Page 20
“My mother taught me how to cook,” she says. “I put myself through culinary school, worked, and everything has led me here.” Her hands skim my chest. “Where I get to seduce my boss before I let him taste next week’s special.”
“Is that so?” I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her flush against me.
“It is.” She giggles when I trace a hand over her side. “It’s probably not safe to keep having sex in here. Someone could walk in on us.”
“I told you we could do this in my place.”
“Your place doesn’t have all the right spices and tools for a dish this complex. Do you even use that kitchen for anything but coffee?”
I lean down and nuzzle her neck, groaning at the scent of her. “Now that I’ve got an expert chef seducing me, maybe I’ll have better guidance on what to do in there.”
She tilts her head, giving me room to explore. “Maybe. We’ll see if you can convince me.”
She gasps when I spin her around, pull her back against my chest, and kiss her nape. She moans as my hand roams over her. I’m hard as a rock, and she’s trembling by the time I shove her dress up, drag her panties down, and bury my cock inside her.
I slap a hand over her mouth when she cries out, arching into me.
The restaurant is empty. It’s also the middle of the afternoon on a Monday in a building with seventy-five men in it. The doors aren’t locked, and anyone could walk through them. Fuck, just the thought of someone rounding that corner and finding her like this—flushed, jacket open, my hand across her mouth—makes my cock jerk inside of her, hard enough to hurt.
She feels it. Of course she feels it. And she pushes back against me with a sound I’ve never heard out of her before.
“You’re mine,” I say possessively, turning her head to kiss her as I hammer into her. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she sobs, arching into me.
Hell, she looks so fucking good in her whites. And she likes this—likes the door, likes the hour, likes what would happen if it opened—and she’d never say so, and she doesn’t have to.
Things between us are easy, perfect even. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
I’ve never let myself get attached. I kept things with the women I slept with superficial and clean, all the cards on the table, no complications. Even with the Aces, my family, there’s a line I hold between being their president and being their brother. Everything I do is measured.
With her, I let go. She gives me space to do so.
How could I not fall in love with her?
I chase her release with mine, hammering into her as I seek to mark her.
Mine.
Deacon Cassidy spent my childhood telling me a bond like this makes a man weak. He got that wrong.
Chapter Seven
Margot
“Great job, everyone!”
A series of “Goodnight, Chef,” “Have a great night, Chef,” and “See you tomorrow, Chef” rings out as people file out of the kitchen, bags in hand and tired looks on their faces. I’ve no doubt most are going to faceplant on whatever flat surface they find first when they get home.
I lean against the prep counter and survey the kitchen. Each station has been meticulously wiped down and sanitized. Pots and pans have been scrubbed and stacked with military precision. The lingering scent of roasted garlic and caramelized onions floats in the air, seemingly a permanent fixture in here.
Fridays are always like this—reservations full, walk-ins stacked at the host stand hoping to find a table in what has become one of the most popular spots in town. It keeps the staff on their feet for hours, and it’s a good thing Bishop pays them like he knows it.
Even thinking about the man brings a smile to my lips.
“What are you smiling at, Chef?”
My head shoots up. Hell, I thought everyone had cleared out.
