10. Unexpected Allies #2
The kitchen stands ready and immaculate, designed to serve hundreds of guests at capacity. Now, with just the two of us in the cavernous space, it feels like we've stumbled into someone else's life—playing chef in a restaurant after hours.
Lucas strides ahead, already rolling up his sleeves. He doesn't hesitate.
"Apron." He grabs one from a hook and tosses it to me without looking. Then hands himself another and ties it around his waist efficiently. "We'll take inventory first. I want to see what we're working with before we start guessing."
I catch the apron mid-air, a little stunned at the sudden shift in command.
But I follow his lead, tying the strings around my waist as he moves like he's done this a thousand times. Calm. Controlled. Entirely at home.
"My chef preps for worst-case scenarios. We should have most of the basics." He opens one industrial fridge, scanning shelves.
I fall into step behind him, trying not to trip over the change in tone.
He's no longer the emotionally distant man avoiding couches and kisses—he's the boss now. Precise. Focused. Utterly in his element.
And I am not okay.
Because this?
This right here—Lucas in full command, quietly issuing instructions like it's second nature—is the exact version of him I've been begging for.
Not out loud, obviously. But somewhere deep in my lizard brain, the part that short-circuits every time he says language in that voice, or steps a little too close and looks a little too hard…
This bossy kitchen commander thing?
Yeah. It's my own personal porn.
He moves like authority itself, and it makes my breath hitch—not from exertion, but from want.
I want his control. His attention. That sharp, quiet confidence that says he knows exactly what he's doing.
It's maddening.
He walks around like this is nothing—like he hasn't been drawing hard emotional boundaries and pretending what happened between us was some unfortunate blip.
Now he's tossing aprons and directing inventory like he's not holding the blueprint to every one of my goddamn fantasies.
I clear my throat. "You always this bossy in the kitchen?"
He glances at me. Smirks.
"You always this easily flustered by competence?"
I set the measuring cup down harder than necessary, flour puffing into the air like smoke off a fuse.
"I'm flustered by your damn line in the sand." I snap, throwing a hand in the general direction of the kitchen—and maybe the universe. "You walking around here, all calm and competent and in charge, tossing aprons like you don't know exactly what that does to me?"
His brow arches, but I'm already on a roll.
"You bossing me around is my fantasy, Lucas."
His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"I thought it was tying you to my bed."
Heat surges up my neck, but I don't flinch. I don't back down. Not anymore.
"To your bed." I fire back. "To those damn rings overhead. To the ones on the posts. It's not the rope, Lucas. It's you."
His breath hitches, but I keep going, my voice rising with every word.
"It's you taking control. Forcing me to take it. Forcing me to stay still and feel it. You know what that does to me—how fast I fall apart when you stop letting me pretend I'm not dying for it."
He steps closer, jaw tight. That storm behind his eyes cracks wide open.
"I'm not trying to make things complicated." I say again, but this time my voice breaks. "But you've been walking around like you're the only one going through hell, and I'm just… collateral."
My fists clench at my sides. "It's driving me insane."
His hands slam down on the counter between us, and he leans in.
"You're not the only one going insane."
The words are low. Controlled. But beneath them is a shout.
"The last two nights?" He growls. "Hell. I've been lying in bed hard for you. Fucking hard. Knowing you're six goddamn feet away on that couch, and I can't touch you. Can't fuck you. Can't claim you the way I want to."
My mouth falls open.
"So don't stand there and act like I haven't been wrecked every goddamn second you breathe near me." His eyes blaze.
The silence is electric. Shaking.
And then, I exhale.
"Then do it." My voice shakes with the force of it, the rawness. "Take me. Right here. Right now. Just stop this torment."
Lucas doesn't move.
He doesn't breathe.
His jaw clenches, muscles in his throat working like he's swallowing down a war. And for one agonizing second, I think he might crack. That he'll cross the space between us and destroy me in the best possible way.
But instead, he steps back.
The distance is a knife.
"I won't. And you damn well know why." His voice is low, controlled—unyielding.
"No." My breath shudders out. I shake my head, tears burning hot in the corners of my eyes. "No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to say you want me. That you're hard for me. That I'm driving you insane—and then refuse to touch me."
His jaw clenches. His silence says enough.
"Tell me how that's fair." I demand, voice cracking. "Tell me why it's okay for you to want me like that—say it like it's breaking you—and still pull back every time we get close."
He watches me. Quiet. Impossibly still. And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and precise. Like every word is weighed before it's allowed to exist.
"If you want me to be in charge…" He steps forward. Slow. Controlled. His breath brushes my cheek. "To really be in charge…" He leans close, lips at my ear, tone like a blade sliding between ribs. "Then this is our punishment."
A pause. A beat.
"Our punishment?" My breath catches.