Raise the Heat: A Forbidden Office Romance (Beastly Bosses)

by Cassia Leo

  Finishing up, I glance at my phone screen as I wash my hands. The email notification disappears before I can read the subject line preview, but I see enough to know the email is from Le Cordon Bleu. I quickly tear off some paper towels to wipe my hands and snatch the phone off the sink.

  Opening the email app, I find a message from Bette Martin asking if I’d read her previous email or had a chance to consider whether I’d be joining them this summer. My stomach clenches as I realize she may have said I had until July 15th to respond to the internship offer, but they probably need an answer sooner. Maybe they have a new applicant who’s more qualified.

  I can’t keep putting this off.

  Sitting down on the toilet to compose a response, I find myself typing and deleting every sentence as I second-guess myself. I don’t want to give Bette the impression I’m definitely going to accept the internship, but I don’t want to leave an opening for them to hire someone else. If things should go south between Ethan and me—and I really wish I could believe they won’t—I’ll need to take the job in Paris, for multiple reasons.

  Dear Bette,

  Thank you so much for checking in. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I’ve been trying to work out the logistics of the internship and the pay scale. I’m very appreciative of the offer as it stands, but at that salary/stipend I would need to either secure a second job in Paris or count on my parents for additional resources.

  I’m currently looking for possible openings at other restaurants near the LCB hotel while also waiting for an answer from my parents on whether they can provide some support for the length of the internship. I promise you will be the first person to know when I figure out the financial logistics of making the move to Paris this summer. I really look forward to working with you and the rest of the Le Cordon Bleu staff again.

  Cheers,

  Alice Lopez

  After hitting send, I stare at my inbox for a while as I hope I haven’t totally screwed up this opportunity.

  Bette’s email was sent a few minutes ago. If it’s a bit past midnight in Manhattan, what time is it in Paris? Six a.m. She probably won’t respond to my email until later tonight, if that.

  I’m about to close the email app, when a new email appears at the top of my inbox.

  Alice,

  It’s so good to hear from you! And I’m sure we can negotiate the stipend. The internship partner, Lazare Brasseries, is very eager to work with you. I’ll get back to you after I discuss your concerns with the executive chef.

  Cheers!

  My stomach twists into a hard knot as I stare at the email. I immediately begin imagining all the disastrous scenarios her email has set in motion.

  If I tell Ethan about the internship offer, he may be happy for me. Or, it may inspire him to promote me to sous chef sooner rather than later.

  On the other hand, he may see it as a sign I’m not a team player. He may choose to nix the promotion altogether. Worse, he’ll think I concealed the internship from him because I planned on abandoning Forked—and him—all along.

  But he would have to know that denying me the promotion would only force me to go to Paris.

  Maybe the idea of me leaving New York appeals to Ethan?

  I shake my head as I realize I’m thinking about Ethan as if he’s Edward. I have no doubt Edward would want me to leave Manhattan, so I could stop being the thorn of truth in his side; the truth about his mediocrity.

  But Ethan isn’t threatened by my talent.

  Not yet.

  This is ridiculous. I have a gorgeous man waiting for me right now, his mind filled with all the filthy things he wants to do to me, everything I’ve been dreaming of him doing. I can think about my career later. Now is not the time.

  I sigh as I stand up and slide my phone into the front pocket of my jeans. As I enter the dining room, the volume of the music becomes louder, and my stomach gurgles as I realize what song is playing: “La Vie En Rose” by Celeste. But as I approach the bar, my thoughts of Paris and my anxiety melt away, replaced by a pleasant feeling of butterflies when I find Ethan pouring two drinks out of a frosty cocktail shaker.

  “How many roofies did you put in my glass?” I ask as I climb onto a barstool.

  He slides one of the cocktails toward me and laughs when I push it aside and take the other tumbler instead. “I lost count, actually,” he says, placing the shaker in the sink behind the bar. “How many do you prefer?”

  I shrug as I bring the cocktail to my lips. “Depends. Do I want to remember what we’re about to do or do I want to block out the shameful memories?”

  He tilts his head. “Well, that depends. Are you Catholic?”

  I raise my beverage in the air and we clink glasses. “Touché. Bottoms up.”

  His smile widens as he watches me guzzle the entire cocktail in one go. “God, I love Catholic girls.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Catholic women.”

  He laughs at my unexpected response. “Okay, you win this round.”

  “I always win,” I say as I shove the empty tumbler toward him. “What’s in the drink?”

  He places the glass in the sink with the cocktail shaker. “You tell me.”

  I roll my eyes as I realize he wants to turn this into a teaching moment. “Well, it tastes like a passion fruit caipirinha, but there’s something else in there.”

  He smiles, though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m right or because he’s stumped me. “Take a guess.”

  Feeling pleased with myself, I take an educated guess at the twist. “Lime? No—wait. Yuzu?”

  He scrunches up his nose. “How the bloody hell did you guess that so quickly?”

  I laugh as I reach for his tumbler, feeling more confident now that I’ve consumed my first cocktail. “I saw it on the drink menu,” I say, then I down the rest of his caipirinha.

