CHEF'S SANDO
Ladies Night Wednesday hits like a fryer pop. Lights bright, phones up, plates clacking. And then the head chef peels off his whites. He pulls on that flimsy, see-through sando, the one that barely counts as a shirt. Neckline low, mesh thin, sweat already beading. He’s all shoulders and heat. The bar loses its mind. You can feel the room lean toward him like plants to sun.
I’m the assistant. Knife in hand, board sticky with scallions. I try to look busy. Not easy when he’s right there at the pass, scooping broth, flex flashing under cheap fabric. He moves like he owns the air. Wok bangs, flame kisses the pan, and he smiles a little, just for the noise it makes in people’s throats. I swallow hard. Pretend to reach for stock. Pretend I’m not staring.
Service flies. He’s pure rhythm—ladle, turn, plate, shout. Mesh clings darker down the chest, the collar patchy with steam. When he leans over the braise I can smell ginger, soy, something sweet, something human. I’m wrecked and quiet. The line is loud enough for both of us.
Close comes late. Chairs up, floor wet, last table laughing their way out. I’m wiping down when I see it. The sando, abandoned on the bench by the prep sink. Crumpled like a secret. I look around. Office dark, alley door cracked, walk-in humming. My hand moves before my brain catches up.
It’s warm. Damp at the shoulder seams. Smells like the whole night—smoke, sugar, a little onion, a little salt, and him. The scent hits my chest and shakes something loose. I tuck into dry storage, door easing shut, light clacking on.
I sink onto the flour sack. Pull the mesh close, bury my face. It’s intoxicating. I breathe deep, again, again, and the day unspools behind my eyes—his back under the hood, his arm pouring sauce, the grin when the bar screamed. I’m whispering stupid things into the fabric. My pulse is loud. My body is louder. I reach into my pants, my hand wrapping around my cock, already hard and aching. I stroke myself, slow at first, then faster, my breath hitching as I lose myself in the sensation.
The sando is clutched in my other hand, the scent of him filling my nostrils, driving me wild. I’m lost in the rhythm of my own need, my hips bucking as I chase release. The world narrows to the smell, the noise in my throat, and the thud of my heart. I’m so close, so close...
And then the door creaks open. My eyes fly up, and there he is, leaning against the frame, shirtless, his skin glistening under the harsh light. He’s watching me, his eyes dark and amused, and I realize with a jolt that he’s seen everything. The sando is still in my hand, clutched like a talisman, and I can’t even form words.
“Good?” he asks, his voice a low rasp, a question that’s more of a statement. He steps into the room, the door clicking shut behind him, and suddenly the space feels tiny, filled with the scent of him and the heat of his body. He takes the sando from me, his fingers brushing mine, and I feel a spark, a jolt of electricity that leaves me breathless.
“You don’t have to sneak,” he says, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. “If you want the Wednesday uniform… just ask.” He lays the sando across my shoulder, his fingers lingering, and I feel a flush of embarrassment and desire, a mix that leaves me dizzy.
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