Oui, Chef!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT SUPPORT THE FRE- oh let’s just get on with it.

She's just standing there at the pass, with her damn tweezers and a chive and you're pissed at her.

It's not like it's unwarranted, really. Take 10 minutes ago: you brought her the cod, skin seared and crispy. "Overdone," she said simply, as if you should've known better, barely even looking up from the plate.

Or like, earlier in the day during prep, when: she went to a commis, little tasting spoon in hand. "More salt," Chef Kazuha had said, tasting.

Did she not know you were her sous chef? Did she not trust you to know when a dish needed more fucking salt? You were just getting around to tasting it! Then you could've told the commis yourself to add salt. But no, she had to do it herself.

Maybe it’s just the heat of the kitchen, the cooks yelling 'heard!', and 'oui!', the oil and the grime, but Chef Kazuha was always like that. Just a couple of words, never too many. A 'not done' here, or a 'do it again' there. It didn't make it better her voice was so soft, not loud and rough like the sizzle of meat on the grill. You couldn't even compare it to the bubbling of the pasta water you had to constantly refill on busy nights like this.

It’s just, simple, her voice. But commanding in all the ways that mattered, because she's the Chef. So, "oui, Chef," is what you always say, even when she does piss you off.

But today, it's valentines day, and you're slammed. Your line cooks are slipping, and you know a mistake anywhere on the line is going to push whole tables back by minutes. Minutes you don't have. So it's the last thing you need for Chef Kazuha to leave the pass, come on the line and help you help your line cooks. Which, incidentally, is exactly what she seems to be doing.

And it's not a bad thing, actually. None of it is, not the quiet disproval, or the soft corrections. It's the fact you know you can do it, and you're desperate to prove yourself capable. But, quite clearly, Kazuha doesn't think you are.

So you hold your tongue as she hops onto the line, and it's just a thought, really, but maybe you're in the wrong. Because, if you're being honest, that piece of cod you gave her was overdone, albeit slightly. And since you're admitting things, yeah, you should've checked that commis's prep for salt, even though someone in a kitchen as esteemed as this should know how to season their fucking food.

Yeah, maybe you do have problems, something bubbling under the surface, like the pasta water - you'll let yourself similize the boiling to this at least.

"I'm jumping on the line," she says in that deathly calm voice, and it's weird because your sauce is splitting, oil rising to the surface of your pan, but it's fine, because it reminds you of the way Chef Kazuha's hair splits on her forehead under her Chef's hat (which is a weird thought for someone you claim to hate), or the way she splits through the chaos of the kitchen with ease.

Fuck, the sauce. It's bubbling. Okay, lower the heat, you think while tossing the pan, which is pretty fucking hard when the youngest 3-michelin star chef ever has just jumped onto the line. The heat's always on in her kitchen.

The change is palpable, and it pains you to admit it, but the way she steadies her hands, takes a deep breath before igniting whatever it is inside of her that can cook so well is damn impressive. She's a station away from you, helping the new commis with garnish - easiest fucking job on the line, but alas, he needs help - and she looks so damn focused. Every movement is calculated, the slice of her knife, the way she folds butter into mashed potatoes, it's all so precise. And, now another admission: you've seen all that a million times - what you really look at now is her eyes. They're usually large, and maybe a bit expressive, at least when she's not quitely telling you 'not good enough'. But now, in the heat, they're dialled in, focused, brown and attentive.

Sometimes her eyebrows flicker, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead, and you think: she should probably wipe that, but only because if it were to end up on a customers plate, you could lose a star, and it was always your dream to work at a 3-michelin restaurant. And you wouldn't want that, because despite her stoney attitude, you know she's brilliant, and she's pretty much taught you everything you know.

So, really, maybe you're not pissed at her, just caught up in the rush. But then, just as fast as she gets on the line, she finishes three dishes, and is heading to your station.

"Behind," she says squeakily, which is odd coming from her mouth - until of course you realize the squeaks are coming from your shoes, sliding all about as she comes to you.

The anger is back just like that. Because, again, you're the sous chef, and you're helping out the bulky saucier that hasn't put out an emulsified sauce all night (which is harsh, considering you just split a sauce getting lost in Chef Kazuha's eyes cooking ability). This is your job, your responsibility, and she's walking all over you like she thinks you can't handle the pressure.