  He shakes his head as he turns around and grabs a bottle of bourbon off the shelf. “Well, at least I know you’re doing your job.” He tosses the bottle into the air and catches it behind his back.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Watch out, Tom Cruise.”

  He chuckles as he pours himself a glass. “I used to tend bar while taking my A-levels.”

  “So, that’s the secret to your success?”

  “I reckon it is, actually,” he replies without a trace of irony. “A lot of chefs underestimate the impact of a great drink menu.”

  I think about this statement as I recall all the times I’ve seen him conducting meetings with Mario, Shanice, and Sandro. “Do you base the menu on the drinks?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course not, we plan them in tandem. But most chefs plan the tasting menu and base the drink menu on that. It’s a subtle difference. You’ll understand when we have our meeting tomorrow.”

  I smile as I realize what he’s doing.

  He’s not telling me the secret to his success. He’s showing me he doesn’t have any secrets from me. He wants to show me—consciously or subconsciously—that he’s not Edward.

  The song coming through the speakers changes to one I don’t recognize, but it’s definitely a French song. I hear the lyric c’est l’amour à la plage—it’s love at the beach—and I instantly think of one of my favorite songs. Before I can stop myself, I ask Ethan to put it on.

  Without hesitation, he slides his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, and the sound of the guitar makes me smile as “Summer in Paris” by Hope Tala plays through the speakers overhead.

  The warm feeling that spreads through me as I shimmy my shoulders to the beat is bittersweet. I want to tell him about the internship, but not even two passion fruit caipirinhas can instill the courage I need to come clean. Not when we’re so close to turning this flirtation into something more.

  Instead, I dance in my seat, foolishly hope he’ll magically guess why I requested this song. He smiles as he watches me rock side to side with the music. I spin around on the barstool and lean back, my gaze f
ollowing him as he rounds the bar. The song ends as he reaches me, but he doesn’t do anything.

  We watch each other for a moment, our chests heaving with anticipation. His gaze travels down the length of my body, the hunger in his eyes becoming more intense as his eyes pause to admire the curve of my breasts. Finally, he steps forward, closing the gap between us as he grabs my face and presses his lips to mine.

  The animalistic desire in his kiss steals the breath from my lungs, but I somehow manage to push him away.

  “The windows,” I say, nodding toward the wall of glass behind him.

  He shakes his head as he says, “Hey, Siri. Close the blinds.”

  I laugh as a tone sounds from the phone in his pocket, then the built-in blinds begin to lower by themselves. “I love you—I mean, sorry—I meant, I love your…your smart stuff. You know, like, the blinds and the music and—”

  He presses a finger to my mouth to stop me. “Never apologize for being yourself, love.”

  I swallow hard as the embarrassment I felt a second ago fades, though only slightly. I may have said those three words accidentally, but that doesn’t change that I said them. And, not that I expect him to, but he definitely hasn’t returned the sentiment.

  His eyes are fixed on my mouth as his thumb softly brushes my bottom lip. “Promise me something.”

  I focus on my breathing as his mouth lands on my jaw. “What?”

  His lips sweep across my earlobe and the sound of his exhalation in my ear makes goosebumps sprout all over my skin. “Promise me this is different.”

  My heart aches as I instantly understand what he’s asking of me. He wants to know what we have is different from what Edward and I had. He wants assurance that when we take off our clothes, I won’t see or feel his brother.

  And, though I don’t say it aloud, I want to know that when I take off my clothes he won’t see what Edward saw.

  It’s not quite the same as saying “I love you.” But showing me how vulnerable he feels about my past with Edward is close enough.

  I coil my legs around his hips to pull him closer. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I squeeze him tightly against me. I can’t be sure, but I think I hear a soft gasp as he seems taken by surprise.

  He’s frozen for a brief moment before he gives in. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he buries his face in my hair and inhales deeply. The steady thump of his heart against mine relaxes me, and I find myself wishing we could stay like this forever.

  Alas, he eventually loosens his hold on me and straightens his back. His gaze is locked on mine. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says more than enough. And any trace of embarrassment I felt from accidentally telling him I love him is gone, because he feels the same as I do.

  At least, he feels the same right now. I have no doubt about that. We are equals in this moment of reckless passion.

  I push him back slightly, so I can slide off the barstool. As I slowly undress, he watches me with trance-like intensity, a smile curving his lips as he adjusts the uncomfortable bulge in his jeans.

  My heart is in my throat as my fingers pause at the waistband of my panties, hesitating for a moment.

  He seizes the opportunity to step forward and place his hands over mine. “We can stop any time you want.”

  I shake my head as I swallow my fear. “You take them off for me.”

  I fold my hands behind my back, and he flashes me a sinister smile as he relishes my surrender. But he doesn’t slide my panties off right away. He kisses me first, long and slow as his hands caress my bare flesh, getting to know my body before he claims every inch of it.

  I moan as both his hands slip inside my panties, and he grasps my ass. His growing erection presses against my belly, and I cup my hand over his crotch. He groans as I massage the stiff bulge.

  Unable to wait any longer, he kneels in front of me and slides my panties down. “Off with those knickers.”

