Chapter 8 #3
“We don’t do breakfast, Chef.” I do my best to fit every ounce of disrespect I can in the syllable. “He doesn’t need to be here before the sun is up. I can’t afford to pay another four hours of labor every day.”
“What you really can’t afford is to not have your prep work done. Good luck doing a lunch service with nothing ready for the day. Your customers will walk out before their food is ready.”
How long can it take to prep the vegetables for the day? Rory is probably the only person in town who will order a salad anyway.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t pull money out of my ass, we’re going to have to make it work with what we can do.”
And because the universe can’t even grant me simple favors, Wilder doesn’t get riled up. His jaw doesn’t clench, his cheeks don’t turn red, and he doesn’t quit on the spot.
No. Instead, he taps the paper in his hand and rolls himself up to his full height.
“We’ve got two cooks on the schedule for all of midafternoon. I doubt we’ll have five covers in the hours between lunch and dinner, they’ll be bored outta their minds. Nah.”
He scratches out the schedule in thick black ink, almost like the artwork that covers his skin. The sleeves of tattoos that are staring me in the face with the way his chef jacket is rolled up to his elbows like that. He could be on the cover of Forearms Porn magazine looking like that.
Scribbling arrows, crossing out names and writing in others, Wilder finally taps the piece of paper with the top of his pen and pushes it toward me. He gestures to it as he explains the changes.
“We can move Charlie to six to two, and Samuel can do one to closing and take care of breakdown. If we get swamped during lunch before Samuel gets in, or at dinner, I can jump in to help on the line or expedite, whatever’s needed.
Same on their off days. I’ll cover Charlie’s shift on Tuesdays and Samuel’s Thursdays.
Rest of the week I’ll jump in when the line needs me and focus on the rest of my duties otherwise. ”
I hate that what he’s saying makes sense.
I hate that I didn’t think of it.
I’m used to scheduling shifts for the grocery store. Multiple employees there during the hours we’re open. It feels counter intuitive to have half of one of our two cook’s shift be during the hours we’re closed.
“Hey now,” he says, one meaty finger coming beneath my chin to pull my gaze up from the floor. “This isn’t anything you’re doing wrong. This is just part of our deal, remember?”
I pull my chin away with a grumble, but it doesn’t break his spirit.
He continues, softer than I’m used to hearing his gruff voice. “No one is born knowing it all, Alexis. I’m here to help you become the best damn manager Heights Bites will ever have.”
“Right.” I blow out a heavy breath. “Our deal.” I make air quotes on the words.
One obsidian eye actually twinkles at me in the dim light. “You held up your end by approving the new menu. I’m holding up mine.”
Begrudgingly, I ask, “Are you going to make me fuck you as part of this deal?”
The smirk that pulls up one side of his crooked mouth shouldn’t send a lick of flames straight through my middle, but it does, heat pooling in my core and warming me from the inside out.
“Naw, bella. Those kinds of deals never seem to work out. If you want this, all you gotta do is ask.”
My eyes flutter shut, a breath heaving out unsteadily as I hate myself for the disappointment I feel low in my gut at his response.
Hatred for asking the question.
Disgust at hoping for another answer.
“But if you need an excuse to give in, I’ll give you one.”
Eyes popping back open, I gawk as Wilder presses into me, predatory gaze locked on mine.
“You can keep pretending like the thought of my cock isn’t what gets you off every night, little liar, if that helps you feel like you’ve won. All I want is the chance to make you come again.”
Biting down on my tongue, I manage to suppress the whimper that gets lodged in my throat at his words.
His strong nose grazes the side of my neck, and fuck me for tilting my head to the side to give him further access. My internal conscience is a hussy and she doesn’t care about this war I’ve waged against him. That running him out of town is half of what gives me satisfaction these days.
She wants the other half of what gives me satisfaction.
The picture he painted for me, the one I fall back to when it’s just me and my toy collection at night.
His voice interrupts the thought. “Normally I’d need to hear some consent, but I know you better than to think you’ll let yourself say yes.”
I hate that he knows me well enough to be right about that.
His nose skims the thin skin along my neck and dips down to my collarbone, lips brushing over the flesh and leaving goosebumps in their absence.
“We both know this is what you need from me. What you’ve been craving. You can take it out on me, Boss. All of that frustration inside of you.”