She's right next to you, monter au beurring with absolute precision, and you think back, back to when you were a budding stagiere, excited for even the chance to work at Tenshi. It was grueling, 14 hour shifts, sweat, burns and salt. You worked your ass off, learning everything you could. You were a sponge, soaking up everything she had to teach you. You remember seeing her for the first time - your second day on the job, peeling oranges. She was different then. You thought she was amazing. You still do, really, but in a different way. Before she was brilliant, innovative, inspiring. Now, after being saturated and rung out time and time again, you know it's her frigid diligence, her steely ambition, her calmnesss that got her where she is.

You can see it now, in the way her sleeve is rolled up just below her elbow so you can see her forearm flex as she agitates the sauce in the pan, or the way she finally does wipe that bead of sweat off of her forehead, but now there's one climbing down the sharp angle of her jaw.

"Your sauce is splitting, Chef. Behind," she tells, walking back to the pass with 3 perfectly glossy sauces. Yeah, 2 sauce pots in one hand, and she's walking with ease. She could walk a runway in Paris, but instead she opened a restaurant so she could exacerbate your imposter syndrome everytime she was in the kitchen. And you know your sauce is splitting, it's fucking obvious, and now you're mad at two things: Kazuha, for pointing it out; and Kazuha again, because as you look at the tickets you realize the third saucepot she was holding was a replacement for yours.

Fucking valentines day. About 70 things go wrong, 60 of them fixed by your chef. And it sucks, because it's already another valentines day you spend cooking for couples only to go home and sleep alone, but also because you're the sous chef, and you don't feel like you're making an impact in this kitchen. Here or not, Kazuha would still have 3 stars. And you want to mean something to the kitchen.

But it's breakdown and it's late as fuck and you cannot wait to climb into your bed because you're tired and frankly still annoyed at Kazuha, even though you've probably come to terms with the fact that, yeah, maybe you do have some issues. You're thinking this when Kazuha approaches you, chef whites still pristine, and you're ticked off again before she asks: "can you stay late?"

The question catches you off guard because, for one, it's valentines day. She should be off with Chef Mory Sacko, or Carmen Berrzatto, or any of the other million young handsome chefs around her age, with a bottle of wine and horror stories about their front of house managers.

But instead she's standing in front of you, asking you to stay late on valentines day, and when you turn to look at her, there's expectancy in her eyes, like: "I know you don't have plans anyway". But she doesn't say that, she says "I want your opinions on the spring menu," and it startles you, because that's probably the longest sentence she's said to you in weeks, but also because Chef Kazuha usually perfects dishes alone before she asks her staff for opinions, it's just the way she operates. But she's here now, asking you to be apart of the process.

The kitchen is mostly empty now, save for you, going over inventory, and a couple dishwashers, and you think there couldn't be a worse valentines day plan than to spend it with your asshole (well, maybe steely is a better word, but you don't care about the semantics right now) boss, but then again, picking the brains of the best chef in the world is as invaluable to your career as it sounds.

So you spend your valentines night sitting in front of one those old squeaky roll out whiteboards - except this one isn't squeaky, because nothing in this kitchen is, except for maybe your shoes when Kazuha approaches you. Eventually the dishwashers leave, leaving the kitchen empty.

"This spring, I want to go with the concept of resilience for our menu," Kazuha says, and her eyes don't seem dialed anymore. Instead, you're reminded of her brilliance and her passion, because her eyes light up, and you almost stutter when she turns to look at you. Which is weird, because it really looks like she's asking for your opinion on the menu.

"Resilience?" You repeat, and it sounds awfully dense coming out of your mouth.

"Yeah, I think like - the world bouncing back. After the winter."

It doesn't really make sense to you, the concept, and it's even more confusing how she wants to turn this into a food menu, but you nod your head anyway.

She writes down Resilience in the middle of the whiteboard in perfect font, nothing out of place, just like her brunoise.

"We could really focus on the freshness of…" she trails off, and you're left thinking your input matters fuckall, because you haven't provided one piece of useful input. "… we can use the scraps we'd usually save for staff meal, and elevate them, 'cause, you know, resilience!" She says, and yeah, if you were to write down what she said on a piece of paper, you would add an exclamation point. Chef Kazuha just exclaimed. She has this expression on her face you can't quite place, because it's not really a smile, just the echo of it, but it makes your heart skip a beat, and this time not because you're pissed at her.

