I slipped behind the velvet curtain near the service station, past racks of extra dishware and clinking trays, ignoring the arched brow from the pastry chef plating mini éclairs. The kitchen buzzed with soft movement—metal, steam, the distant whirr of a mixer—and somewhere beyond it, just past the scent of sugar and the soft hum of classical music, I saw him.
Silas.
He didn’t wait for me to call out. Just reached, caught my wrist, and pulled me through a half-open storage door.
The lock clicked behind us.
And the second the latch caught, the air changed.
It wasn’t quiet. We could still hear the bustle of the bakery on the other side of the door—voices, laughter, music.
But in here, it was just us.
Crates of powdered sugar lined the walls. A rack of fondant mats stood in the corner. Light from a narrow window sliced across the floor in a golden line, dust motes dancing in it like secrets.
And then he was on me.
Mouth crashing to mine with the kind of hunger that made thought impossible. That made the world tilt and narrow and disappear. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my back, my thighs—like he couldn’t touch me fast enough. Like he’d been starved and I was the first breath of air.
“You didn’t come,” I gasped against his mouth, even as my fingers fumbled for the hem of his shirt.
“I couldn’t,” he breathed.
His mouth was at my throat now, teeth scraping, tongue tasting. “But you waited, didn’t you?”
I hated how much that truth lived in my silence.
We tore at each other like the world was ending. Like maybe it already had.
He spun me, pressing me against a stack of boxed cake rounds, one hand yanking my skirt up, the other freeing himself with practiced desperation. His fingers slid between my legs, testing, teasing, finding me slick and furious and ready.
“You’re soaked,” he growled, voice ragged.
“Shut up,” I hissed, dragging him forward.
He sank into me with a groan so deep I felt it in my ribs.
The first thrust stole my breath.
The second made me bite his shoulder to keep from screaming.
This was madness. Heat and hunger and chaos. A storage closet orgasm waiting to happen.
We moved in rhythm, in defiance, in worship. My hands gripped his shoulders, my thighs locked around his hips. He moved with the kind of brutal tenderness that felt like an apology wrapped in violence. And when I came, it was silent and shattering, my body clenching around him as he cursed and followed, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to mine.
We stood there, breathing like we’d survived something.
Maybe we had.
Minutes passed before I could form words.
“This can’t keep happening,” I whispered. “We can’t do this anymore.”
Silas didn’t move.
“You didn’t come to the hotel last night. I thought—maybe—I could finally breathe. But then you walked into this shop, and I forgot how to fucking stand still.”
He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. And what I saw there made my stomach twist.
