Hi, this is my first ever story with a monologue. I Absolutely adore Luca from the bear and I wanted to challenge myself to write something a little different. I hope you like it Let me know what you think and if you would like more.
It’s a bit longer than I anticipated so I do apologize.😊
Summary: You just organized a massive culinary charity gala, showcasing your sharp organizational mind. After the event, Luca finds you in the kitchen, heels kicked off, helping the dishwashers clear the final racks. When he tells you how breathtaking you look, you brush it off with a sassy, self-deprecating comment about how men rarely see plus-size women like you as a first choice. Luca, tired of watching you downplay yourself, decides he’s going to prove exactly how wrong you are.
They’re gonna be some parts where they are Luca‘s POV.
The tasting was a massive success, but as the chaotic energy of the high-profile culinary gala begins to wind down, your social battery is entirely spent.
You are tucked away in the back of the restaurant’s kitchen, having already traded your heels for a pair of comfortable flats. You are still wearing your gala outfit: a stunning, yellow dress that fits your figure like a glove, perfectly accentuating the curve of your hips and the sweep of your waist. Your sharp, mature intellect had kept the entire event running flawlessly, and your naturally compassionate heart led you straight to the dish pit to help the overwhelmed staff clear the final racks of crystal glassware.
Luca finds you there. He has rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, his forearm tattoos on display, looking exactly as calm, steady, and focused as he always does. He holds two small plates of the dark chocolate tart you spent days helping him perfect.
"You're a wonder, you know that?" Luca says, his voice low and genuinely amazed as he leans against the stainless steel prep table near you. "The logistics tonight were a nightmare, and you handled it like it was nothing. And then I find you back here, helping out. You’re incredible."
Your inner shyness immediately flares up. To mask the sudden wave of heat in your cheeks and the deep seated insecurity that tells you a man like him is just being polite, your quick witted, sassy defense mechanism kicks in.
You look at him, raising an eyebrow with a soft, self deprecating smirk. "Thanks, Luca. But let's be real you’re just grateful I saved your dessert course. No need to lay the flattery on thick just because I look okay in a dress that's doing some heavy lifting for my curves."
Luca doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He gently sets the two plates down on the table.
The easygoing demeanor fades into that intense, hyper focused gaze he gets when he is analyzing a dish except right now, that gaze is locked entirely on you. He steps forward, deliberately closing the distance between you until you can smell the faint scent of cedar and rich cocoa on him. He looks down at you, his blue eyes sweeping slowly, unashamedly over the way the fabric hugs your body, before looking right back into your eyes.
"Heavy lifting?" Luca asks, his voice dropping an octave, completely steady and unshakeable. "Is that what you think is happening here?"
He reaches out, his fingers brushing gently against the side of your waist, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his hand through the knit fabric. He is determined to prove you entirely wrong.
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a split second, you completely freeze. Your mind, usually so sharp and quick to calculate any situation, shorts out under the warmth of his hand against your waist. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and the quiet voice of your insecurity screams that he is just playing a game that a man who looks like him couldn't possibly mean the weight behind his stare.
You swallow hard, forcing your defensive walls right back up. You step back just an inch, tilting your head up to look him in the eye, your voice laced with a sassy, protective armor.
"Careful, Chef," you murmur, your eyes narrowing slightly even as your pulse races. "Personal space isn't on the menu tonight. And if you're trying to make me feel good about myself out of pity, you can stop. I'm a big girl, Luca. I know exactly how I look, and I know exactly what kind of women men like you usually look at. So let's skip the charity praise, okay?"
Luca doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull his hand away, either instead his thumb shifts a slow deliberate stroke against the knit fabric of your dress that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He watches the way your chest rises and falls, reading your nervousness perfectly, but his expression remains entirely calm and unshakeable.
"Men like me?" Luca repeats softly, a faint almost sad smile touching his lips because it pains him how little you see your own worth. He steps forward again, easily reclaiming the inch you just took, his presence entirely enveloping yours. "You think this is charity? You think I'm being polite?"
