Shit. I'd fallen asleep.
I bolted upright, heart hammering against my ribs. “Stupid, stupid,” I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands. Between the tossing and turning all last night, the workout with Carter, and then getting pounded into the mattress by the duke, I'd just fallen asleep during a session with a client.
Career highlight right there, Bennett.
The Master's words from orientation echoed in my mind: “Remember, you're there to provide a service. Unless specifically requested, you leave when the service is complete.”
The bedroom was dark, and the Duke had vanished. I touched the sheets next to me. Cold. He'd been gone for a while.
The little clock by the bed showed 10:32PM. So I'd knocked out for a couple hours, I figured. Damn.
My muscles had that good kind of sore feeling when I moved, a nice reminder of what we'd been up to earlier. Just thinking about it got me hot again—how commanding he was, how intensely he'd focused on me, making me feel like I was being used but also like I mattered.
At the foot of the bed was a cotton robe, folded all neat, that definitely wasn't there before. I grabbed it and threw it around my naked body.
Following the light, I made my way through the villa, taking in details I'd missed earlier—the tasteful artwork, the subtle luxury of the furnishings. Everything was probably worth more than my entire life savings, which, let’s be real, was about as impressive as my cooking skills.
The kitchen emerged at the end of the hallway. And there, standing at the stove with his back to me, was the Grand Duke of Avaline. He wore only pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips, muscles flexing as he stirred something in a pot. The domestic scene was so at odds with the commanding presence he'd shown earlier that I found myself frozen in the doorway.
Instrumental jazz played softly from hidden speakers, while the aroma of garlic and herbs made my stomach growl.
Before I could decide whether to announce myself or sneak out, he turned and saw me. His face, serious in concentration a moment before, transformed with a smile that reached his eyes.
“You're awake,” he said, his accent lending elegance to the simple phrase.
“I—yeah. I'm sorry,” I blurted out, taking a half-step forward. Figures, I’d let myself panic at his sight. “I didn't mean to fall asleep. Total rookie move.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologize. You looked peaceful. I didn't have the heart to wake you.”
The kindness in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn’t the entitled client I’d prepared for, nor the intense lover I'd experienced earlier. This was something else, something disarmingly human.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing toward the stove. “I've made pasta. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but it’s edible.”
I hesitated. Was this part of the service? Being fed by a client felt like crossing some invisible line between transaction and... something else. But my stomach answered for me with an audible growl.
The Duke laughed, real laughter that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Curiosity overcame my uncertainty. “You cook?” I asked, ignoring how surprised I sounded.
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that so surprising?”
“A little,” I admitted, scratching my head. “Figured you'd have a personal chef for that, like a culinary army at your beck and call.”
I watched him stir the pasta, trying to reconcile this domestic scene with the commanding man who had tied me to his bed and fucked my brains out a couple hours ago. When I'd signed up for this job, I'd expected to be treated like a fancy escort: used for sex, maybe making small talk about safe topics, then dismissed until the next appointment.
The training sessions had drilled into us how to maintain boundaries, emphasizing that clients weren't looking for genuine connections, just the illusion of intimacy. “Remember,” Ibrahim had said during orientation, “they're paying for a fantasy, not a relationship.”
But watching my client cook for me—this wasn't in any of the training scenarios. This wasn't maintaining professional distance.
And the scariest part? I didn't want to maintain distance.
“At home, yes,” he turned back to the stove. “But I find cooking therapeutic. There's something satisfying about creating a meal with your own hands, don't you think?”
I moved closer, leaning against the counter. “I wouldn’t know. I burn water. My last attempt at spaghetti was a complete disaster. Pretty sure the smoke detectors still hate me.”
That earned me another laugh. “Really?”
“My brother was the cook in our family,” I explained, then immediately wished I hadn’t. Bringing up Casey felt like a violation somehow, like worlds colliding that weren’t meant to touch.
