"If anyone breathes wrong tonight, I will personally ensure they never work in this city again."
Maxwell's voice slices through the pre-service chaos like a katana through warm butter, and every line cook in the kitchen develops sudden-onset perfect posture.
Critics' dinner.
The two words that make grown chefs cry into their mise en place.
I've been julienning vegetables for six hours straight, my fingers moving on autopilot while my brain catalogs every time Maxwell passes behind me.
The brush of his shoulder against mine when he reaches for the salt. His hand steadying my elbow when I pivot too quickly near the flames. The way his breath disturbs my hair when he leans in to inspect my knife work.
Every touch feels deliberate. Calculated. Like he's testing how long before I crack and do something stupid like grab him by his chef's coat and demand he rail me against the walk-in door.
Professional. I am a professional.
Professionals don't fantasize about their boss during critics' dinner.
Professionals don't—
"Delacroix, behind," he murmurs, and his chest brushes my back as he reaches over me for the microplane.
Professionals are definitely going to need new underwear after this shift.
By the time the last pretentious foam-topped whatever leaves the pass, I'm wound tighter than Spanx on a Kardashian. The kitchen empties in waves—exhausted line cooks stumbling toward freedom, servers counting tips with shaking hands, Adrian slinking away like the snake he is.
Maxwell catches my eye across the empty kitchen.
Holds it for a beat. Two. Three.
Then he turns and walks toward his office without a word.
What was that? Was that something? That felt like something.
I should go home. Should definitely not read anything into that look. Should absolutely not follow him to his office like some horny protagonist in a romance novel.
Instead, I head to the staff showers because I smell like I've been marinating in brown butter and sexual frustration for twelve hours.
The shower room is industrial and depressing, but the water pressure is divine, and right now I need scalding water to wash away the memory of Maxwell's hands and Jared's mouth and Kobe's everything.
What am I doing?
The question bounces off the tiles as I strip, leaving my sweat-soaked uniform in a heap. Three men. I'm involved with three men who could destroy me professionally, emotionally, and probably sexually if they put their minds to it.
Maxwell, who looks at me like I'm a particularly complex recipe he's determined to master.
Jared, who learned sign language for my sister and transfers fifty thousand dollars like he's Venmoing for coffee.
Kobe, who drops his mask just for me and makes me feel like I'm worth being real for.
The water hits my shoulders, and I groan at the perfect temperature. Steam rises immediately, fogging the small space, and I let my head fall back under the spray.
This is insane. This is going to end in disaster.
Someone's going to get hurt—probably me—and I'll lose my job and have to explain to future employers why I can't get a reference from Lumière and—
The door opens and my entire body freezes. The kitchen's been empty for twenty minutes. Everyone's gone.
Through the steam, I see him.
Maxwell stands in the doorway, already shirtless, hands on the waistband of his chef's pants. His grey eyes find mine through the mist, dark and hungry and completely unapologetic.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out breathless, betraying every thought I've been having.
"Showering." He pushes his pants down in one fluid motion, and Jesus Christ, the man is built like a Greek statue that went to CrossFit. "Problem?"
Yes. No. Maybe. My brain has left the building.
"There are other shower stalls," I manage, though my eyes are definitely not looking at his face right now.
"There are." He steps into my stall, crowds me back against the tile, water cascading over his shoulders. "I don't want them."
"Maxwell…"
"I've been watching you all night." His hand comes up to trace my jaw, thumb brushing water from my bottom lip. "Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over that prep station in front of everyone?"
Oh God.
"The cameras…"
"I'm very aware of the cameras in the kitchen." His other hand grips my hip, pulls me flush against him, and I can feel exactly how affected he is. "That's why I waited. That's why I'm here now. No cameras. No witnesses. Just us."
"This is a bad idea," I whisper, even as my hands come up to his chest, fingers tracing the defined muscles there.
He crowds me against tile, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding down my stomach with agonizing slowness. Steam rises so thick I can barely see the wall behind him, can barely see anything except those grey eyes burning through the white.
Then his mouth crashes into mine, and his tongue slides against mine as water pours over us both, steam rising so thick I can barely see the walls.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my waist, sliding up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I'm gasping into his mouth. When he drops to his knees, water streaming down his back, I nearly collapse.
"I've imagined this," he growls, pressing hot kisses to my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. "Every fucking day for two years. You spread open for me. Begging."
"Max, please—"
"Tell me what you want." He looks up at me through the water and steam, grey eyes nearly black. "Use your words, Raegan."
"Your mouth. I want your mouth on me."
His grin is pure sin. "Good girl."
Then his tongue is on me, in me, and my head falls back against the tile hard enough to hurt.
He eats me out like he cooks—with absolute precision and devastating skill. His tongue circles my clit before diving inside, then back up, finding a rhythm that has me climbing embarrassingly fast.
"Oh God, oh fuck, I'm—"
He pulls back just before I tumble over the edge, and I actually whimper.
"Not yet." He rises, spinning me around so I'm facing the wall. "Hands on the tile."
I obey, placing my palms flat against the cold surface. He kicks my legs wider, one hand sliding around to my stomach while the other grips my hip, positioning himself at my entrance.
When he pushes in slowly, I feel every inch, and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming and exactly what I needed.
"Fuck, you're tight." His voice is wrecked. "So perfect. Like you were made for me."
He starts to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate and deep. Water streams between us, steam clouds everything, and all I can focus on is the feeling of him inside me, the sound of our bodies meeting, the way his breath catches when I push back against him.
"Harder," I gasp. "Please, Max, harder."
His control snaps. His hips slam into me with bruising force, one hand sliding around to circle my clit while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside that makes me see stars, and combined with his fingers on my clit, I'm racing toward the edge again.
"That's it," he growls in my ear. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
His rhythm turns brutal, relentless, and I'm about to shatter when a thought surfaces through the haze.
I've always wanted to do this.
I shatter. The orgasm rips through me so hard my knees buckle, and only his arm around my waist keeps me upright. My body clenches around him, and he curses, his rhythm faltering.
"Raegan, fuck, I'm—"
I reach back, thread my fingers through his wet hair, and pull hard.
The sound he makes is inhuman. His hips slam into me one last time, burying himself deep as he comes, my name on his lips like a prayer.
I feel him pulse inside me, his whole body shuddering against my back, and it triggers another smaller orgasm that leaves me gasping.
We stay there for a moment, both panting, water still pouring over us, steam so thick it's like we're in our own world.