sloane’s hip. Under the apron. The soft skin below her navel. The fine trail of hair that Iris traced with her fingertips, slow and deliberate.

Sloane’s breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Her hips were making small, involuntary motions — pressing forward against the counter, pressing backward against Iris’s body. The apron shifted with each movement, the fabric brushing against her nipples, and Iris could see over Sloane’s shoulder that they were hard, pressing against the linen in two distinct points.

“Lower,” Sloane whispered. “Iris. Go lower.”

“I take it back. I take it all back. The risotto can burn. The apartment can burn.” She broke off because Iris’s fingers had reached the crease of her thigh, and the sound she made was not a word.

Iris’s fingers slid between her legs from behind.

She was wet — not the gradual arousal of a slow buildup but the drenched, slick, ready wetness of a woman who had been planning this scenario since noon, who had put on the apron and nothing else and stood at the stove and wanted and worked herself into a state of anticipation so acute that the first touch of Iris’s fingers was almost too much.

“Oh God,” Sloane breathed.

“Keep stirring.”

“You are a cruel, impossible—” The sentence dissolved into a moan as Iris’s fingers slid through her, finding the swollen nub of her clit and circling it with a slow, patient pressure that made Sloane’s knees shake.

Iris touched her slowly. Methodically. She knew which touches made Sloane’s breath catch and which made her hips roll and which made her grab the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles went white. She used all of them. Building a pattern and then breaking it.

“Iris — please — inside, I need you inside—”

Iris pressed her mouth to the spot behind Sloane’s ear and sucked gently while her fingers maintained their rhythm. Sloane’s hand flew to the back of Iris’s head, and the apron strap slid off her shoulder, exposing one breast fully.

Iris’s free hand came around and cupped it. Sloane arched into the touch — her breast filling Iris’s palm, the nipple hard against her fingers. Iris rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, pinching gently, then harder, and the dual stimulation made Sloane’s breath fragment into sharp, staccato gasps.

“Turn off the stove,” Iris said.

Iris slid two fingers inside her. Deep. Curling on entry.

Sloane’s knees buckled. The wooden spoon clattered onto the counter.

Sloane turned off the stove. Her hand was shaking. The kitchen went quiet except for their breathing and the wet, obscene, unmistakable sound of Iris’s fingers moving inside her.

Iris spun her around. The apron twisted, leaving her bare from the chest up. Her breasts were flushed, her nipples tight and dark, her eyes glazed. She looked like a woman who had started the evening with a plan and had been comprehensively undone by someone with a better one.

Iris lifted her onto the counter.

Sloane hissed at the cold granite, then moaned as Iris stepped between her legs and kissed her — hard, claiming. She tasted wine. Sloane’s legs wrapped around Iris’s waist. Her hands went to Iris’s shirt. “Off. Take this off. I want to feel you.”

Iris pulled her shirt over her head. Unclasped her bra. Sloane’s hands were on her immediately — cupping her breasts, thumbs finding her nipples. The contact was electric. Iris felt it straight through to her cunt.

Iris dropped to her knees on the kitchen tile. She pushed the apron up Sloane’s thighs and Sloane’s legs opened — wide, willing. Iris put her hands on Sloane’s inner thighs and spread them wider and looked at her — flushed, swollen, glistening wet, completely exposed on a granite counter in a kitchen that still smelled like garlic and wine.

“You’re so wet,” Iris said.

“I’ve been wet since I put the apron on. That was three hours ago. Three. Hours.”

“That sounds like a problem you’re about to solve.”

Iris put her mouth on her.

The first long, flat stroke of her tongue drew a cry from Sloane that echoed off the kitchen tiles. Open, full-throated, uninhibited. The woman who had once covered her face when she came was now sitting on a kitchen counter with her legs spread and her voice filling the apartment.

Iris went slow. Broad, flat strokes, lingering at the top, circling with a pressure that was firm enough to feel and light enough to torment. She alternated rhythm. She sucked Sloane’s clit gently between her lips and hummed, the vibration making Sloane’s back arch and her hands grip granite with the same desperate force she’d once used to grip hotel sheets.

“Iris — fuck — right there, don’t stop—”

Iris slid two fingers inside. Curled them. Found the textured place on the front wall that made Sloane’s voice go up an octave. Pressed. And put her tongue back on Sloane’s clit with focused, relentless pressure.

Sloane came with Iris’s name in her mouth and both hands white-knuckled on the granite and a sound that was half scream and half laugh — the laugh, always the laugh. Her body bowed forward, her hands gripping Iris’s hair, holding her in place while the orgasm rolled through her in long, shuddering waves.

Iris stayed. She gentled her mouth. Felt the contractions slow. Felt the grip in her hair loosen from desperate to tender.

She withdrew slowly. Kissed Sloane’s inner thigh. Stood.

“The risotto is definitely ruined,” Sloane said.

“The risotto was a trap.”

“The risotto was a seduction strategy and it worked perfectly.” She hooked her fingers into Iris’s waistband. “Your turn.”

“I’m not sitting on the counter. It’s freezing.”

“Who said anything about the counter?”

Sloane slid off the granite. She put her hands on Iris’s hips and turned her, pressing her back against the counter’s edge. Then she dropped to her knees on the kitchen tile.

She looked up at Iris with an expression that was composed and certain and absolutely filthy. The apron pooled around her on the tile. “Take your pants off.”