He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to the curve of your hips, then tracing the sweep of your waist all the way up to your collarbone, completely unapologetic about how thoroughly he is appreciating your body. When his blue eyes lock back onto yours, they are burning with a quiet, undeniable intensity.
"I am a perfectionist," Luca says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that vibrates right through you. "I spend fourteen hours a day looking at things that aren't quite right, trying to fix them. But when I look at you? In this dress? I don't want to change a single thing. You have these incredible curves that I've been distracted by all damn night, and you carry them with so much grace it makes my chest ache."
He takes a half step closer, his other hand coming up to gently cup the side of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His touch is remarkably tender, yet completely commanding.
"Your mind is the sharpest thing in this entire building, and your perspective is so unique it constantly challenges me," Luca whispers, his eyes searching yours, hoping to bridge the distance between you. "But don't you dare think for a second that I don't value you. You are a captivating person, and you make me feel completely out of my depth. I usually prefer having everything under control, but being around you... I don't care about that as much. I just want you to see yourself the way I see you."
Luca’s POV:
Luca was a man of precise measurements. He understood ratios, temperatures, and timing. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to a delicate sheet of laminated dough, and he knew how to read a room in seconds. But from the moment you walked into his kitchen as the operations manager, his internal math had been completely thrown off.
At work, he watched you constantly. You didn't wear baggy, shapeless clothes to hide behind; you wore tailored trousers and fitted tops that embraced the full, lush curve of your hips and the soft curve of your waist. You moved with a quiet, mature efficiency that fascinated him. Your intelligence was sharp, scary sharp. He would watch you stand over an inventory spreadsheet, your brow furrowed, effortlessly cutting through a vendor’s inflated pricing with a quick, sassy remark that left the supplier stuttering. You were fiercely competent, deeply compassionate to the dish staff, and entirely unaware of the effect you had on him.
He fantasized about you right there at the pass. While his hands were busy wiping down plates, his mind was picturing those same hands tracing the generous line of your hips, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath those perfectly fitted clothes. He wanted to pin you against the stainless steel prep table after hours, pull you into his chest, and bury his face in the crook of your neck until he was drunk on your scent. He wanted to hear what that brilliant, quick witted mouth sounded like when it wasn't defending itself with sharp humor, but instead sighing and moaning his name. He wanted to take his time, worship every single curve, and completely ruin you for any other man.
Seeing you out in public at the gala tonight had almost broken his composure. In that yellow dress, you were a masterpiece. The fabric clung to every rich curve, showcasing the soft slope of your stomach and the flare of your thighs. He had spent the entire night watching men watch you, his jaw tight, an ugly, possessive heat flaring in his chest. He wanted to walk right up to you, wrap his arm securely around your waist from behind, and let every person in the room know exactly who you belonged to.
Present Moment:
Back in the quiet, dim kitchen, the warmth of Luca's hand is still branding your jaw, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. His confession hangs heavily in the air between you.
Your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Every insecure instinct you possess is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself before you get too deep. You swallow the lump in your throat, forcing your chin up, your eyes narrowing as you summon every ounce of your trademark sass to deflect the sheer vulnerability of the moment.
"You're good, Chef. Really good," you breathe out, your voice a little breathy but laced with a sharp, defensive edge. "You almost had me believing that little speech. Did you rehearse that in the walk in, or do you just keep a script handy for the plus size staff when you want to feel like a hero?"
Luca doesn't flinch. He doesn't look angry, or hurt, or even surprised. He just studies your face, watching the way your eyes dart nervously, reading the fear behind your bite.
Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand slide down from your jaw. He doesn't pull away completely; instead, his fingers rest gently on the curve of your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against your skin. A faint, knowing, and incredibly patient smile touches the corners of his lips.
"Okay," Luca says softly, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "Don’t worry."
He takes a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe, though his eyes never leave yours. "I know what you're doing. You think if you push hard enough, I'll turn around and walk away. But I'm a patient man. I can wait until you're ready to believe me."
He reaches over, picks up one of the chocolate tarts, and gently presses the small fork into your hand. "Eat your dessert. We have all the time in the world."
