Chef arrived just past seven, the way he always did—one hand on the strap of a heavy insulated tote filled with fresh ingredients, the other gripping a second, unfamiliar bag. This one was smaller, sleek, and intentional. Sleek. Intentional.

He hadn’t even knocked yet when the door swung open.

Sophie stood framed in the warm hallway light, and for a second, Chef forgot how to blink.

She’d gone all out.

The dress was black, tight, and slippery-looking. Tight. Slippery-looking. Thin straps, a plunging neckline, and a high slit up one side. It clung to every dip and curve of her lithe frame, and the way the fabric caught the light made it clear there wasn’t a bra beneath—her nipples subtly visible, perfectly defined against the satin. The cut of the dress revealed nearly as much as it concealed.

Her heels were thin and sharp, with straps wrapping around her ankles. Her hair was pinned up in soft, elegant twists that left her neck bare. She wore dark red lipstick. Smokey eyes. A single silver chain glinting between her collarbones.

She looked expensive.

And a little sad.

Chef, for his part, had put in some effort. He wore a charcoal button-down. Slim black trousers. Fresh shave. He looked damn good—just ... not like that.

Sophie’s smile was bright but didn’t reach her eyes.

“Well, look at you,” she said, trying for playful. “Dressed up for me, huh?”

“I always dress for the occasion,” he replied evenly, stepping inside.

“You clean up nice, Chef.” She stepped back and shut the door, then turned to face him. “But I’m afraid I win.”

“Not a competition,” he said, eyeing the dress.

She laughed. “That’s what people say when they’re losing.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to be uncomfortable. Then Sophie stepped in and wrapped her arms around him.

The hug wasn’t sexy. Not a tease. Just warm and tight and quiet.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Thanks for coming.”

“I always come when you call,” he said gently, returning the embrace.

Sophie smiled into his shoulder. “One last time.”

He pulled back slightly to look at her. “Chicago, huh?”

She groaned. “I know, I know. But I need to feel the seasons, Florida just feels wrong to me.”

“You want me to visit?”

“I want you to move, but I know you won’t.”

He shuddered. “Nope. Fuck that. I’ve seen Chicago in January.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Fair. But yes. Visit.”

He set his bags down in the kitchen. The second one—sleek, dark, and zippered—he pushed aside without comment.

While he unpacked and began prepping dinner, Sophie opened a bottle of full-bodied red and poured two generous glasses. She kicked off her heels but left the dress on, perching on a stool by the island, legs crossed in a way that kept threatening to flash the top of her thigh.

Chef pretended not to notice.

“Chicken Provençal,” he said, laying out the ingredients. “With confit garlic, lemon zest, Kalamata olives. Salad with goat cheese and candied pecans. Prosciutto-wrapped figs to start. And dessert ... you’ll see.”

Sophie raised her glass. “To the final fuck-me meal.”

Chef clinked it. “To karma.”

She cocked her head. “Karma?”

He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

As he moved through the kitchen, she watched him. The motions were familiar—knife gliding through herbs, pans sizzling, the pop of olive oil heating just right. They’d done this so many times, it felt almost ordinary.

Except it wasn’t.

“Gonna miss this,” she said, swirling her wine.

“You’ll be too busy for this.”

“Maybe. But takeout won’t bend me over the counter while the sauce simmers.”

Chef didn’t respond, but his mouth twitched. A glimmer of something behind the eyes.

She leaned forward, chin in her hand. “You’ll find someone else. There’s got to be more horny food-obsessed girls who need a mystery man with perfect plating and a camera-shy cock.”

“I doubt it,” he said, tossing figs in a pan.

“You’re sweet.”

“No,” he replied, flipping them. “I’m patient.”

She grinned. “You’re still thinking about karma, aren’t you?”

“Relentlessly.”

They sat down to eat, the table lit by a pair of candles Sophie had set earlier. The chicken was perfect. Salad crisp. The figs nearly made her come right there.

As they ate, she teased—but it was gentler now. Less pointed. Less about control.

She let the strap of her dress fall halfway off her shoulder. Made little sounds of pleasure as she bit into dessert. Pressed her bare foot against his ankle under the table.

Chef took it all in stride, the same half-smile on his lips the whole time. Calm. Unbothered. But she knew him well enough to see it:

He was waiting.

And Sophie didn’t know if she was turned on or nervous.

Maybe both.

