Chapter 9
mei
Three weeks of not-quite moments, of evenings that run longer than they should, of his hand at the small of my back as I pass through the kitchen door. A touch that lasts a fraction of a second too long.
Three weeks of watching him from across the bar, of catching his eyes on mine when he thinks I don’t notice, of falling asleep thinking about how he says “Yes, Chef.”
Three weeks of agreeing to nothing, of acknowledging nothing, of pretending that whatever’s happening between us is contained by the four walls of the kitchen and the professional courtesy of “Let me know if I’ve overstepped.”
We’ve become fluent in each other’s silences.
The quiet that means he’s thinking through a problem, the breath he takes before delivering bad news, the hum that signals approval.
I know the exact moment his focus shifts from inventory to the dumpling I’m pleating, can read his shoulders when he’s three seconds from suggesting we call it a night.
He knows when I’m about to change the menu based on nothing more than a slight adjustment to the wok flame, can tell when I’m making an executive decision by how I push my hair back.
One evening that was definitively not nothing: he tastes a spoonful of the new chili oil, closes his eyes, and says “Fuck” with such reverence that I have to turn away.
Another night, he reaches past me for the soy sauce, his chest against my back, and we both freeze for one long, impossible moment before I step sideways with a casual “Watch it, Big Guy.”
A Sunday afternoon when he takes the knife from my hand, says “Like this” with such focused intensity, and for one brief, mad second I think he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t. I step back. He apologizes for “getting in my space.” I tell him it’s fine. We both know it’s not.
And then comes Thursday.
The bar closed for our weekly deep clean, the front room empty, the kitchen gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
We’re working side by side, scrubbing the range top, when my hand brushes his.
Not a brief contact but a deliberate slide.
My fingers against his palm, our skin warm where it touches.
We both freeze, caught in the tension that’s been building since that night with Grishnak, since the beef and the careful neutrality, since the agreement that we’re colleagues who matter to each other but in ways we’re not naming.
I should step back. I should make a joke about the range, about kitchen safety, about anything but the fact that I’ve spent three weeks thinking about the kiss in the closet, about the way he says my name, about how his mouth looks when he’s concentrating.
I should remember that this is business, that he’s my boss, that the partnership keeping me afloat is still new enough to shatter.
Instead, I turn my hand, palm up, and say, “I’ve been thinking about the storage closet.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and direct. “Me too,” he says, and there’s that note in his voice. Careful neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the heat underneath. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
The next moments exist in fragments. His hand in my hair, my back against the prep table, his mouth hot on my neck, my name in his mouth like he’s been saving it.
His hands are warm. Orcs run hot, he told me once, a casual observation about kitchen temperature.
Now they’re everywhere at once, cradling my face, spanning my waist, sliding under my shirt to the warm skin of my back.
“We should stop,” he says, his voice rough against my ear. “We said we wouldn’t—”
“I don’t care,” I manage, my fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt. “I don’t want to stop. Do you?”
He pauses, looking down at me with those unusual green eyes. “No,” he says finally. “But I need to know you’re sure. This isn’t—we can’t go back from this, Mei.”
Fear tightens in my chest. Or maybe recognition. He’s right. Once we cross this line, once we admit that whatever’s between us is more than professional respect or even friendship, there’s no going back to colleagues, to boss and employee, to the careful distance we’ve been maintaining.
“I’m sure,” I say, and mean it completely. “I want this. I want you.”
Something changes in his expression. Relief, maybe, or wonder.
Then his mouth finds mine again, harder this time, almost desperate.
His hands slide under my shirt, big enough to span my waist, warm enough to make me shiver despite the heat building under my skin.
I push his shirt off his shoulders, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. The pattern of his tribal scars, the dark hair that forms a line down his stomach, the cut muscles that flex as he lifts me onto the prep table.
“There’s so much of you,” I say, running my hands over his chest, feeling the heat of him under my palms. “Everywhere.”
He smiles, that quick flash of teeth and the subtle gleam of a tusk. “And not enough of you,” he says, his hand already working at the button of my jeans. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. About how you’d feel under my hands, how you’d taste.”
The words send a shock through my system. I’m already wet, already aching, the thin fabric of my underwear the only thing between his hand and where I need him most.
“Bedroom,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. “Now.”
He nods, already lifting me off the table, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back.
I should protest. I’m not exactly light, and we’re three floors up.
But there’s something about being carried, about the strength in his arms and the focused heat in his eyes, that makes my brain go quiet in a way that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the man currently carrying me up the stairs.
His bedroom is exactly what I expected. Sparse but not sterile, with the organization of someone who appreciates efficiency.
A bed that’s probably standard for an orc but looks enormous from my perspective, a dresser with more drawers than any one person needs, a window with the curtains drawn against the early evening light.
He sets me down carefully, and for one brief moment we just look at each other.
His chest rising and falling with each breath, my fingers still curled in the waistband of his jeans.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low. “Tell me how to make this good for you.”
The request hits me harder than any declaration would have. He’s asking, not assuming. Giving me space to name what I want, to take control of what happens next.
“Everything,” I say, the word coming out more forceful than I intended. “I want everything. Your hands, your mouth, you inside me. I want to feel you everywhere.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or wonder. Then his expression settles into focused heat. “I can do that,” he says, and reaches for the hem of my shirt. “Let me—”
“Wait.” I put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “You first. I want to see you.”
He nods, understanding what I’m asking. With careful, deliberate movements, he removes his clothes. Jeans first, then his boxers, then, with a quick flash of that mischievous smile, his socks. He stands before me completely naked, and my mouth goes dry.
He’s magnificent. Broad through the shoulders and chest, tapering to narrow hips, his thighs thick with muscle from years of working on his feet.
His cock stands proudly from a nest of dark hair, already hard and leaking at the tip, the size of it making my stomach flip with a mix of want and nervous anticipation.
“You’re staring,” he says, and there’s that note in his voice. Careful neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the heat underneath.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct him, already reaching for the button of my jeans. “Your turn.”
He helps me undress, his movements careful, almost reverent. When I’m finally naked, standing before him with my hair falling loose around my shoulders, he makes a noise. Not quite a groan, not quite a growl. It sends a shock of heat straight to my core.
“So beautiful,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. About how you’d look like this.”
The words cut off as I reach for him, my hand wrapping around his cock.
He’s hot. Hotter than I expected, the skin velvety over the hardness underneath.
He’s also enormous. My hand doesn’t come close to spanning his length, my fingers barely meeting around his girth.
The size difference between us, already apparent in our height and build, is nowhere more evident than here.
His massive frame, my smaller one, his cock thick enough that my fingers don’t meet.
He sucks in a breath when I stroke him, slow and exploratory. His hips jerk forward slightly, seeking more contact, and I feel a surge of power at his response. At the way his eyes go half-lidded, the way his jaw clenches.
“Mei,” he says, my name rough in his mouth. “If you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”
I smile, stroking him again. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” His hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “And I want to taste you first. I’ve been thinking about that. About how you’d taste, about the sounds you’d make.”
The words send another wave of heat through me. My body responding, my hips moving of their own accord as he guides me to the bed.
“Lie back,” he says, his voice gentle despite the focused heat in his eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
I do as he asks, settling against the pillows as he kneels between my legs.
He takes his time, pressing kisses to my inner thighs, his breath hot against my skin.
The anticipation is almost unbearable. Then the first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my back arching off the bed. Hot, wet, exactly where I need it.