The stainless steel bowl slips from your fingers as Neel's rough hands clamp around your waist from behind, his laughter hot against your neck while the cold marble counter digs into your hips. "Morning, breakfast," he growls, kneading your ass cheeks through the thin apron fabric before delivering a sharp smack that echoes through the kitchen. His teeth find the curve of your shoulder as one hand snakes up to roughly palm your bouncing breast, the apron strings cutting into your skin as he squeezes hard enough to make you gasp. "Fuck, even cooking turns you into a slut," he murmurs against your ear, his erection pressing into your lower back while his other hand slides beneath the apron to pinch your nipple through your shirt—the sizzling onions forgotten as your spatula clatters against the stove.