The rich chocolate tart tasted incredible, but you kept your guard up for the rest of the night. You ate some spoonfuls in silence, offering only short, professional nods before wrapping up the final logistics and leaving the venue as quickly as your feet could carry you. You needed space to think, because Luca’s words had rattled the foundation of your carefully built defenses.
Over the next few weeks, the atmosphere at work shifted. True to his nature from the show, Luca remained intensely private. He didn't make grand, loud gestures, and he never gossiped with the staff. But the kitchen crew wasn't blind. They started noticing the subtle, undeniable changes in how the head chef operated whenever you were in the room.
He spoke to you firmly not with anger, but with a commanding, focused authority that demanded your absolute attention. Whenever you walked into the kitchen to review the weekly budget or check the sourcing invoices, Luca would alter his path. If he was at the pass, he would step away. He always found a reason to stand near you, his broad shoulder brushing against yours as you both looked at a clipboard, his presence anchoring you to the spot. The line cooks whispered about the way his eyes tracked the movement of your form-fitting trousers every time you walked toward the walk-in cooler. He was quietly claiming your space, even if he didn't say a word.
Sunday Afternoon: The Torvehallerne Market, Copenhagen
It is your day off, a crisp Sunday afternoon. You are wandering through Torvehallerne, the bustling covered food market in the heart of Copenhagen. You are wearing a perfectly tailored, deep plum trench coat that emphasizing the lush, dramatic curve of your hips, paired with fitted midi black dress. You are inspecting a display of fresh, vibrant heirloom tomatoes, your sharp mind calculating a new recipe cost structure just for fun.
"Those are too acidic for the current menu profile," a familiar, low voice rumbles right behind your ear.
You jump slightly, turning to find Luca standing just inches away. He is dressed down in a casual black wool coat, his hair a bit messy from the Copenhagen wind. Away from the high pressure kitchen, he looks relaxed, but his blue eyes have that exact same hyper focused intensity.
Your shyness instantly flares up, seeing him out of context, looking so effortlessly handsome. You immediately pull your sassy armor back on, crossing your arms over your chest, which only serves to accentuate your curves.
"Are you stalking me, Chef?" you ask, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Or does the great Luca just happen to frequent the exact same vegetable stalls as the help?"
Luca doesn't bite. He doesn't smile, and he doesn't let your sarcasm push him away. Instead, he decides to try a completely different approach. No more gentle reassurance. No more soft speeches.
He steps directly into your personal space, ignoring the bustling crowd of shoppers around you. He reaches out, his large, tattooed hand gripping the edge of the wooden vegetable crate right next to your hip, effectively trapping you against the display. He leans in close, his scent of clean linen and fresh coffee enveloping you.
"I don't stalk," Luca says, his voice dropping to a firm, unshakeable whisper that leaves absolutely no room for argument. "And you know damn well you aren't the help.' Cut the defense mechanism. It's Sunday. We aren't clocked in."
He looks down, his eyes deliberately and slowly tracing the dress under your coat, taking in the full, gorgeous shape of your waist and hips before snapping his gaze back to your eyes.
"I've been thinking about you for three weeks straight," he states bluntly, his tone commanding and entirely serious. "Every time you walk past my station at work, you try to hide behind those sharp little jokes. But I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. I'm done letting you pretend this isn't happening. We're getting lunch. Right now."
You try to hold your ground, lifting your chin as you prepare to launch a brilliant, rapid fire argument to shut him down. "Luca, you can't just corner me in a public market and dictate my Sunday plans. I have a schedule, I have things to do, and I am definitely not”
You don’t even get to finish the sentence.
Luca doesn’t give you the chance to overthink or talk your way out of it. With a swift, deliberate movement, his large, tattooed hand leaves the wooden crate and slides firmly around your waist. His fingers grip the soft curve of your hip inside your plum trench coat, and with a single, commanding tug, he pulls you flush against his chest.
Your breath catches in your throat as your front hits his broad chest. The sudden intimacy is staggering. Because your dress coat fits you perfectly, the pressure of his hand resting securely on your hip accentuates every single curve of your lower body against his.
