The silence between us is heavy, charged, something unspoken hanging in the air.
I reach for my jeans at the same time he speaks.
"Stay." His voice is quiet but firm.
I hesitate, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Almost midnight. My shift starts at four.
“It’s late,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “And I’m serving orgasms and breakfast in bed in the morning.” There’s something different in his voice now. Something softer, less guarded. A flicker of something in his expression—vulnerability, maybe.
But just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes.
“Okay,” I lie.
We slip under the sheets, facing each other. The bed is warm, the space between us charged with something thick and heavy. I reach over, flicking off the bedside lamp. Darkness settles around us, but I can still make out the sharp angles of his face, the way his eyes catch the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the window.
It’s strangely intimate. Hell, the entire night was. For two people who don’t even know each other’s names, this feels like something it shouldn’t. He watches me, a half-smile playing at his lips. Then, slowly, he reaches out, his fingertips and brushes them against my mouth, chin, and jaw.
His touch is featherlight, just barely there, but it sets my skin on fire. His fingers trail lower, down my throat, lingering over my pulse, where my heartbeat pounds wildly beneath his touch.
I wonder if he can feel it. I wonder if he knows what he’s doing to me.
His hand rests there for a moment, still and warm, before his muscles loosen, his body softening beside me.
Exhaustion burns at the edges of my vision, but I fight it. Every cell in my body is vibrating with the memory of what just happened between us, and I can still feel his touch lingering on my skin. Trouble's breaths beside me are like a lullaby, but they also remind me of what I have to do next—get out before he asks me to.
I carefully slip out of the bed, trying not to disturb him. As much as I want to stay, I know it's best if I leave now, beforethings get too complicated. This was by far the most mind-blowing sexual experience I've ever had, and part of me wants to cling onto it forever. But deep down, I know that these intense moments always end in heartache for me.
As I hastily dress and make my way out, my mind races with all the past mistakes I've made in situations like this—all those times where I let myself fall too hard for someone who was never meant to stay. It's humiliating and painful every time, and I refuse to let it happen again.
So, I'll leave now, before he even has to ask me to. Because as much as I want to wake up tangled in his sheets, pretending we have something special, I know it's just temporary bliss that will inevitably end in heartbreak.
Chapter Four
Iusually love going to work in the early hours of the morning, before the world wakes up. No busy banquets, no new orders coming in, no people to distract me. Today, not so much.
This morning, it’s me, three hours of sleep, and a kitchen that feels like a battleground. No amount of coffee is enough. At this point, I need to get struck by a bolt of lightning.
I’m standing here, with a foot still caught in a hazy dream. Heat presses against my cheeks as I slide the last tray of dough into the oven. The warmth tingles over my skin, and suddenly, I’m back in the stranger’s hotel room, the ghost of his fingertips trailing fire over every inch of me. I still feel the soft bite of his teeth on my bottom lip, the hot sting of his hand across my skin. A slow, throbbing ache tightens between my thighs. My body hums with the memory, a lingering buzz I can’t seem to shake. I keep replaying every moment of it and find myself wanting more.
I have a sex hangover. Abangover.
“What in the world are you smiling at this early in the morning?” Arlene, the head pastry chef, walks in with a clipboard pressed against her uniform.
“Great sex,” I sigh.
“Oh, what’s that?” She laughs. “New boyfriend?”
I grab two gallons of milk and head to the mixer to start on the croissant dough. “Nope, a total stranger.” When I glance up, her expression is a bit more startled than necessary. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a one-night stand before.”
“I’ve been married for twenty-eight years. I don’t remember what sex even feels like.”
I pour another two gallons of milk into the mixer. “That’s tragic, Arlene.”
“No, it isn’t.You’venever had to have sex with Earl. Believe me, I’m lucky.” She leans against the counter, checking the pantry for stock completely forgotten. “How did you meet this total stranger?”
“I met him at the Rum and Room.” I pour in the last gallon of milk and head to get some ice water. It’s unusually warm in the kitchen this morning, the dough will need it.
“Well, it suits you,” she says.
