The kitchen is glowing, white marble and glass, fresh-cut flowers on the table. Everything perfect. Sterile. Tense.

You sit barefoot on the counter in tiny shorts and one of Salomé’s silk button-downs, drinking an iced oat latte and pretending to scroll your phone. The sleeves are too long, falling over your hands. You know she likes you in her clothes. You just don’t know if she still does this morning.

She hasn’t looked at you since she walked in.

She’s in black slacks and a tight tank top, hair slicked back from her morning run, knife flashing through fresh mango like it’s someone’s throat.

You wait.

Sip.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, voice soft.

The knife pauses. She looks up. Finally.

“About what?” Her accent wraps around it—soft, clipped, dry as gin.

You shrug, lips pink and perfect. “You glared at me all night. Then you slept in the guest room.”

Salomé finishes slicing. Pushes the fruit into a bowl.

“I wasn’t glaring,” she says. “I was watching my wife flirt with a man who looks like he sells timeshares.”

You blink, amused. “It was a fundraiser, Sal. He was on the board.”

She lifts a brow. “He touched your arm.”

“So?”

“He laughed like he knew what you taste like.”

Your stomach flips. That voice—flat, dangerous, low. You know what that tone means.

“I was networking,” you murmur, finally hopping off the counter. You move toward her, hips swaying like always, and touch the small of her back. “And maybe trying to get your attention.”

“You had it,” she says, spinning slowly, boxing you in between her and the counter. Her hand rests heavy on your hip. “And you wanted more?”

You meet her eyes, doe-like. Coy.

“I always want more.”

Salomé breathes in slowly.

Then: “You want more, love? Get upstairs. Strip. Wait for me on your knees.”

You blink. “What about breakfast?”

“I already had it,” she says, dark eyes scanning you like you’re dessert. “But you? You’ve got a long meal coming.”