She looks at you expectantly. "Yeah, that, umm, that sounds brilliant," you say, and maybe the concept is dawning on you, but you're stuttering because that damn half-smile she has makes her eyebrows perk up, kind of accentuates the angle of her jaw.

"Yeah?" She asks. She's so fucking different when service isn't happening, or about to happen.

"Yeah, it-it's great. I think it's great."

She gives you a appraising look, and she unties her fucking hair. It's valentines day and you're alone with Chef Kazuha and she lets down her hair, which is insane because this is a kitchen, and hair is a code-red-times-a-million. It flows down like silk, and you can't help but notice how the strands fall to her shoulders like waterfalls, how it falls down past her shoulders, which is new information, because you've never seen her with her hair down. How she's so damn pretty, even if she is when her hair's up too, so you don't know why you were expecting anything different. "Great. Give me a dish."

"What?"

"Think of a dish!" And she's really fucking smiling, you've never seen her so excited, and you think, man, she really loves food.

"Like, to serve on the spring menu?"

She gives a nod. "I trust you," she says simply.

She trusts me? That doesn't sound right. But you're stunned, and this is an opportunity to do what you've always wanted, to have an impact at a restaurant worth cooking at,

"But-" the words catch on your mouth. "But what if I fuck it up?" You blurt.

Her eyes find yours, and you're cursing her for letting her hair down because you're pretty sure your cheeks are burning hot and red. "I won't let you," she says.

The words feel like a gust of wind has blown every memory you had right under a lamp post. I won't let you. It echoes like a ripple through every encounter you've ever had with her: the 'no's', the 'do it again's', even the 'it's not fucking ready's' she saves when things really get heated. And your knees are weak, but she's still looking at you expectantly.

You can't look at her in the eyes, so you look away, but it works in your favour, because she smiles, probably thinking you're thinking of a dish.

And you do, eventually, but it's more than a dish, and you don't know if you're overstepping. "What if we do a tasting menu - go through all the different techniques humans have discovered over the years, you know, to persevere?"

Kazuha thinks for a moment. "That… that could work." She admits.

"Yeah," you say, and you too are getting excited, because at the heart of it, you're just like Kazuha in that you fucking love food. "We can highlight curing, confiting, pickling and fermentation! It really shows that life is-"

"Resilient."

"Yeah!"

She writes everything down, and it's like every waking dream of yours from the moment you learned how to cook eggs on your old stovetop is fulfilled.

"That kind of clashes with my idea of highlighting freshness," she says, and it's another new experience, because she laughs as she says it. "But, I like it, for a couple of dishes, at least."

"Oh, right," you say sheepishly. And it's not like you're usually so… skiddish. You're a fucking chef, for god's sake, but around Chef Kazuha, anyone would be. "Sorry."

"It's okay. So, preservation. Go grab some cherry tomatoes, we can confit them in, hmm, duck fat?" She orders.

"Wait, now?"

"Hmm, yeah, why not." She says, not really a question.

"It's valentine's! Don't you have, I don't know, some celebrity chef to get home to?"

"Like a boyfriend?" She laughs. "No, I don't have time for that. I spend all my time here," she says, and you get it, because valentine's day for your type means cooking the most elegant food, fit for only the richest, the most cultured, and then going home to eat pop tarts alone.

But still, the thought causes that boiling feeling to creep under your skin again, and maybe not in the same way.

"You're pretty much, like, my only friend," Kazuha says. She says it like it's common knowledge, like there's some preconceived agreement that: hey, I'm your boss but also, we're friends. "Why, do you have someone you have to go home to?"

"No…" you admit.

"Good," she says.

Hey, remember that mean Kazuha from the earlier tonight, where she wasn't exactly mean, just a little strict? Yeah, well turns out that Kazuha can be fun. She popped open the expensive wine, the one's kept in the cellar, reasoning: "what the hell, it's valentine's day".

So, you're pretty deep into the bottle, cooking with her, but it's not the same as it is when there’re people to serve. Experimenting, making mistakes because the dish is new, and you're only serving it to yourselves, it's the most fucking fun you've had since you started working here.

The blinding white overhead lights are off, leaving only the lights over the fryers and the expo lights on, and it gives the kitchen a different feel. Like you're cooking at home - hell, she's even taken out her speaker, playing some song about food of course. Although, it's a bit too upbeat to really be about spaghetti.