"I told you," Luca murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration right above your lips. His blue eyes are dark, focused entirely on your mouth before snapping up to hold your gaze. "The defense mechanism doesn't work on me anymore. You're coming with me."
Just as he says it, a sudden, heavy Copenhagen downpour begins to slam against the glass roof of the market, turning the afternoon gloomy, dark, and freezing cold. The sky outside turns a deep charcoal gray, and the rain blurs the windows.
Luca doesn't let go of your waist. He uses his body to shield you from the sudden rush of crowd members scrambling for cover, guiding you firmly through the bustling aisles and out a side exit. He navigates the wet, cobblestone streets with an unbothered, steady stride, keeping you pressed tightly to his side under his large umbrella, his hand remaining heavy and possessive on your hip.
He leads you down a quiet, narrow alleyway to a tiny, hidden basement bistro. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of burning beeswax candles, roasting garlic, and old wood. It is incredibly cozy, dimly lit, and completely shielded from the freezing rain outside. The windows are heavily fogged over, cutting off the rest of the world.
The hostess nods knowingly at Luca and escorts you both to a secluded, velvet cushioned booth tucked away in the very back corner that has a giant window displaying the heavy rain.
As soon as you slide onto the bench, Luca doesn’t sit across from you. Instead, he slides right into the booth next to you, his large frame instantly trapping you in the corner. He unbuttons his heavy wool coat, the heat radiating off his body filling the small space between you.
He turns his body toward you, draping one long arm over the back of the velvet seat behind your shoulders, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric of your dress. He looks at you, completely unbothered by your lingering, stunned silence, a look of quiet satisfaction in his eyes.
"Now," Luca says softly, the firm authority from the market softening into something deeply intimate as the rain beats against the pavement outside. "No spreadsheets. No kitchen staff. Just you, me, and a warm meal. Tell me what you're actually afraid of."
With your plum coat draped over the back of the seat, your outfit catches him completely off guard. You are wearing a black midi dress that hugs your frame beautifully, the square neckline showcasing your collarbone, while the fitted fabric highlights the full, breathtaking curve of your waist and hips. Your hair a rich brown woven with warm blonde and red highlights falls loose around your shoulders in soft waves. You are still wearing a pair of sleek, elegant heels that make your legs look incredible.
Despite how stunning you look, your anxiety is clawing at the back of your throat. You lean back against the velvet cushion, crossing your arms defensively to mask how exposed you feel under his heavy stare.
"You know, for a guy who prides himself on precision, your listening skills are pretty terrible," you say, throwing out one last sassy line, your voice sharp but a little breathless. "I didn't agree to this. And if you think taking off my coat is an invitation to keep staring at my body like I'm a menu item you're trying to decode, you can think again. I'm not some puzzle for you to solve, Luca."
Luca doesn't look annoyed by your bite. In fact, his eyes darken with a slow, heavy appreciation as he takes in the sight of you in the black dress, the red highlights in your hair catching the dim candle fire.
"I'm not trying to decode you," he says evenly, completely unbothered by your defense mechanism. "I already know what I like."
Before you can fire back another witty remark, the server arrives. Luca, leaning heavily into his confident, commanding chef persona, takes charge immediately. He looks at the server and orders a multi-course spread for the table, choosing rich, heavy winter dishes, a bold red wine, and a decadent cocoa infused dessert to match the gloomy, rainy day outside.
You listen to him list off the items, your sharp intellect quickly scanning the ingredients. A sudden, quiet panic flutters in your chest, overriding your sass.
"Wait," you speak up firmly, cutting him off just as the waiter finishes writing. You turn to the server, your naturally considerate and understanding nature taking over so you don't disrupt the kitchen. "I’m so sorry to change the order, but I have a few strict food limitations. I can’t have red meat, spicy foods, chocolate, or anything highly acidic. And no alcohol for me, please."
The waiter nods politely and steps away, leaving a sudden, heavy silence at the table.
You brace yourself, your inner insecurity whispering that he's going to find you difficult, high-maintenance, or a burden to eat with especially since he is a world class chef. You look down at your hands, your shoulders tensing up as you wait for the judgment.