  I smile as he helps me step out of them. But when he stands up, he pushes my hand away as I reach for the button of his jeans. Instead, he grabs my waist and lifts me onto the barstool.

  The throbbing between my thighs intensifies as he grabs my knees and slowly parts my legs open.

  Oh, God.

  He smiles at the look of surprise on my face as he once again kneels in front of me. His gaze slides over my chest and lands on the apex of my thighs. The fierce hunger in his eyes tells me he doesn’t just want to taste me. He wants to devour me.

  He admires me for a moment as his fingers explore my flesh, watching my reactions as he lightly caresses every inch of me. Placing a soft kiss on the inside of my thigh, he smiles as goosebumps sprout over my skin. He softly presses his lips to my mound, and my entire body begins to tremble with anticipation.

  “Grab onto something, love,” he says, and the sensation of his breath on my sensitive skin only intensifies my craving for his perfect mouth.

  Before I can find something solid to grasp onto, his tongue is licking my aching clit. I let out a high-pitched moan, and I can feel his smile curving against my flesh.

  Taking his advice, I grab fistfuls of his dark hair and brace my feet on the footrest of the barstool to steady myself. His tongue stimulates me in methodical patterns, up and down, round and round, slow and fast.

  As he devours me, I realize I don’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious that the lights are on, and Ethan can see every inch of my body in high-definition. I also don’t care about the sucking noises, or if the sounds my body makes are different than the sounds other women’s bodies make. And unlike I did with Edward, I have zero doubts about whether Ethan is enjoying himself.

  A deep groan issues from deep inside his chest as his tongue swirls around my swollen bud. My fingers tighten around the tangles of his hair. And soon, my thighs begin twitching uncontrollably with an oncoming orgasm.

  Sensing I’m getting close, he eases off and draws out the pleasure. I let out a frustrated moan and the sensation of his laughter against my sensitive flesh drives me insane. He pauses for a moment, letting the anticipation build, then his tongue is on me again, tracing fast circles around my clit.

  “Oh, God!” I cry out as the orgasm slams into me like a freight train.

  He coils his arms around my thighs to hold me in place as I explode with pleasure. My swollen flesh twitches as a gushing warmth oozes out of me. Finally, my body folds over him, my breasts coming to rest on the back of his head.

  But his tongue continues lapping, his lips gently sucking, even after the orgasm has ceased.

  Oh, my God. He’s drinking my cum.

  I almost want to tell him to stop, but I’m too tired to speak. And part of me is curious to know if he’s planning to lick me clean.

  He looks up at me as I attempt to sit up straight. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”

  My eyes widen, and I let out a nervous chuckle. “No. What kind of question is that?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be shy, love. You’re a chef. You have to be at least a wee bit curious.”

  My heart races, and I shrug as I realize where this is leading. He smiles as he slides a finger inside me, retrieving some of my nectar as if he’s scooping whipped cream off a tasty dessert.

  He stands up so we’re eye to eye as he possessively slips his finger inside my mouth. At this point, my mouth and my entire body are his. He can do whatever he wants with me, and he knows it.

  I maintain eye contact as I suck his finger for a moment until he slides it out.

  “Do you taste it?” he asks. “Your musk has a hint of—”

  “Raspberry,” I say, finishing his sentence.

  He smiles and nods in agreement. “Raspberry and melon. My new favorite flavor combination.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re right,” I say, licking my lips.

  His gaze is locked on my mouth. “Bloody hell, woman,” he remarks as he reaches for the button of his jeans.

  I let out a loud sigh as he begins to undress. “Oh, tha
nk God.”

  He laughs as he shrugs out of his pants and peels off his T-shirt. “Are you on birth control?”

  I nod enthusiastically as he kicks off his boxers. Without further ado, he pulls me off the barstool, and I gasp as he spins me around and presses his body against mine.

  One of his arms coils around my waist as his other hand slides between my legs. But he doesn’t enter me yet. Instead, he kisses my shoulders and gently massages my clit until my legs begin to quake again. Releasing the arm around my waist, he uses his other hand to guide himself into my slick opening.

  Unable to contain myself, I cry out in pain. Holy crap! Has it really been that long since I’ve had sex, or is Ethan’s cock thicker than his brothers? I try to push these thoughts out of my mind until it dawns on me I may not be the only one having them.

  Before I can second-guess myself, I push Ethan away and turn around so we’re facing each other. I want him to see my face. I don’t want him to question whether I’m thinking about him or anyone else.

  “Sit down,” I say, pointing at a dining chair behind him.

  He chuckles at the way I’ve taken charge. “Yes, Chef.”

  As he takes a seat, I take my time climbing on his lap to straddle him. I wince slightly at the discomfort as he fully enters me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod toward my feet. My toes are dangling about six inches above the hard wood. I’m too short to reach the floor in this position.

  He glances down and immediately recognizes my predicament. “I’ve got you, love.”

  Our eyes are locked on each other as he uses his incredible strength to lift me up and down on his lap. I lean my head back, relishing the sensation as his cock slides in and out of me. I use my free hand to touch myself as he kisses my breasts.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, and I cry out as his teeth clamp down gently on my hard nipple.