11. Hot Whisks and Cold Showers
Hot Whisks and Cold Showers
"We moved too fast." Lucas murmurs. "We let the storm do the deciding. If you want a man who takes control then you need one who doesn't let his darkness swallow you with him."
He leans forward, his presence overwhelming even as he remains impossibly composed.
His breath is warm against my ear as he whispers, "Until the wedding is done—until every detail is locked down—we focus on work.
Consider this our punishment. A reminder that, despite everything, I have to hold the line. No distractions. No more."
His words sink deep. Heavy. Final.
And just like that, the storm shifts.
Not the one outside—but the one inside me. The one I've been feeding with heat, hope, and the desperate need to close the distance between us.
He doesn't leave me room to argue. Doesn't offer softness or apology. Just cold clarity and consequence.
I say nothing.
Not because I agree.
Because I understand.
This is what it means to want a man like Lucas:
You don't just get the fire.
You get the restraint. The rules. The sharp edge of discipline when you push too far.
He watches me a beat longer, making sure I've absorbed it all.
Then—calmly, like nothing just fractured between us—he speaks.
"Now." He says, his voice smooth as steel. "If you're done…"
A pause. Just enough for the words to land.
"I suggest we focus on the emergency of the hour…" He turns toward the prep station, rolling up his sleeves like this is any other day. "Let's whip up a soufflé."
I grab a whisk and mutter just loud enough for him to hear, "Well if that doesn't get a girl all hot and bothered…"
Lucas laughs. A deep, low sound that skates across my skin like warm breath on bare thighs.
"Careful." He says without looking up. "Say things like that, and I'll have to add another day to your sentence."
I choke on my own breath. "My sentence?"
"Punishment. Sentence. Call it what you want." He shrugs, all casual menace, as he unpacks a tin of imported cocoa.
"You're unbelievable."
"That's not what you were calling me two nights ago."
My cheeks flare with heat. "Don't test me."
"Too late." He lifts a brow, sliding the cocoa across the counter toward me.
We fall into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm, moving around each other in the large space like nothing just detonated between us. Like we didn't just toe the edge of something we both want too much.
I read requirements from the recipe while Lucas locates items, occasionally suggesting substitutions for things we're missing. His knowledge of food and preparation surprises me.
"So, how did you learn to cook?" I measure flour into a bowl, creating a small cloud of white dust.
"By necessity." He cracks eggs single-handedly, talk about skill. "Growing up, it was just my dad and me after my mom left. He worked long hours, so I either learned to cook or lived on cereal."
The casual mention of his mother leaving drops like a stone in still water, ripples of unspoken history spreading outward. I wait, sensing there's more to the story if I give him space to tell it.
"My grandfather bought this place back in the day." Lucas continues, focusing on separating egg whites from yolks. "Everyone thought he was crazy—former mining lodge with rotting floors and a leaking roof. But he saw its potential."
"Like grandfather, like grandson." The observation slips out unbidden.
His smile holds a touch of melancholy. "He died before he could finish the renovations. Heart attack while shoveling snow, ironically enough. I was in my first year at business school."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate for the loss I hear beneath his matter-of-fact tone.
"The resort was his dream, not mine. I was chasing corporate success, seven-figure bonuses, and corner offices. I nearly sold this place a dozen times." Lucas shrugs, but the deliberate casualness doesn't quite mask the emotion.
"What stopped you?"
"Memories, at first." He measures vanilla into a small bowl, the rich scent filling the space between us. "Then, gradually, I started seeing what he saw—a place that could bring joy and create moments that matter. Something real in a world of corporate artifice."
I absorb this glimpse into what shaped him, understanding blooming like the deep notes of vanilla in the air. "Your grandfather's atrium. Your grandfather's vision. No wonder this place means so much to you."
"Most people just see a business decision—why not sell to a hotel chain and cash out?"
He glances up, surprise flickering in his expression.
"I'm not most people." The words emerge softer than intended.
"No." His gaze holds mine across the kitchen island. "You're definitely not."
Then he glances down, catches the mess I've made of the flour, and chuckles low in his throat.
"You really suck as a sous chef."
I arch a brow, wiping flour from my wrist. "Yeah? Well, there's one thing I suck pretty damn well?—"
"Jesus, Amelia." Lucas groans, head tipping back like he's praying for strength.