Luca, however, is staring at you with an entirely new expression. The intense, possessive heat in his eyes softens into pure, rapt fascination. His eyes sweep over your face, realizing a piece of the puzzle he hadn't known before.
"No red meat, no spice, no chocolate, no acid, no alcohol," Luca repeats slowly, his voice a low, intrigued rumble. He doesn't look disappointed at all; instead, his fingers stretch out across the table, his hand resting just inches from yours. "You helped me perfect a dark chocolate tart for a massive gala, and you spent three weeks adjusting the pricing on a heavily acidic heirloom tomato menu... and you couldn't even eat or drink any of it?"
He leans in closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours in the tight booth. The realization of how compassionate and incredibly considerate you are putting the restaurant and his vision entirely above your own limitations without ever uttering a single complaint completely blows him away.
"You really are something else," Luca whispers, a genuine, breathless smile breaking across his face. He reaches out, his large hand sliding over yours, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles. "Most people would have complained on day one. But you just quietly took care of everyone else. Look at me."
You lift your eyes to meet his.
"You think you're a burden," Luca says firmly, reading your insecurity like an open book and dismantling it on the spot. "I can see it in your eyes. You think I'm annoyed. But as a chef? This is the best challenge I've had all year. I'm going to personally make sure every single thing you eat from now on is tailored perfectly to you. Because someone who takes care of everyone else deserves to be taken care of, too."
Your defenses, which had been held together by sheer willpower and sharp jokes, finally fracture. The warmth of his hand over yours, combined with the pure, non judgmental admiration in his blue eyes, completely disarms you. The fight drains out of your shoulders. You look down at where his large, tattooed fingers are gently stroking your knuckles, your voice dropping to a vulnerable, soft whisper.
"They aren't allergies, Luca," you admit quietly, the sassy edge completely gone from your tone. "It’s a permanent lifestyle change and an eating habit shift I had to make because of a few health conditions. It’s... a lot to accommodate, and I didn't want to make your kitchen's life harder."
Luca listens intently, his expression entirely focused on you. He doesn't offer a shred of pity; instead, he nods with a deep, quiet respect. He understands what it takes to completely alter one's lifestyle with discipline.
"Hey," he murmurs firmly, his hand squeezing yours to ground you. "It's not a burden. It's just who you are. And taking care of you is the easiest thing I'll do all week."
True to his word, Luca immediately turns his protective, commanding side on. He flags down the server and asks for the kitchen's expeditor. Within minutes, the head chef of the bistro steps out to the booth. Luca speaks to him with the calm, firm authority of a peer, walking him through your exact health restrictions with precise culinary alternatives. He ensures your meal will be just as luxurious, rich, and beautifully prepared as anything else on the menu, completely taking the pressure off your shoulders.
When the chef leaves, Luca slides back into your space, his shoulder firmly pressing against yours. He reaches down and taps the toe of his shoe against your high heels, a small, intimate smirk playing on his lips as the rain continues to pour outside.
"See?" Luca says softly, looking at your loose waves of hair and the curve of your waist in the black dress. "No red meat, no alcohol, and no more hiding behind your jokes and sassy remarks or cocky answers. Just you and me. Now, tell me how you really feel about this dress, because personally, I think it's the best thing I've ever seen."
Luca’s POV: The Market to the Bistro
Luca had spotted you long before he made his move at Torvehallerne Market.
He had been idling by a coffee stall when your rich brown hair, catching the crisp Copenhagen wind with its sudden flashes of blonde and red highlights, pulled his attention like a magnet. When he realized it was you, his breath hit a wall. You were a vision in that trench coat. It was cinching your waist and throwing the beautiful, heavy flare of your hips into sharp relief. You looked so effortlessly classy, so entirely elegant, that it made his chest tighten.
He stood there for five full minutes just watching you inspect the tomatoes, completely mesmerized. His mind immediately went to a dark place. He fantasized about walking right up behind you, pressing his chest flush against your back, and sliding both of his hands deep into the pockets of your trench coat just to pull your hips firmly back into his lap. He wanted to whisper dirty, precise things into your ear while the shoppers bustled around you, marking you as his before the entire city.
