“Olivier. You can’t keep waiting for the perfect situation to fall into your lap,” Lazlo sighs. “The perfect boy who lives around the corner, has a nine-to-five, and can handle your work schedule. That boy doesn’t exist.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“Do you?” Lazlo presses. “Because you’ve been single for years, waiting for everything to line up just right. And yeah, you’ve been hurt before. Weallhave. But this one… he’s got you thinking like this after one night. That means something.”
I exhale, long and slow. “Long distance is impossible with my hours. You know that. I’m here until two, three in the morning most nights. Up at ten if I’m lucky. When would we even see each other?”
“You’d figure it out if he mattered enough,” Lazlo says simply. “And if he doesn’t… then you enjoy the time you have and let it be what it is. But don’t close the door before you’ve even opened it.”
I nod, but inside I’m conflicted.
The last boy I let in—yearsago—bailed the moment my schedule became too much. Said he felt like a side dish, never the main course. It gutted me. I threw myself into the restaurant even harder after that. Built walls. Kept things casual.
Danny doesn’t feel casual.
He feels like the kind of boy I could fall for.Hard.
Lazlo claps me on the shoulder. “Go home, chef. Get some rest. And for God’s sake, at least fantasize about him tonight. You look like you’re about to explode.”
I laugh despite myself. “Get out of here, you old perv.”
Lazlo winks and heads out, the door chiming softly behind him. Antonio and the rest of the staff leave too, each and every one of them having put in another incredible shift.
“Great work team,” I holler, holding my hands up in praise as they all bid me goodnight. “Back for another one tomorrow. We go again!”
“Yes, Chef!” they all roar in unison as they depart.
I lock up, turn off the lights, and stand in the quiet dining room for a long moment. The tables are bare, chairs tucked in, the faint scent of thyme and garlic still lingering.
Tomorrow Danny might show up for that lunch box.
Or he might not.
Either way, Lazlo’s right about one thing—I’m going to be thinking about him all night.
I head upstairs to my penthouse apartment above the restaurant, the familiar creak of the steps under my feet. The place is small, sleek, and all mine: exposed brick, big windows overlooking the street, a king bed I rarely share and a roof terrace to die for.
I strip off my shirt, kick off my shoes, and head to the shower. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I brace one hand against the tile, letting my head hang.
“Danny…” I mutter.
And just like that, the fantasy starts.
Danny, on his knees in my kitchen after hours. Those massive shoulders bare, head bowed, waiting for instruction. His big, strong butt is on display too, tanned and perfectly round.
I slip into the fantasy with ease, walking around my kneeling Little, his cock standing to attention, thick and veiny as I eye it up like a prime cut of beef.
“Good boy,” I murmur, tipping his chin up so he has to meet my eyes. “You behaved tonight?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Soft, breathy.Needy.
I groan under my breath as my shower gel-covered hand wraps around my cock, already hard and aching from the mere thought of a naked Danny presenting himself for me, his Daddy.
I picture tormenting him slowly—touching and teasing inch after inch of thick muscle. Kissing down his chest, tasting salt and skin. Watching him tremble when I mouth over his nipples.
He’d be so responsive. Every touch would make him gasp, make him arch. I’d work him open slow, fingers slick, whispering praise the whole time.
“You’re doing so well, baby boy. Taking Daddy’s fingers like you were made for it.”