Iris’s hands were shaking as she unbuttoned her jeans. Sloane pulled her underwear down too, slowly, fingernails scraping lightly against the outside of Iris’s thighs.

Sloane had gotten very, very good at this. Months of practice. Months of the same analytical precision she’d once applied to corporate restructuring, redirected toward the project of making Iris Moreno fall apart. She’d studied. She’d asked — what do you like, show me, tell me, here? And Iris had shown her.

She started slow. A kiss on Iris’s hip bone. Then the crease of her thigh. Then lower — her mouth hovering, breath hot against Iris’s cunt, not touching, just close.

“Don’t tease,” Iris said. “Not tonight. I need—”

Sloane’s mouth found her.

Sloane’s tongue — flat, warm, firm — pressed against Iris’s clit and held, and Iris’s head fell back and she heard herself make a sound that she still wasn’t used to. The loud sound. The real sound. The one she’d spent twenty-eight years swallowing and had only learned to release in this apartment where no one expected her to be quiet.

She was not quiet.

Sloane worked her with patience and focus. Long, rhythmic strokes, varying the pressure, finding the pattern that made Iris’s hips rock forward. Iris gripped the counter with one hand and Sloane’s hair with the other and let herself feel.

Sloane slid two fingers inside her. Iris’s hips bucked forward and Sloane curled her fingers — she knew exactly where, exactly how hard — and pressed, and held, and her tongue moved faster, and Iris felt the orgasm building from her toes upward.

She came standing up, braced against her own kitchen counter, with her hand fisted in Sloane Mercer’s hair and Sloane’s name on her lips and the smell of burnt risotto in the air. She came hard and loud and selfish — the word she was learning to use without shame. She took with her whole body and her whole voice and the neighbors could hear and the risotto was ruined and she didn’t care about any of it.

Sloane stood. She pressed her body against Iris’s — full length, bare skin against bare skin — and kissed her. Iris tasted herself on Sloane’s mouth and tasted Sloane underneath and the combination was filthy and intimate and sacred.

Sloane untied the apron. Let it fall to the floor.

They stood naked in their kitchen, flushed and breathless and grinning, and Iris thought about every surface she’d ever polished to invisible perfection, and she thought: This is the only surface that matters.

“I want you again,” Sloane said. “I want to make you come again. In our bed. I want you to be loud and I want the neighbors to hate us.”

“The neighbors already hate us.”

“Then let’s give them a reason.”

They stumbled to the bedroom. Kissing, grabbing, Sloane’s hand between Iris’s legs, Iris’s mouth on Sloane’s throat. Iris’s hip hit the doorframe. They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter and the laughter turned into kissing and the kissing turned into something deeper, slower.

Sloane pressed Iris into the mattress. She kissed down Iris’s body — throat, collarbone, each breast, the nipples that responded to her tongue with an immediacy that made her smile. She kissed Iris’s stomach, feeling the compact strength of a body that worked for a living.

She settled between Iris’s thighs. Second time tonight. This time she went slower. Tongue on Iris’s clit, fingers inside, the other hand sliding up to her breast — three points of contact creating a circuit that made Iris’s entire body arch off the bed. She set the deep-build rhythm she’d learned produced the orgasms that made Iris cry.

Iris tried to keep her eyes open — their rule, their practice. She looked at Sloane between her thighs and Sloane looked up at her and their eyes locked and the intimacy of it was more intense than the physical sensation.

Almost. Not quite.

Because Sloane was very, very good at this and the rhythm she’d found was the one that made Iris’s legs shake and her voice break and her hand grip the headboard with a force that would leave marks in the wood.

“Sloane — God — I’m close—”

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

Iris let go.

The orgasm was different from the kitchen one — deeper, slower, a wave that crested and held and kept holding, her body clenching around Sloane’s fingers in rhythmic contractions that went on and on while Sloane’s tongue stayed steady and her eyes stayed open and Iris made sounds she’d never heard herself make, sounds from the deepest, most unguarded place inside her, sounds she couldn’t have made a year ago because a year ago she didn’t know she was allowed to want like this.

When it ended she was shaking. Sloane gathered her close and Iris pressed her face into Sloane’s neck and breathed and said nothing because words weren’t available yet.

They lay together. The apartment smelled like garlic and sex and the specific, irreplaceable scent of home.

“I love you,” Iris said eventually.

“I love you. Also, the risotto is unsalvageable.”

“The cooking part is fine. The naked part is the problem.”

“The naked part is the strategy.”

“The strategy results in no dinner.”

“The strategy results in counter sex and Thai food. I call that a win.”

Iris laughed. The laugh that started in her belly and cracked through her composure and was, according to the woman holding her, the reason she’d fallen in love.

They ordered pad Thai and ate it on the kitchen floor, still naked, still laughing, the apron crumpled between them and the ruined risotto congealing in the pan and the counter above them gleaming with the evidence of what they’d done still vivid in their bodies.

Iris looked at the counter. “We’re going to have to disinfect that.”

“I’ll handle it. I know a woman who’s very good at cleaning surfaces.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re always off the clock here.” Sloane kissed her. “This is home. No shifts. No clocks. No checkout.”

“No checkout,” Iris agreed.

They never did fix the risotto. They ordered Thai food twice a week for the rest of the year. And on the night Sloane finally got it right — creamy, perfectly al dente, finished with parmesan and a squeeze of lemon — they ate it at the counter, standing, the way Iris liked.

And afterward, they christened the counter again.

Because some traditions are worth repeating.

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