The kitchen was already hot—thanks to the stove—but when he walked in, it turned downright sweltering. He strolled in like he owned the place, sleeves pushed up, hair just messy enough to make you wonder what—or who—he’d been doing before he got here.

“Smells good,” he said, leaning against the counter, his eyes trailing over me like I was the main course. “But I think you’re missing something.”

“Oh really?” I shot back, stirring the sauce with a little more sass than necessary. “And what’s that?”

He stepped closer, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off him. “Me,” he said, reaching around me to grab the spoon. His hand brushed mine, and suddenly, the sauce wasn’t the only thing bubbling.

“Careful,” I said, my voice a little too breathy for my liking. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” he murmured, tasting the sauce with a slow, deliberate move that made my knees weak. “But I think you’re the one playing with fire.”

Before I could fire back, he was behind me, his hands on my hips, guiding me toward the counter like we were slow dancing in a room full of steam. “You know,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, “I’ve always wanted to see what kind of trouble we could cook up together.”

The recipe called for lime, garlic, and a splash of wine, but what it got was a whole lot of heat, a little too much tension, and a fire alarm that went off for all the wrong reasons.

In this kitchen, the secret ingredient isn’t passion—it’s the way he makes me forget what the hell I’m doing. And dessert? Let’s just say it’s gonna take all night to finish.