"Just trying to be helpful." I grin wickedly, licking a dab of batter from my fingertip. "Just because I'm being punished… doesn't mean you need to suffer."
His eyes snap to mine—dark, focused, dangerous.
"You know damn well." His voice is low and lethal. "If I let you suck my cock, what'll happen next."
I freeze. My breath stutters.
"Don't try and manipulate me, and if it happens again…" He leans in, not touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat of his words on my skin. "I'll add even more time to your sentence."
I gape at him. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm dead serious."
"You're punishing me for offering to make you feel good?" I fold my arms.
"Actions have consequences." He shrugs one shoulder.
I scowl at him like a brat denied candy. "This is cruel and unusual."
"Discipline is rarely convenient."
My whole body hums with want. Frustration. The sense that I've walked into a game I cannot win—and never want to stop playing.
Because underneath the sexual frustration is something else entirely.
Something that lights me up from the inside like a live wire.
The way he talks about punishment, discipline, consequences—it's not empty roleplay or bedroom games.
It's real. He means it. And the fact that he's willing to enforce actual discipline, to hold firm boundaries even when I'm practically begging him to break them?
It's deliciously, dangerously wonderful.
I mutter under my breath, "Bet your cock's not suffering half as much as I am."
"Keep pushing, sweetheart. I dare you." Lucas smirks.
The tension between us stretches taut again—hot, charged, filthy—just shy of snapping.
And then?—
The thrum of rotors cuts through the stillness, vibrating through the windows, the ceiling, and our skin.
"Jason's early. I'll go handle the delivery."
Lucas straightens, checking his watch, expression hardening into something cool and alert. All business again.
"Of course." I mutter, throwing my hands in the air. "This damn place. If it's not the generator going out, it's a goddamn helicopter."
"Excuse me?" His brow lifts as he moves toward the door.
"This place is a goddamn cockblock."
He stops in his tracks and laughs—low, full, and completely unrepentant.
"Welcome to your sentence, sweetheart." Lucas turns and walks out of the kitchen.
"It would've been worth it." I shout after him.
He laughs, and like that, he's gone—leaving me in a puddle of heat, flour, and sexual frustration.
He disappears, leaving me with half-mixed ingredients and thoughts too complex to untangle. When he returns minutes later, arms laden with supplies and cheeks flushed from the cold, I've managed to compose myself into a professional again.
"Let's see if these fancy ingredients are worth the trouble." I unwrap the chocolate, inhaling the rich aroma. "Though I must admit, this smells promising."
We work side by side, following Grandmother Rose's detailed instructions.
The kitchen fills with heavenly scents as we whip, fold, and stir.
When Lucas reaches past me for a utensil, his arm brushes mine, sending an unreasonable flutter through my stomach.
I focus harder on the task, increasingly aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with our professional collaboration.
The first test batch emerges from the oven looking distinctly un-soufflé-like—a flat, sad disc that draws matching frowns from both of us.
"We overmixed." Lucas pokes the deflated dessert with a spoon. "Knocked all the air out."
"Let's try again." I reach for fresh ingredients, determined to master this challenge.
Three attempts later, we produce a passable soufflé, though still not quite matching the picture Charlene sent. Lucas studies it critically, head tilted.
"The texture's wrong. We need a lighter touch with the folding."
"Show me." I hand him the spatula, watching his large hands incorporate the ingredients delicately.
"Like this." He demonstrates the gentle folding motion. "More of a cut and turn, not stirring."
I mimic his movement, concentrating so intently that I don't notice the streak of flour on my hand until it's too late. As I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, Lucas's lips twitch with suppressed amusement.
"What?" I glance up from the bowl.
"You've got a little..." He gestures vaguely toward my face, eyes dancing with mischief.
I reach up, feeling the telltale powder across my cheek. "Very mature. Are you going to tell me there's something on my shirt next?"
"No need." Without warning, he deliberately dabs a fresh smudge of flour on the tip of my nose. "Now you match."
For a heartbeat, I'm too stunned to react. Then outrage bubbles up, followed immediately by an unfamiliar playfulness. I retaliate by flicking egg white from my fingertips directly onto his shirt.
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" His expression of exaggerated shock only encourages me.