38. Elena #2
The way his body moves against mine, taking control with every thrust, pushing me higher…
it feels too good. My fingers grip the brittle twigs beneath us, knees shaking as he finds a steady, relentless rhythm.
His hands move over my breasts, teasing my nipples through the thin fabric of my chef's jacket.
“Fuck, Elena,” he groans, his voice rough, almost feral.
Every thrust sends sparks through me, building to a crescendo.
My body tightens, the pressure coiling until it snaps, and I come hard, a shuddering release that rips a cry from my throat.
It’s exactly what I needed, the tension unraveling in waves, leaving me gasping, my body pulsing around him.
But I’m not done. I need all of him. “Dorian,” I pant, glancing back at him, his face taut with restraint. “Finish. Inside me.”
He hesitates, his thrusts slowing for a moment, and then he leans forward, his lips brushing my neck. “This is such a mistake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conflict and desire.
“I don’t care,” I gasp, pushing back against him, urging him on. “I need—”
I don't have to finish my sentence before I hear a branch snap, followed by a shocked gasp.
* * *
"What in the—" Judge Parker's voice cuts through my haze like ice water.
Time stalls.
Dorian and I scramble apart, breathless and tangled.
My chef’s jacket is tousled to hell, and my pants are bunched awkwardly around the backs of my knees.
His shirt hangs open, and he's pantless, his manhood exposed.
We fumble to fix ourselves, hands shaking, faces flushed from the sex and being caught.
But it’s too late. The scene is unmistakable. Indefensible.
“I knew it,” Parker says, each word steeped in smug triumph. “I told you they were together before the competition.”
Judge Chen stands just behind him, her expression shifting from shock to disappointment. “Ms. Avery,” she says evenly, “this is a direct violation of the competition’s code of conduct. Any intimate relationship between a contestant and a judge is grounds for immediate disqualification.”
“You’re out,” Parker adds, enjoying every syllable.
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. Disqualified. All my work, all my preparation, all my dreams. Gone in an instant of weakness.
"You can't—" I start, but Chen raises a hand to stop me.
"The rules are clear, Elena. I'm sorry."
Dorian straightens his jacket, his face unreadable. "This is as much my fault as hers," he begins.
Chen inclines her head, her voice careful but firm as she cuts him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Beaumont, we can’t turn a blind eye to this. The integrity of the festival is everything. I hope you understand."
They turn and leave as Dorian and I stand in horrible silence among the bushes. The moment that had been so urgent just minutes ago now feels sordid and foolish.
"Elena, I—" Dorian starts.
"Don't," I cut him off, trying to straighten my chef's jacket. "Just... don't."
I expect him to argue, to offer some comfort or solution. Instead, he gives me one last unreadable look and walks away, leaving me alone among the rhododendron.
* * *
When I return to my station, moving on autopilot, my beautiful tart sits cooled on the rack, the fruits arranged in preparation for the final assembly I'll never complete.
A commotion at the entrance of the competition area draws my attention. Pierre strides toward me, his face a thundercloud.
"Pierre? What are you doing here?" I ask stupidly.
“What am I doing here?” he repeats, his accent thickening with emotion. “I told you I’d be back in time for the final. I was watching the competition and I just got a call that my apprentice was caught in a compromising position with a judge and disqualified. And you ask what I’m doing here?”
The nearby contestants pretend not to listen, but their stiff postures give them away.
“I was just… packing up,” I manage, my voice flat, detached from my own body.
“Good,” he mutters. Then he leans in, his voice a harsh whisper. “This is a small town, Elena. In an hour, everyone will know what happened. I can’t have that kind of scandal tied to my bakery. Do you have any idea how disappointed I am? I had high hopes for you.”
The words don’t register at first. My brain stalls.
"You're… firing me?"
“Effective immediately,” he says without hesitation. “I want you out of the apartment by tomorrow.” He straightens his cuffs.
The blow lands before I can brace for it. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the edge of the table. Not just disqualified, but fired. Homeless. Everything gone in a single, stupid hour.
“But—it wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” I stammer, but the words feel weightless.
Pierre just shakes his head. The disappointment rolling off him feels heavier than anger. “I thought you were different, Elena. I thought you understood what it meant to be a professional.”
Then he turns and walks away, without another glance. No goodbye. No forgiveness.
I stand there, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the festival continuing without me. My vision blurs, hot tears slipping down my cheeks as I slide the rolling pin I'd brought for good luck into my bag, right next to my everyday clothes.
When I sling the bag over my shoulder and glance up, I catch James watching me from his station, frozen, eyes wide with confusion and something that looks like heartbreak. He doesn’t say a word.
Cole is nowhere to be seen.
Neither is Dorian.