"Is that the youngest 3-star chef with her chef white's stained?" You tease, pointing at her usually pristine uniform covered in sauces - a joke you usually wouldn't make, but, the wine.

She teases you back, something about how you're her sous and she could fire you, but you're too caught up in the moment to really take it in. You've reworked the dish like, 3 times already, and Kazuha is opening up another bottle of wine.

But you don't mind that it's taking long, don't mind being in this kitchen past - oh, midnight now - and just, cooking because it's fun.

You're honestly pretty drunk by the time Kazuha is happy with the dish - trout, with an accoutrement of different cured and pickled garnishes.

It looks fucking delicious, and when Kazuha tastes it, her face lights up.

"Good?" You ask.

She doesn't answer you, she just loads up her spoon, same one she just ate from, and positions it at your mouth. You take a bite, and it's the perfect balance of salty, rich, sweet and acidic. The flavours coat your tongue in ways that you know only Kazuha can evoke. She's looking at you and smiling.

"Yeah… yeah, it's good."

Her smile doesn't exactly leave, just softens, and it lingers there for a bit, the silence between you different, like it's not between just a chef and her sous.

You’re still holding a pan, thinking how the hell did things pan out like this?

"Well, fuck," you say, because you're a chef, and even though Kazuha's in front of you, you can't help but be crude. "I should get going."

"Yeah," she agrees. "It's late."

But you're still standing there in the semi-dark, wine glass still half full - not half empty, because using that language would indicate you actually mean to leave.

She's leaning against a counter, top two buttons of her uniform unbuttoned. Despite her expertise, her hair falls differently in some places, unlike the smooth billows when she first untied it. She fixes it the same way she sculpts her plates, to absolute perfection. You can see the shadow of her eyes every time she blinks, can make out her lashes flutter, but that might just be your imagination because you've been alive for 23 years and have never once seen eyelashes actually flutter.

You look away. You also don't leave.

You're staring up at the dark ceiling when she asks: "What made you want to be a chef?"

It doesn't even catch you off guard, really. It just takes you back, and you're thankful for it, because you can look her in the eyes again. You have to think for a moment though, because although you're still young, the beginning feels like so long ago. "I think I just… love connecting with people. And sometimes, it's hard to do that with words," you say eventually.

"So you do it with food."

"Yeah," you admit.

"And is it working?"

"What a question," you chuckle, leaning back onto the counter and taking another sip of wine. "I… I think so. It used to be just me, cooking for my dad, or hosting dinner parties for my friends. And I could see their faces when they ate what I made, and I could think: 'hey, they liked this'. And they could laugh at joke while eating my food. But now, I don't know, it's different. I can't really see the impact that I'm making from the inside of a real kitchen."

Kazuha pauses for a moment, as if what she's about to ask is going to have weight. "Do you think you're burning out?"

"I don't know," you answer honestly.

"I've just noticed how… stressed you've been lately. Like every little thing lingers in your head," she admits, and you have to look away again. You didn't know you were that obvious. "I wanted to remind you that cooking could be fun," she says, and even though you just learned of its beauty, you can hear the smile in her voice. "Because I believe in you."

You're conflicted, because on the one hand, Chef Kazuha believes in you, and that's worth more than any Michelin star, but on the other hand, you don't know if it's exactly deserved.

"Yeah right," you say, not bitterly, just, truthfully. "I've been fucking up a lot - like with that fish today, or the commis's salt levels."

"Everyone messes up. That's why I'm here, to make sure you don't."

For some reason, despite being more than 2 feet away from, she doesn't feel so far away. "You really love food, don't you?" You ask. It's rhetorical, really, just a statement you know to be true thrown out into the air, because it seems fitting.

"I do," she says. And maybe you were wrong about it being a solidified fact, because says it without the charm you expect. It sounds tired, which isn't odd considering it's nearly half past 3 in the morning, but still.

You stand up a bit straighter anyway, because the answer seems not untruthful, just flat, like it's not the whole story.

"You do, right?"

She doesn't slump down, or sigh, or give any indication, really, that it isn't true, but she just nods.

"You're Chef Kazuha!" You say, and it's all you need to - the accolades, the stars, the glowing reviews, it's all written there in her name.

