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My eyes roll back.

“Just like that, cupcake.” He gives me another one. “I could spend all day inside you.”

He drives into me harder, faster, pulling desperate sounds from my throat. The metal counter digs into my palms, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is his grip on my hips, his breath hot against my neck, and the way he fills me completely.

“You’re mine.” His tone is raw, unsteady. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I moan as he hits that perfect spot. “Only yours.”

One of his hands slides up my back, tangling in my hair. He tugs, arching my spine, changing the angle until stars burst behind my eyes.

“Brandon, please!”

“You’re perfect.” His other hand finds my clit, circling slowly. “So perfect.”

My thoughts scatter as his fingers speed up. “I’m close.”

The tension builds, coiling tighter.

“That’s it.” His grip tightens in my hair. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

Hot pleasure courses through every nerve ending, intense enough that my knees would buckle if not for Brandon’s hold on me. He fucks me through it, his rhythm growing erratic as he chases his own release.

He groans, hips stuttering. “You feel so good, cupcake.”

I clench around him deliberately, earning a sharp thrust that makes me cry out.

“Do that again,” he orders.

His confidence, his playful dominance—it all stirs a fire within me that I can’t resist.

Brandon Milton doesn’t have an innocent bone in his body, and as he claims me here in our kitchen, I realize that I crave every bit of that wickedness. With him, I don’t just want to be cherished. I want to be devoured.

It’s dangerously exhilarating, and the more I surrender to it, the more it feels like freedom.

He becomes desperate, uncontrolled, pounding me until he buries himself deep with a groan, dropping his forehead to my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin.

The kitchen hums around us.

Our restaurant.

The thought doesn’t feel as strange anymore. Neither does the idea of coming home to him every night, of making this thing between us real in a way we both used to run from.

EPILOGUE

BRANDON

Steam curls around my face as I work the line, the familiar chaos of Giovanni’s kitchen, my kitchen now, thrumming through my veins. The rhythmic clang of pots, the sizzle of meat hitting hot pans—fucking beautiful.

“Fire two lamb, one scallop!” I call out.

My team moves like a well-oiled machine, weeks of training paying off in their synchronized dance.See Dad? I can run a kitchen. I can lead a team.

Through the pass, I catch glimpses of the packed dining room. Critics, friends, family—all here to see if Brandon Milton can actually pull this shit off. Naomi sits at the bar with Blake, the crostini I made her disappearing bite by bite.

“Yo.” Sebastian materializes beside me. “Table four is losing their minds over the lamb.”

“Yeah?” I add a drizzle of balsamic over the salad. “Then get the fuck out of my kitchen unless you’re planning to work.”

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