"Your kitchen has been... enlightening," he said to Silas.
Silas rolled his eyes dramatically. "I bet. Next time, try the storage closet like everyone else."
I buried my face in my hands. "Silas, please."
"What?" He shrugged, setting down his tray and rearranging the éclairs that had shifted during his entrance. "I'm just saying, some of us have to work on these surfaces. With food. That people eat."
Krampus released me slowly, his claw dragging along my hip in a possessive gesture that promised this interruption was temporary at best. He stepped back, creating distance between us that felt both necessary and unbearable.
"We'll continue our... discussion... later," he said, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made fresh heat spiral through me despite my mortification.
I could only nod, not trusting my voice to form coherent words. He turned to leave, at the door, he paused, casting one final, lingering look over his shoulder, a look that contained such blatant promise my heart stuttered.
Then he was gone, leaving behind only the certainty that everything had changed.
Silas waited approximately three seconds before rounding on me, his expression a mixture of horror and delight. "Sweet infernal hellfire, Simone! When I said you should climb him like a Christmas tree, I didn't mean in my kitchen!"
But I barely heard him. My fingers traced my lips, still tingling from Krampus's kiss, while my mind raced ahead to whatever "later" might bring. One thing was certain, this was no longer just about keeping my job. It was about figuring out how to navigate the dangerous, thrilling waters between professional ambition and personal desire.
And based on the heat still pulsing between my thighs, desire was currently winning by a landslide.
Chapter five
Simone
The café after hours was a different creature entirely, softer, quieter, its magic settling into corners like cats finding comfortable spots for the night. I moved through the familiar space in near-darkness, only the dim lights above the counter and the faint glow from the never-extinguished hearth guiding my path. Someone, probably Bramble with her romantic soul, had set the hidden speakers to play soft jazz that curled through the empty room. The music's gentle rhythm matched the steady movements of my hands as I broke down the espressomachine for its nightly cleaning, my mind finally unwinding after a day spent performing for an audience of supernatural beings and one particularly observant demon.
Silas and Bramble had left an hour ago, their usual bickering fading into the snowy night. I'd stayed behind, using the excuse of inventory but really just craving the quiet companionship of the empty café. Here, alone with the creaking floorboards and softly twitching garlands, I could finally relax and just be Simone.
I hummed along with the saxophone solo floating from the speakers, my fingers working automatically to disassemble the portafilters and group heads for cleaning. The familiar task was meditative, requiring just enough attention to quiet my racing thoughts but not so much that I couldn't appreciate the rare moment of peace. I froze, brush suspended over the machine's gleaming surface, suddenly aware I wasn't alone.
He materialized behind me in an instant, heat radiated from him in waves, burning through my dress as if the fabric didn't exist. He didn't touch me but I felt him, the weight of his presence pressing against my back, the warmth of his breath stirring the curls near my ear.
"You missed a spot," he said.
"Did I?"
"Here." His arm reached around me, massive and corded with muscle, his clawed hand engulfing mine on the cleaning brush.
The contact sent electricity skittering across my skin. His chest pressed against my back as he guided my hand to a section of the machine I'd apparently neglected. His body curved around mine. I could feel the buttons of his vest pressing into my shoulder blades, the hard planes of his torso against my spine, the subtle shift of muscle as he adjusted his stance.
"Like this," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear as he guided my hand in slow circles. "Gentle but firm. Consistent pressure."
His words could have been about cleaning, but the way they rumbled against my ear, intimate and suggestive, made it clear we'd moved beyond discussions of proper espresso machine maintenance. My breath hitched, catching on nothing as heat pooled low in my belly. His other hand settled at my waist, claws pressing lightly through the fabric of my dress.
"The water pressure needs adjusting," he said, reaching for the machine's control dial. The movement pressed me more firmly against him, my back to his chest, my hips against the solid wall of his thighs. Something hard and unmistakable pressed against the small of my back.
Oh.
My heart hammered against my ribs, every nerve ending felt electrified, hyperaware of each point where our bodies connected. His claws skimmed over the machine's controls, making adjustments with surprising delicacy for hands so large and dangerous.
"You tremble whenever I'm near," he observed, his voice a dark velvet caress against my ear. The hand at my waist slid slightly higher, resting just beneath the curve of my breast without quite touching it. A promise. A question.
I swallowed hard, struggling to form words when my brain seemed to have stopped. "Maybe you just have that effect on people."
To my surprise, he laughed, warm and rich. "Not people," he corrected, his thumb tracing small circles just below my ribs. "You."
"Is this part of your evaluation?" I asked, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "My espresso machine cleaning technique?"