She smiles, and it's the most genuine one you've seen all day, and those fucking eyelashes are most definitely fluttering. She lets out a soft sigh, more like a hum really, before saying "I love it so much. I love making it, I love that first bite, when your senses go into overdrive - almost like they're in shock. I love when I finish plating a dish and can think: 'this is beautiful, and I'm giving it to someone'. I love it when the heat from the grill hits my face, I fucking hate it when a critic shits on my food…" she continues on, and she's getting looser now. You're listening, taking in every word, but more than that, you're taking in how her eyes light up, how her smile curls just slightly. The sentence is probably more words than you've heard her say all week, and you can't help but smile either.

And it's weird, because 3 hours ago, you were in the shits, pissed off at her for every little thing she did. And now you're listening to her talk about food and paying attention to her eyebrows and the way the skin on her neck stretches when she gets animated and moves her head.

"But," she says. It's a hard stop, and her smile fades a little, the ghost of something under the surface present in her eyes. "I've sacrificed so much to get here."

"Was it worth it?" You ask. You don’t need to say anything more, because you too are a chef. You know the sacrifice. She knows that you know the sacrifice.

"I-it was," she says, and the way she stutters on her words is divine, for one, because you didn't think she was capable of stuttering, and for another, her eyes flick to the floor, then back to yours.

"But?" You pry.

"But, I feel like I'm missing out. On life."

You chuckle, almost snort your wine. "What could Chef Kazuha Nakamura be missing out on? Thousands dream of being you."

"It's a good life," she sighs, "But I'm missing out on other- other pleasures."

"Pleasures? What do you mean?" You ask, because you think you know where she's going, but it doesn't make any fucking sense.

"Like, it's valentine’s day, and I'm planning our spring menu."

"Your spring menu is important!" You yell, suddenly getting defensive over it, despite also lamenting having spent your valentines making it.

"Valentine's important?"

You swirl the wine in your hand, and reach out the glass towards her. She notices, before locking eyes with you, and reaching her glass out. The glasses clink.

"Happy Valentine's, Chef," you say in a clearly mocking, sarcastic voice.

"Happy Valentine's," she smiles.

"So Chef Nakamura is having boy troubles?"

"I'm not having boy troubles," she scrunches her face at you. "I'm just busy."

"I can believe that," you say. "Hey, maybe I can help you out."

You don't mean anything by it. In fact, you say it like: 'hey, I can introduce you to some of my cute friends', but after the valentine's cheers, and probably too much wine, Kazuha doesn't take it as such.

It's clear, because she's blushing, taken aback. Not in a bad way, necessarily. "Oh," she says. You should take back your words, clarify what you mean, but you see her wrap the thin line of her lips on her wine glass, and take another sip.

Something inside of her flits to the surface, like: yeah, I really am pent up from working all the damn time, and the prospect of you 'helping' her is intriguing.

"Like, um…" she starts, eyes flicking, but she trails off, and her eyes find yours again. And a peculiar expression lines her face, mouth slightly open, eyes expressive and attentive, blush colouring her cheeks. She looks so fucking perfect, you think, and you silently wish you could cook in kitchens with your hair down, just so you could see her like this more.

Maybe it's the wine, or the fact that she asked you to stay because she values your culinary input, or how she told you 'I won't let you fail', or just Kazuha and how hot she fucking looks, but you take a step, just one, towards her.

She looks up, same expression on her face (her eyes are definitely fucking fluttering), and that sharp jawline of hers tilts up, just a bit. You're still, like, a foot away from her, but the act is enough to send you into overdrive. Your heart is hammering in your chest, because not only is she the best chef in the world, you're pretty sure she's an angel sent from above.

Her eyes flick down to your lips, and you can see how much she wants it. She doesn't even wait for you, and before you know it, she's standing on her tippy toes, hands on your shoulders, lips on yours.

Not like you mind, though. You close your eyes, letting her soft lips acclimate on yours. She breaks away a little bit.

"You taste like fermentation," she chuckles.

"You do too," you laugh.

"Lucky we made a good recipe, then," she quips before jumping back in.

This time it's vigorous, Her lips crash on yours as if to say: 'you're my sous chef, and my friend but it's valentine's day and I don't give a shit'. You respond back, tongue searching her mouth, and she does taste like fermentation, but also like citrus and vanilla, and you just can't get enough.

