Chapter 29
Tess
I’m in charge.
I push him, gently, until his back hits the warm stainless-steel wall. “Less talking.”
“Yes, boss,” he whispers.
It isn’t a joke. It’s a promise.
I put my hands on his chest, on the flour-dusted T-shirt. His heart is hammering so hard I can feel it through the fabric.
“Can I kiss you, Leo?” I ask. This is mine. My consent joy. My choice. My terms.
He exhales, shaky. “Please,” he whispers. “God, Tess, please.”
I kiss him.
It isn’t a sweet kiss. It’s starving. It’s anger and betrayal and relief and respect all tangled together. It’s you came back. It’s you listened. It’s I’m still here.
I kiss him hard, claiming, desperate, and he meets me without taking. He receives. His hands come to my waist, thumbs tracing the edge of my apron, but he holds back. He lets me lead.
I lick a slow path from his jaw to his ear, tasting salt and flour. “You taste good,” I whisper.
He lets out a breathless, giggly laugh. “That’s probably all the flour.”
“I like the flour,” I say.
We fumble. I tug at the hem of his T-shirt. He’s wrestling with the strings of my apron.
“I can’t, your apron…” he mutters, fingers tangling.
I laugh. A real, bubbling laugh. “Leo. Just pull.”
He tugs. The knot gives. My apron hits the floor.
“My turn,” I say, and yank his T-shirt up and over his head.
He’s solid. Warm. I press my palms flat to his chest; flour dusts across his skin. In the dim green light, it looks like starlight.
“Tess,” he breathes, hands finally sliding into my hair. “Are you sure? Is this ok?”
“I’m sure,” I say, kissing him again. “I’m so sure. And I said no more talking.”
“I’ve never,” he says against my mouth, “been surer of anything in my life.”
It’s messy. Giggly. Real.
“There’s no…” he pants, glancing around. “The racks?”
“No,” I say, tugging him down.
I pull him down with me onto the tiled floor. The small window fogs immediately.
I stay in charge. I lead. I claim. I don’t rush it.
That’s the first thing I notice about myself. The way I don’t hurry, don’t fumble, don’t fill the space with nervous movement or apology. I’m aware of every inch of distance between us, of the heat lingering in the proofing room, of the quiet hum that seems to wrap around us like a held breath.
I’m in charge.
The realization settles deep in my bones, steady and grounding. I move closer to him, slow enough that he could stop me if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He watches me like he’s afraid to blink, like this moment might vanish if he does.
His back meets the warm metal wall with a soft sound.
“I said no more talking,” I remind him gently.
“Yes,” he says immediately. Not flippant. Not teasing. Just honest. “Ok.”
The word lands differently this time. Not obedience. Agreement.
I place my hands flat against his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the flour-dusted fabric, the hitch in his breath when I touch him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t take. Doesn’t assume. He waits exactly where I put him, like this is something sacred instead of inevitable.
That matters more than he’ll ever know.
“Look at you,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Listening so well.”
His throat works. “I don’t want to get this wrong.”
“You won’t,” I say, because I know it’s true. Not because he’s perfect. Because he’s paying attention.
I lean in until my forehead brushes his collarbone. Barely there. The faintest contact. The smell of him, clean sweat, yeast, soap, wraps around me, familiar and grounding and achingly real. This isn’t fantasy. This isn’t escape. This is choice. My choice.
I tilt my head, mouth brushing the line of his jaw. I feel him still completely, like even breathing might be too much without permission.
I smile against his skin.
“You’re allowed to breathe,” I tell him softly.
A shaky exhale leaves him, half laugh, half relief. “Thank you.”
I kiss him then. Not desperate. Not consuming. Slow and deliberate, my lips lingering, learning, mapping. He responds carefully, like he’s afraid of moving too fast, too hard, too much.
Good.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, open, searching my face for cues. For permission. For direction.
I give it to him.
“Like this,” I say quietly, guiding his hands to my waist. I don’t let go right away. I keep my fingers wrapped around his wrists, anchoring him, making sure he understands.