When she reached across the table for her glass, the slit in her dress parted almost fully, baring the top of her hip and a flash of skin where panties should’ve been.

She caught him looking.

“What?” she said, innocently.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Karma.”

Dinner plates sat empty on the table, the bottle of wine down to its last glass. Sophie leaned back in her chair, sated, a little flushed, the slit of her dress draped wide over her thigh. She had just finished telling him about the apartments she’d toured in Chicago when Chef pushed his chair back and stood.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he looked down at her with a calm, unreadable expression—familiar, yet different. She blinked, sat up straighter, and tilted her head.

“Time for dessert,” he said.

Something in his voice made her pulse quicken.

From the island, he reached for the smaller of his two bags—the sleek one he’d quietly set aside when he arrived—and brought it to the living room.

She turned toward him slowly, heels tapping against the floor as she stood. “Wait,” she said softly, eyes narrowing. “Am I dessert?”

Chef didn’t answer.

Not with words.

He unzipped the bag, and the first thing he pulled out was a long silk blindfold—black, smooth, shimmering in the light.

Her breath hitched.

“Sophie,” he said, stepping close, “do you trust me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Explicitly.”

“Good.” He moved behind her. “Then stand still.”

She obeyed without a word, spine straightening, hands relaxed at her sides. He reached up, brushing her hair aside and letting it tumble over one shoulder. Then he slipped the blindfold over her eyes, snugging it behind her head and adjusting it until not a sliver of light slipped through.

No sight.

Only sound.

Only breath.

His hands found her shoulders next—warm, broad, steady. He leaned in, his lips brushing her neck in the lightest of kisses, just beneath her ear.

Then his voice dropped to a low whisper.

“You’ve teased me every time I’ve come here to cook for you,” he murmured, lips ghosting over her skin. “You’ve pushed. You’ve provoked. And yes, sometimes you even took me—made me give in. And I’ve loved every minute of it.”

His hands squeezed her shoulders gently, fingers curling.

“But you’re still a slutty little cock tease, Sophie.”

She whimpered.

“Tonight is karma,” he whispered, voice hot and close. “Tonight, you’re going to be my little slut. I’m going to tease you. I’m going to use you. I want to hear you say you understand. Say it.”

Sophie’s breath trembled in her throat. She nodded quickly, lips parted, but no words came.

He brought one hand down sharply across her ass—smack—the sound echoing in the quiet room. She gasped and flinched, not in pain, but with a fresh rush of heat between her legs.

“Speak,” he said again. Firm. Calm.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Yes. Please. Yes.”

Chef smiled.

“That’s better.”

He stepped back and reached into the bag again, retrieving a small red ball gag, polished and perfectly clean. He walked behind her, brushing her lower back as he circled.

“Open wide,” he said.

She did—mouth parting without resistance.

He slipped the gag between her lips and secured it snugly, not too tight, just enough to keep her compliant. Her lips wrapped around the ball, a small moan vibrating from her throat.

He paused then, brushing her cheek, his voice soft again.

“You still okay?”

She nodded eagerly, fingers twitching at her sides.

Chef stepped behind her once more and slowly unzipped her dress. The satin slipped down her body like a sigh, baring her spine, her sides, the elegant slope of her hips. The dress pooled around her ankles with a whisper of silk.

He knelt, lifting one heel at a time, careful as he slipped the shoes off, then gently lifted the dress away and set it aside.

When he stood again, his breath caught.

She was exquisite.

She wore black lace lingerie—elegant, simple, deadly. The bra cupped her small breasts perfectly, sheer panels offering just enough mystery while framing the pronounced swell of her nipples. The thong was high-waisted, lace across the hips, a sheer triangular panel of black that revealed more than it hid.

She was trembling slightly. Not from fear.

From anticipation.

Chef’s hands slid from her shoulders, down the slope of her arms, then to her waist. He let them linger at her sides before tracing the curve of her spine, following it lower, until he knelt behind her again.

With reverent hands, he caressed her legs—fingers tracing the lines of her calves, the sensitive skin behind her knees, up over her thighs. She shifted slightly, barely able to breathe.

When his hands reached her hips, he let them pause—then slid inward to cup her ass, squeezing gently. He leaned forward and kissed the base of her spine, right where it dipped, warm breath feathering against her skin.

Then his voice again, low and honest.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, Sophie. I know you don’t always feel that way. But your body? It’s near perfect.”

She moaned softly behind the gag, body shivering under the weight of the words.