Your hands wrap around her lithe form, pulling her closer towards you. She shudders at your touch, but doesn't stop you. You can feel her perfectly toned body on yours, and the breathy kisses are fogging your brain.

You try to break away, but her lips chase you, finding yours again. You stumble back a bit until your back hits the counter. Her tongue is exploring every inch of your mouth and her hands work to strip you of your chef whites.

"Jesus Christ, chef," you moan through gaps in the kisses.

"I told you," she says, sliding your uniform off, leaving your top half in just a tank top. "It's been a while," she breathes.

And her lips crash into yours again, and it's so needy and wet. Her hands find yours, bringing them to the buttons of her uniform.

You can barely think straight, between the wine and Kazuha's tongue in your mouth, so you fiddle clumsily with her shirt. She doesn't help, either, her kisses only grow more vigorous, making it even more difficult.

Her hands explore your now exposed skin, trailing down your arms, the line of your neck, palming your chest through your tank top, and all the while she positions your right leg in between her thighs, pressing her nether regions onto it. She wasn't lying, she is pent up.

Eventually, you do manage to take of her top, and you have to pry her off of you to get a good look. She's wearing a blue sports bra, because kitchen's get sweaty, and her body is so toned it's exceptional. You can see the soft line of her abs on her stomach, her tits tight, and her neckline sharp.

She's breathing so heavily, flush still lining her face. She's huffing, looking you up and down as your arms keep her stationary so you can drink in the sight of her.

"Slow down, chef," you breath heavily.

She bites her lip, and the sharp angles of her jaw tilt at you once again.

"I need it," she huffs.

It's enough to weaken your arms, and she comes crashing back into you. She unbuckles your trousers with precision, and they fall to the floor, exposing your already hard cock. It brushes against the fabric of her trousers, which apparently she too has taken off, because now you can feel the skin of her legs on it.

You're still leaning on the counter when her leg - wow she's flexible - props up beside you. She's standing, one leg on the floor, one on the counter, pussy perfectly positioned over your cock. She's so fucking eager your mind is spinning in circles, but a beam of focus hits you when she pushes her blue panties to the side, exposing her folds. They're already glistening wet, and your cock throbs at the sight.

She positions herself over it, brushing the tip over the folds. She moans hard, having to grip your shoulders to keep herself from falling. In fact, the sensation on your cock almost topples you over. You're lucky to be leaning on something. Her wetness coats your tip, and it's warmth almost causes you to buck into her.

Her eyes are closed, but she repositions herself over you once again. Your hands find her waist, gripping them tightly, and she lowers herself onto your shaft. Her groans fill the kitchen as her hot tightness engulfs you. Her walls usher a divine sensation onto your piece, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

She rolls her head back, and that vigour that she displayed is gone, but the need is still raring. You have to remind yourself that this is Chef Kazuha, who has dedicated her life to cooking, and for her, it's been a while since she's had sex. Clearly, she's sensitive.

You give her waist a squeeze. "I've got you," you manage.

She opens her eyes and finds yours, maybe a little embarrassed that she cornered you at the counter and impaled herself onto you, only to pause halfway through the first stroke. Still, they're eager all the same.

She lowers herself further, and you can feel the shudder in her hips. Your own cock is throbbing inside of her, sending pulses of sensation through the both of you.

She glides lower with torturous pace, before about 3 quarters of the way through, she lifts back up again.

She's already dripping wet, and a trail of her slick is left on your cock. The slick slides down your member onto your pelvis, before she lowers herself again.

You stay holding her, letting her eager mind set the pace. She's still huffing, eyes closed, forehead resting on yours when she chances speeding up. The pace is killing you, and you're clenching your teeth so hard you're surprised they haven't shattered, but you stop yourself from thrusting into her.

She bounces on you with some speed now, groaning and moaning all about. You have to direct your lust somewhere else, lest you shove your cock all the way up her tight little pussy, so instead, you take her lips in yours again. She moans into your mouth, lowering herself further onto you. Eventually, she works her way all the way to the base of your cock, and you nearly blow your load right there.

Her athletic form continues bouncing on you, and she works up even more speed, the vigour she showed earlier coming back.

"F-fuck," you groan, squeezing her hips. The sound of her bouncing on your cock is erotic, squelches and slaps filling the kitchen.