His hands are warm. Steady. Waiting.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
The words feel powerful in my mouth. Clean. Earned.
His hands settle, light but present, like he’s memorizing the shape of me rather than claiming it. I lean into him, pressing closer, feeling the answer of his body without shame or urgency. We fit easily, as if this has always been a possibility rather than a miracle.
The room feels warmer. Smaller. The hum of the fans fades until there’s only us, breath, and the quiet rhythm of touch.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, and he meets me there not with hunger, but with care. With patience. The kiss stretches, unspooling, slow enough that I feel every shift of pressure, every tiny adjustment.
When my fingers slide into his hair, he lets out a sound that goes straight through me. Not loud. Not performative. Just real.
“Is this ok?” he murmurs, lips barely leaving mine as he slowly unzips my jeans.
“Yes,” I whisper. “More.”
That’s all it takes.
The world narrows, not into urgency, but into focus. I’m aware of the warmth of the wall behind him, the solid certainty of his presence, the way he follows my lead without hesitation or resentment. When I guide, he follows. When I pause, he pauses. When I lean in, he meets me.
I undo Leo’s pants, and I can’t wait anymore. His body is everything I wanted, and more.
Leo watches me, and I can no longer hide how badly I want him. He slips out of his boxers, and when he does, I sit over him as he lies back on the floor.
I lower myself slowly, taking him in inch by inch. Leo moans, the sound driving me wild.
His hands rest on my hips, waiting for me to set the pace. I start slow, a soft moan leaving me, and his grip tightens in response.
When he lifts his hips, I lose what little restraint I had left. I ride him faster; the rhythm builds until pleasure crests and breaks through me all at once.
The moment I come undone, Leo lets himself follow, moaning my name as he does.
Afterward, he smiles. Small. Genuine. Something in my chest loosens. I kiss that smile away before climbing off him and lying down beside him.
Time stretches. I don’t know how long we stay there. Minutes, maybe more. It doesn’t matter. Nothing outside this room matters. There’s no rush. No finish line. No expectation hanging over us. Just closeness. Heat. Choice.
When our breathing slows, he rests his forehead against mine, grounding himself the same way I am.
“Tess, you are a goddess,” he says.
I nod, a soft laugh slipping out. “That was incredible.”
Leo’s arms come around me then. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. A quiet shelter I choose to step into.
We don’t speak for a while. We don’t need to.
Eventually, the room feels cooler. The hum grows louder. Reality filters back in gently, like it’s been waiting its turn.
When we separate, it’s unhurried. We straighten our clothes. We exchange a look that holds exhaustion and wonder in equal measure.
This wasn’t just sex. It was a surrender to trust.
When we stand, Leo pulls me close.
“Are you ok?” he whispers.
“I’m ok,” I say. “Are you?”
“I don’t have a word for this.”
I giggle, tired and happy. “We’re a mess.”
“We’re a beautiful mess,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I grab two cinnamon rolls from the rack and microwave them for twenty seconds. The kitchen fills with the smell of cinnamon and butter.
I hand him one. No plates. We sit on the floor and eat in exhausted silence.
“So,” he says finally, mouth full. “The co-op thing. The lawyer. Is it ok?”
“It’s terrifying,” I say.
“I know.”
“It’s perfect.”
Relief spreads across his face.
“But,” I add, pointing my sticky cinnamon roll at him, “I have one condition.”
“Anything,” he says instantly. “Name it. My other lawyer…”
“No,” I cut in. “No more lawyers. This is a bakery condition.”
He blinks. “Ok…”
“I’m still short-staffed.”
“You want me to help hire? I know a great firm…”
“Leo.” I sigh. “Shut up.”
He does.
“I’m hiring. Right now. I need a junior dough wrangler. Strong. Follows directions. Good with boxes. Pay sucks. No benefits.”
He stares at me like I’ve knocked the air out of him.
“Are you offering me a job?”
“Do you want to earn it?” I ask, smiling.
He drops his cinnamon roll and kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Careful.
“When do I start, boss?”