I didn't order food because I was hungry.
I ordered because I wanted him to deliver it.
Ever since I saw his profile pop up on the app—Rico, with that smirk that looked like it belonged in a music video, not delivering Thai food in the middle of a heatwave—I had been timing my orders just right. Always late. Always something spicy. Always asking for “no contact delivery,” knowing full well I'd open the door half-naked anyway.
Tonight, I answered in just a towel. Nothing underneath.
Rico raised an eyebrow, standing there in his tank top, glistening with sweat from the ride.
“Pad kee mao?” he asked, handing me the brown paper bag.
I took the bag, but my fingers lingered. “You ever give it to someone raw?” I asked, eyes locked with his.
He laughed, low and smooth. “Depends. You asking about spice levels or something else?”
I stepped aside. “Why don't you come in and find out?”
He didn't hesitate. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and we didn't even make it to the kitchen. The bag of food hit the floor as his hands found my waist, the towel dropping as easily as the words from my mouth:
“I want it raw. No filters. No games. Just you.”
Rico pinned me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine, his fingers rough and greedy. His breath smelled like basil and chili, his body heat hotter than the food still in the bag. I could feel him growing through his sweats, thick and ready.
“Tell me what you want,” he growled.
“I want you inside me. Now. No teasing.”
And he gave it to me—just like I asked.
Raw.
Hungry.
Unapologetic.
The kind of delivery you can't track on an app.