The kiss was a war. Marcello didn't just kiss me; he conquered me. He tore my chef’s jacket open, buttons popping and skittering across the tiled floor with a series of sharp *clinks*. I groaned into his mouth, my hands frantically clawing at the fabric of his trousers. I needed him against me, without the barrier of starch and cotton.
"Still so arrogant," he growled, his voice vibrating against my lips. He shifted his weight, his thigh forcing its way between my legs, pinning me harder against the stainless steel. "Still thinking you can handle everything I throw at you."
"I can handle more than you've ever given me," I gasped, arching my back. "Is this all you've got, Chef?"
He let out a low, dangerous chuckle. "You want to be tested? Fine. Let's see how you handle a real lesson."
He