Was there absinthe in the soup he had me sample at the tasting? I can’t think of a single other reason other than being high and hallucinating as to why this idea sounds tempting coming from his masculine lips.
“You know what I think your problem is?” His giant, rough hand slides down my side, gripping the meat of my middle as it moves, nothing gentle about it. It’s as much of a promise as it is a tease. He’ll be as rough as I need him to be. As deep, as harsh as I need to lose myself in it.
That hand stops on my hip and his fingers dig into me, not afraid to stake their claim.
“No one’s ever fucked this pussy like they owned it before.”
My knees wobble and threaten to give way, but his hold steadies me.
His lips pull back from the sensitive skin of my collarbone and in a dash, he has me spun around, facing the desk, his front tight against my back.
I can feel his mouth move against my ear, the rumble of his chest through my spine when he speaks again.
“Tell me no and I’ll walk away right now.”
His stubble, that delicious scrape of manly skin on mine, it rakes over my cheek and sends a chill through my entire upper body.
The only part of me that wants to say no is the stubborn part of my personality.
Every single other part of me is screaming yes, it’s just in a language that doesn’t use words. One or two parts might be louder than all the rest, and I think he hears those like he’s tuned to their frequency.
A dark chuckle rumbles through his chest. “That’s what I thought.”
His massive hands move up my back until they reach just above my bra, and then he shoves me forward. I topple, catching myself on the desk, bent forward. Those hands start roaming, fingers grazing, lighting me up through layers of fabric that still separate us.
Down either side of my spine, over both hips, fingertips trailing down to my jeans.
The pressure disappears entirely, and then a palm claps down on my ass through my pants.
There’s no stopping the yelp that escapes at the contact, the rush of pleasure that darts down toward my pussy at the sting of his hand on my ass.
It turns into a moan, my face pressed into my arms on the desk like that’s going to stop him from hearing my reaction.
Fuck, he can probably smell how wet I am. Him and those heightened chef senses.
Both of his hands wrap around my thick middle and he yanks me upright, pulling me back against his chest.
If this is a preview of what being thrown around by him in the bedroom would be like, I might not be able to hold out until hell freezes over after all.
His grip is rough enough to spike my adrenaline, ratchet my need. If he keeps this up, I’ll be begging for a mouthful of his cock, for him to test drive my lack of a gag reflex.
He’s right. Nobody has fucked me like they’ve owned me. And if this is what just the foreplay feels like?
I can turn my feminist card face down just long enough to get what I need and get out.
One hand braces around my throat, holding me tightly to his front, and I try to keep my reactions at bay, whatever I can do to not give him the satisfaction of what it’s doing to me to feel his thick, tattooed fingers gripping the column of my throat to keep me where he wants me while his other hand explores down, down, down to the top of my jeans.
His rough fingers push through the waistband, flat against the flesh of my belly, and I intake a sharp gasp at the feel of him. Shoving past the elastic band of my underwear, he makes room for his hand underneath my clothing, snaking his palm down over me until he’s palming my pussy beneath it all.
“Just what I thought. You’re fucking drenched, little liar.”
I moan at the tease of him so close to where I’m aching, where I can feel my heart beating with every pump of blood through my veins. I’m a mess, so turned on I should be humiliated by the state I’m in, but I’m angry instead.
Hot desperation for a release, to get out from under the control this attraction to him has over me.
Get me off and let me go.
His hand pulls back, out of my pants, as his other hand that was collaring my throat moves down to join it. He works to unbutton my jeans as I writhe in place, eager for friction and penetration from any part of him.
Those massive fingers, oh my God his tongue, or please, yes, his cock. The man can make me see stars with his cooking, he got me off with his thigh for fuck’s sake, I can’t even imagine what he can do with the rest of him. Lord knows I’ve tried to though.
“You gonna let me give you what you need? Show you what it’s like to get exactly what you deserve from a man?”
My head rolls on his chest, side to side, and I could scream from frustration. The teasing, I don’t need it. In fact, I don’t want to hear his voice at all during this. Let me keep my dignity, pretend it’s Alan Ritchson or anyone else behind me, impaling me, not the arrogant chef I can’t stand.
“Do you ever shut up?” I ask through gritted teeth.