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Kitchen is not for profit. It’s for my black heart.
Some waste away their life wondering what is wrong with them? Why are they different…
I don’t participate in such a useless waste of time.
I know what’s wrong with me.
I know what’s broken.
I’ve faced my demons.
I’ve danced and fought with them.
And now they are a part of me.
Part of my heartless soul.
The buzz of the kitchen greets my ears as I step inside, lurking in the shadows while watching the show in front of me. This is what calms me down, what lays my demons to rest.
My team is the best of the best—as if you could expect anything less from Kira fucking Clark.
Every member works as a delicate detail in a Swiss clock, aiding each other for the final result. And watching them prepare meal after meal, yelling out orders, and setting timers is what brings me pleasure.
Pleasure, not happiness…
I don’t dream of happiness. I don’t expect it. I simply know it doesn’t exist. It was ripped away from me from the moment I took my first breath. I drew the short end of the stick in life, but I refused to keep it like that. No, I’ve nourished it and grown it by ten-fold.
Only the fuel for the growth was my anger. My fury. My determination. Hatred…and so much fucking pain…
Not happiness.
But I’m not complaining. I am who I am and that is the most successful entrepreneur slash chef in the world. Because being cold and unfeeling is a whole lot better than living in the shadows of the horrors that was my childhood.
What is wrong with me tonight? Why do I keep venturing into the deep ends of my consciousness when none of those years are welcomed in my mind?
I need to snap the fuck out of it and boss someone around. Right on queue, my gaze sets on my Sous-chef, Vassar Levidis. My favorite toy in this kitchen and the very much unwilling, yet silent stress-reliever.
The man is gorgeous by anyone’s assessment, but that is not what draws me to him. Not his dark brown hair and matching eyes. Not his athletic build and Greek roots. Not the way his fingers slide across the tender cut of meat or the way he bringsthat tasting spoon to his mouth, licking it sensually as if we are in some porno, not a Michelin star kitchen.
Okay, I am a big fat liar because all that definitely turns me the fuck on and draws me to play these games with him.
I love watching him from the shadows when he isn’t aware of me. When he moves freely, flexing his arms every time he is assembling a new dish, making those dexterous fingers play around on the plate while my pussy feels their movement on herself. I love watching his eyes shut with pleasure as he moans quietly while tasting something new.
And don’t get me started on the way he squeezes and pours sauces into things. The way he brings that dispenser to his shoulder and squeezes from the distance, making it squirt down to the bowl, and my pussy always fights me for a chance to do the same and for that man to squeeze me.
But that won’t ever happen.
Will I sexualize him? Watch him enough to make myself come late at night while screaming his name? Yes, fuck yes. But sleep with him?
No. Never. I don’t shit where I eat. I don’t fraternize with my employees. It’s hard enough to fight off random people—tonight’s dick is the prime example.
Not that he would ever go there with me, either. That man hates me as much as I hate the world. He might be the only one who could not care any less for my status and definitely wouldn’t chase me even if I paid him. Well, maybe if it was a quest to kill me, then he’d do it.
And his ridiculous sexual cooking is not really whatdrawsme to him.
No. What fascinates me is his character. Because I’ve never seen one like his. No one other than myself.
I always wonder how far can I push until he snaps. He has to snap. No one has as much control as I do. No one is impenetrable as I am.
