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“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll be right in.”
He gives me a nod and disappears. Hurriedly, I try to conceal the semi currently in my pants, before shooting James a quick text.
Little tease. Just you wait till I get you all to myself again.
I head back inside to find Elle, while the half-finished video burns a hole in my pocket.
A few hours later,I’ve finally gotten through most of my prep list, my phone still weighing heavily against my thigh. James never replied to my message. Obviously, it’s a deliberate move, and it’s working wonders because I’m about ready to explode.
But for now, I keep my focus on anything else but her. It’s my turn to cook the staff meal. On the menu for today, is a kitchen sink pasta which consists of whatever ingredients I have on hand that need to be used.
Front-of-house staff start trickling in, some of their hellos are chipper, some more muted as they pass the kitchen to get to the staff room to change.
“Afternoon, chef.”
James’ voice is sunny, upbeat, and sofuckingdelectable I could cry.
Instead, I quirk a smile but don’t look up. “Afternoon, lavender.”
Finally catching a glance of her as she walks away I notice the strap of her bra under her white tank top is fuckinglavender.
Must be the same one as in the video and it takes everything in me not to abandon my post and follow her into the staff room.
I’m simply biding my time—I know exactly what I have planned for her.
Ten minutes later, most of the wait staff are busy filling salt shakers or whatever side job they’ve been assigned when I ring the bell, signaling that the staff meal is ready.
A collective mutter of half-cheers can be heard throughout the dining room. They file in one by one serving themselves a plate, thanking me, then heading back out to sit around the bar.
When it’s James' turn, she can’t keep from smiling, but I say nothing.
She thanks me, I give her a nod and she walks out, settling beside Gustavo at the bar.
But before she has time to take her first bite, I yank my phone out of my pocket and text her.
Dry storage. Now.
22
JAMES
My fork hovers somewhere in between the plate and my mouth, my heart jumping into my throat when I see a notification that Ozzy has just texted me. My body flares, my gut instinct telling me I should read it immediately. I give the pass a quick look, but Ozzy’s nowhere to be found.
Dropping my fork back on my plate with a clink, I bring my phone to my lap and bite my lip in anticipation while I unlock the screen, trying to be as subtle as I can.
Dry storage. Now.
Oh shit.
The effect is immediate. I’m so turned on right now, I can barely manage to breathe air into my lungs. I don’t know what he has planned for me but that little threat he sent after my video still pulses decadently inside of me.
I mumble something to Gustavo beside me about needing the restroom. Walking into the kitchen as casuallyas I can, I hope no one is paying too close attention to what I’m doing—being that the restrooms are actually on the other side of the restaurant.
When I’m sure I’m out of sight of my coworkers, I scurry to the dry storage. My heart beats wildly with exhilaration. I’m not even halfway into the dark space when Ozzy yanks me inside and slams me into the wall beside the metal shelving full of canned San Marzano tomatoes. They rattle just like my spine. But it doesn’t hurt, it only unlocks that desperate and needy part of me that only Ozzy seems to sate.
My mouth falls open on a gasp, the air pushed out of my lungs. Ozzy’s greedy hands are everywhere, digging into my breasts, my hips, thighs, groping my ass. It’s as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving a part of me untouched, and I feel the same, my hands as heated and hurried as his.
He catches my bottom lip with his teeth and tugs forcefully, kissing me with such possessive heat that I forget where we even are. There’s only him and I and this smoldering, brazen moment between us.