Your hands climb up her waist, trailing her tight abs, and finding her bra. You lift it, exposing her tits. Her nipples stand erect, and although you're nearly toppling over from the sensation of her cunt, you take her nipples between your fingers, rolling them.

Her head rolls back, and she grunts your name, but you keep going. You're instantly rewarded as her walls close in around you on every pinch of her nipples. The pleasure is extraordinary, and you can't help it anymore. You pump into her, matching her rhythm. Every time she lowers down onto you, you buck up, meeting her halfway with an erotic slap of your balls.

Even her nipples harden between your fingers, and she nearly topples over as she reaches her climax, clamping down on you. You can feel her shudder, her hands reaching out to grab your shoulders once again. Your pelvis is a mess of her juices and your pre-cum, and when she lifts off your throbbing cock, a string of her juices keeps them connected.

"Holy shit," she huffs, cheeks still flushed. She lowers her shaking leg from the countertop. "That was amazing."

But your cock is still throbbing uncontrollably, and you have no plans of stopping any time soon. You swing around her.

"Ehh!!" She yelps as you push her forward on the counter. You're positioned behind her. Her ass is heavenly and tight, and her back is as toned as her front. She's caught off guard, leaning forward onto the counter, but when she turns around to look at you, there's that same look in her eyes. She's still dripping wet; you can see the trail of slick running down her legs, and when she wiggles her ass for you, you grip her waist.

Lining up with her cunt, you give her ass a light little slap, eliciting an excited moan out of her. A couple of strokes on your cock, another slap, and you push in. It's so fucking warm - you've just experienced it, but the sensation is so overwhelming it's like it's the first time. Her walls clamp around you like the feeling is mutual, and you can see the toned muscles in her back contract. You start off slow - not as slow as her, just slow enough so you don't burst right then and there.

This position is challenging, because as much as you want to ram into her with all your strength, she's still your boss, still the best chef in the world, still someone you look up to.

So you settle for slowly ramping up. Her breathing has mostly steadied since her first climax, but it's picking up again.

Soon, though, your pace has quickened, and the familiar sound of your balls slapping against her rings throughout the kitchen.

"You're so fucking tight, chef," you groan, and you can't hold back anymore. You thrust into her, abandoning all sense of self control. You raise a hand, giving her another slap on the ass. She yelps in surprise, but the way she tightens tells you all you need to know.

So you continue thrusting into her, slapping at intervals, switching hands occasionally. She starts tightening around you, and you yourself are getting lost in the pleasure, and you know you want to see her face.

You pull out, and she turns her head to you with needy surprise. You turn her around, pick her up, and place her ass on the counter. You lock lips again, and your cock finds her cunt like a suction. You continue your thrusts. She moans into your mouth.

You can feel your legs weaken, feel her walls clench on you like it's a lifeline.

You grunt into her, an explosion of pleasure ripping through your entire body. You release every pent up thought into her - all the times she's scolded you, all the times you've fucked up a dish because you were lost in her eyes, it all comes flooding out into her. You're groaning, and so is she but she takes your lips in hers again.

The waves keep coming, and you gush into her with an impossible amount of cum. The connection between you feels like an ocean, and when you pull out, gushes of your love juices flow freely out of her. Your body aches, not only from the grueling valentine's shift, but from cumming inside Kazuha's perfect pussy.

And to top it all off, like dessert after a good meal, Kazuha, still flushed, scoops up some of that juice and brings it to her mouth. She tastes it, like she'd taste any good meal.

A soft smile creeps on her face. "Great cook, chef."

“Oui, chef,” you respond.

A:N/

Hey all, I’d just like to address something you’re all probably wondering with some frequently asked questions:

So, like, do you have a kink for women with authority?

What? What gives you that idea?

Well, your first fic had MC fuck their barista manager Chaewon…

Yeah, so? A man can’t write 2 fics about their bosses?

Yeah, that’s totally fine, but your second fic had MC fuck the Queen…

Umm, yeah so??? That’s like, a totally respectable plot for a fantasy fanfic…

Okay, well what about your THIRD fic. MC gets manhandled by the duchess…

I DON’T HAVE A KINK FOR WOMEN WITH AUTHORITY!!

And your Yunjin series where they’re both of equal status *SPOILERS * they don’t even end up together…

WELL THE STORY DEMANDED IT!!

You even have a fic about an MC and their TA!

okay, maybe I have a kink for women with authority…