“Executive decision: Kitchen’s closing early for private tasting menu. Reservations for one. No walk-ins. Chef’s choice only, and trust me... you’re going to want seconds.”
Send.
I reach for the special chili oil I’ve been saving. Dragon pepper infusion, six months aged, catches light like liquid ruby. Two drops on my pulse points. One between my breasts. The scent that makes Tovek’s control slip.
My phone buzzes three times rapid-fire.
“On my way.”
“Don’t move.”
“Lock the door.”
I smile and get to work. Oil on the dresser, bed turned down, candle lit. By the time his key hits the lock, I’m stretched across our bed in just underwear, one hand trailing along my stomach.
The door opens with authority. Tovek in the doorway, chef’s whites with the jacket open, eyes dark and hungry.
“You closed the restaurant.”
“Kitchen’s secured. Greta’s got the bar.” His hand finds my ankle, warm and calloused. “You’re wearing my favorite underwear.”
“Not for long, if you play your cards right.”
His pupils dilate. Then he’s on me, weight pressing me into the mattress. “What exactly did you have in mind, Hot Pot?”
I work at his jeans. “Thought we’d take the night off. Just us. No restaurants, no responsibilities, no prep lists.” My hand finds him through his boxers. Already hard. “Just you, me, and the things we’ve been too tired to do for three weeks.”
His breath catches. “Fuck. Mei, I need?—”
“I know exactly what you need.” I work his jeans down his massive thighs, lower my head to the sensitive spot above his waistband, taste him through thin cotton.
Immediate effect. His back arches, hand in my hair, sound halfway between groan and my name. I work his boxers down. His cock springs free, massive and leaking.
“So.” I wrap my hand around him, stroke twice. “About those noods I promised. Hand-pulled or machine-made?”
He laughs, breathless. “Are you seriously making noodle jokes right now?”
“Always. It’s kind of my brand.”
“Your brand is going to kill me.”
“What a way to go, though.” I shimmy out of my underwear. “Death by chef. Very dramatic. Greta would approve.”
“Greta is the last person I want to think about right now.”
“Fair.” I straddle him, feel his cock brush my entrance. Already wet. “How about you think about this instead?”
I sink down in one smooth motion. We both groan. The stretch is intense—I feel it everywhere, fullness that blurs my vision—but it’s the good kind.
“Fuck.” My forehead drops to his chest. “You’re so big.”
His hand finds my back. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
“No time. Three weeks to make up for, remember?”
He laughs. Then his hands are on my hips, guiding, and we find our rhythm. Not desperate urgency or focused intensity, but something more fundamental. Recognition that this is real, that we’re choosing each other, that it matters.
Heat builds at the base of my spine. Orgasm approaching, body tightening around him. I’m aware of everything—his hands on my hips, the way he adjusts for my smaller frame, the sound he makes when I clench just right.