When he finally cornered you, his blood was racing. He wasn't going to let you hide behind your corporate title or your sharp, sassy defenses today. When you tried to argue, he simply reacted on pure instinct. Sliding his hand over your hip and feeling the lush fullness of your waist through the coat as he pulled you against him almost broke his restraint entirely. Walking through the pouring rain, his hand had practically molded itself to your curve, his thumb anchoring you to his side.
Then, you took the coat off inside the dim, candlelit bistro.
Luca had nearly lost his mind. The black midi dress was a masterpiece on your figure. It hugged the spectacular curve of your hips and waist perfectly. But his chef’s eye meticulous and hyper observant noticed something else. The fabric was just a fraction looser than it should have been, draping softly where it used to pull. He watched the way you kept your posture perfectly poised, your elegant style shining through despite your deep, palpable shyness.
When you revealed your strict health restrictions, his desire to protect you completely eclipsed his hunger. Discovering that you had spent weeks selflessly perfecting menus containing chocolate, wine, and acids for his career all while quietly sacrificing your own comfort without a single complaint blew him away. His firm authority with the kitchen staff wasn't just a display; it was a quiet declaration. He was going to shield you, feed you, and care for you exactly the way you deserved.
Present Moment:
Back in the cozy, fogged windowed booth, the rain continues to lash against the pavement outside. Luca’s hand remains warm and heavy over your knuckles, his blue eyes holding yours with an unshakeable intensity as he asks about your dress.
You swallow hard, keeping your posture regal and elegant, though the sudden lack of your protective sassy armor makes your pulse thrum in your throat. Even with your walls cracked, your deeply private nature takes over. You answer him in a calm, general way, choosing to focus on the fashion rather than the vulnerable emotional weight of your body image.
"It’s actually my absolute favorite dress," you say softly, your voice smooth and composed. "It used to be quite a bit more snug on me. But due to a recent loss of weight from managing those health conditions, it sits a little more loose now. I've been experimenting with different styles of structural belts and silk scarves just to add a bit more personal style to the silhouette."
You offer him a small, polite smile, your classy, mature demeanor masking the frantic fluttering in your chest. "I prefer things that look timeless and elegant."
Luca doesn't take his eyes off you as you speak. He listens to your general, private explanation, but his sharp mind reads everything between the lines. His gaze drops to the way the black fabric drapes elegantly over your curves, his thumb tracing a slow, heavy line over the back of your hand.
"Timeless," Luca repeats, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate through the velvet seat. An incredibly tender, possessive smile touches his lips. "Yeah. That's exactly what you are. And loose or snug, it doesn't matter. You fill this dress out beautifully."
He leans a fraction closer, his broad shoulder pressing firmly against yours, his large frame completely enveloping you in the warmth of the booth. "But you don't need a belt or a scarf to add style to it. Your curves do all the work. And if you think a little weight loss changes the way I look at you, you're entirely wrong. I want every single version of you."
The server returns, quietly placing two beautifully customized, steam-rising plates of roasted root vegetables and perfectly seared fish in front of you—entirely free of red meat, heavy spices, or acids.
Luca releases your hand just long enough to pick up his fork, though his dark blue eyes remain locked onto your face, completely captivated by your elegance. "Taste it," he commands softly, his tone a mix of firm authority and deep intimacy. "Tell me if it's perfect enough for you."
The customized meal was spectacular. For the first time since you met Luca, a genuine, breathtaking smile slipped past your defenses, lighting up your face and catching the warm red and blonde highlights in your hair. Seeing you truly happy, completely taken care of, made Luca’s chest tighten with a fierce, possessive satisfaction. As you ate, the conversation shifted naturally. He didn't just suggest cooking for you at his place next time; he outlined a precise, customized menu he had already begun mapping out in his head, entirely tailored to your lifestyle and health restrictions.
But nothing could have prepared Luca for the high-end culinary charity gala three weeks later.
