10:41 p.m.
Le Cygne Noir, three Michelin stars, fully booked for the last six months.
Dinner service is at its peak.
The kitchen is a controlled inferno: flames leaping, pans hissing, expediter barking orders in rapid-fire French.
I am completely naked, completely invisible, and standing right behind the pass.
Chef Julien Laurent, 34, tattooed forearms, black chef’s jacket open at the throat, sweat glistening on his sharp cheekbones, is plating the signature dish: seared foie gras with black truffle emulsion.
His hands move like a surgeon’s.
I move like sin.
I wait until he turns to wipe the rim of a plate with a white towel.
Then I press my entire invisible body against his back, breasts flattening to the damp cotton of his jacket, n*****s dragging over the fabric.
He stiffens,