As the operations manager, your classy, elegant style was on full display. You chose a jaw dropping, emerald green silk gown. From the front, it was perfectly tailored, skimming over your full chest and hugging the gorgeous curve of your hips like liquid fire. But when you turned around, the dress dipped into a dramatic, sweeping cowl that left your entire back completely bare, exposing the smooth, lush slope of your skin down to the very top of your waist.
Luca had absolutely lost his shit the moment you walked through the kitchen doors.
He had been mid sentence with a sous chef, but the words died in his throat. His blue eyes went dark, dilated, and hyper focused. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. Seeing your figure embraced so boldly by the emerald silk showing off every rich, soft, breathtaking curve evaporated every ounce of his usual calm restraint. He spent the first hour of the event in a state of quiet, burning frustration, forced to watch you mingle with high profile guests while his hands literally ached to touch you.
He didn't care about being private anymore. Every single time you came near his station to check on the timeline, Luca found a way to bridge the distance. He spoke to you in a low, gravelly, and commanding tone that made the surrounding staff instantly scatter, creating a wall of tension around the two of you.
During a brief lull in the main course, you walked into the dim, secluded dry goods pantry to double check the late night dessert inventory. The heavy door had barely clicked shut behind you before it warped under a sudden weight.
Luca blocked the exit, his white chef’s whites stark against the shadows of the room, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Luca," you breathed, your shyness immediately flaring up in the tight space. You tried to summon your usual sassy defense mechanism, tilting your chin up as you gripped your clipboard tightly against your chest. "The second seating is starting in ten minutes. If you're shirking your duties just to”
He didn't let you finish. Luca stepped forward, his massive frame completely cornering you against the metal shelving. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely consumed.
"I don't care about the second seating," Luca rumbled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet whisper that vibrated right through your heels.
Before you could utter another word, his large, heavily tattooed hands came up. He didn't just touch you over the fabric. His fingers slid directly under the loose, draped edge of the emerald silk at your sides, his warm, slightly calloused palms making direct, searing contact with the bare skin of your lower back.
Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as a violent shiver rippled straight down your spine. The heat of his hands against your bare skin was dizzying, the heavy, possessive pressure of his palms on your lower back pulled your hips completely flush against his thighs, leaving absolutely no space between you.
"You are killing me tonight," Luca whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, his breath hot and ragged. His thumbs slid upward along your spine, mapping the soft, smooth curve of your bare back beneath the silk. "I have spent three hours watching every man in that dining room stare at you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you know what you look like in this dress?"
He gripped your waist a little firmer, his hands sliding lower under the silk, anchoring you to him with a commanding authority that left no room for your insecurities. "I told you I wanted every version of you. But right now, all I can think about is taking this dress off you piece by piece."
Your heart races wildly, but you force your back to stiffen against the metal pantry shelves. Gripping the clipboard tightly against your chest like a shield, you look right into Luca’s dark blue eyes, desperately trying to maintain your professional composure.
Luca,” you breathe, your voice barely steady. “We are in the middle of service.”
His hands still against your lower back.
“I know.”
“The expeditor is looking for me.”
“I know.”
Your grip tightens around the clipboard, but you don’t move away. “Then why are you still standing this close?”
Luca’s gaze drops to your mouth for one dangerous second before returning to your eyes.
“Because you haven’t asked me to.”
The words land between you, low and deliberate.
Your breath catches.
He gives you exactly one second to decide.
You stay.
That is all the answer he needs.
His thumb traces one slow line against your lower back, gentler now, but somehow far more intimate than before. He leans in until his forehead nearly brushes yours, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Tell me to move, and I will.”
You should.
Instead, your eyes flick to his mouth.
Luca notices.
Of course he notices.
His expression changes.
Luca doesn't budge. Instead, his fingers flex slightly against the bare, smooth skin of your lower back, his palms radiating a possessive heat that completely contradicts your neat, professional logic. He leans in closer, his chest pressing firm against your front. "I don't care about the numbers," he rumbles. "And I don't care about being appropriate right now."
Before he can say another word, the heavy metal door handle jiggles.
