When dinner was over—and I'd had sufficient wine to not care about my earlier embarrassment—Archie left us to go home to his wife. Everyone else wanted to party. Including Luca, who I'd always seen as a stay-at-his-desk-all-day sort of man. When Grace offered to take us to some exclusive penthouse club in downtown LA, and Luca accepted, I was so shocked, I couldn't even come up with a proper excuse to not go with them.

I normally didn't party; going out to eat, frequenting a moody bar with dimmed lights, those were more my jam. But Grace was insistent, and while I hated her, I knew better than to displease her. She was, after all, one of my producers, and funding this whole adventure into the world of television.

"You're still thinking about her naked, aren't you?" Elliot nudged me as we waited in line at the club's entrance, while Grace negotiated our entry. I saw her pointing my way several times—surprise, surprise, she was using my name to get us in here, too.

"What are you talking about?" I nudged Elliot back.

They adjusted their red, heart-shaped sunglasses with a snort. "Don't act like you haven't wanted to hate-fuck Grace since you met her," they said, a tad too loud for my taste. A few people in front of us spun around, eyeing me in my low-cut suit, then Elliot beside me in their sparkly beige dress and high-heeled red booties. "What?" They shrugged at the onlookers, who immediately turned away.

I gritted my teeth, wishing I could counter-attack Elliot with some obscure fact about them and their sexual appetites; but it was true. I'd more than once envisioned ripping Grace's clothes off to have my way with her, all while growling at her every word.

She'd let me do it, if I asked. Several times she'd let slip that she was bisexual and described her type as looking exactly like me. Slender waist but curvy ass, moderate, perky boobs, red-head, light eyes—and she'd said this in my vicinity, teasing me.

It would be inappropriate to sleep with her, but even more because I loathed her. I couldn't stand her attitude, how she always sided with Archie and his chauvinistic agenda, and made it seem like she was the one who'd come up with it. Deep down, I knew she was a free feminist and valued women and their thoughts. But at the studio, she pranced about in her pink pantsuits exhibiting big dick energy like she owned the place.

I was always, always attracted to big dick energy, and more so if it came from a woman. I tended to be turned on by those who pissed me off, by those who defied me. If someone argued with me, and they happened to be hot, I'd soon see my rage transforming into lust. If they were consenting, I'd jump their bones.

It was a problem and had gotten me into many a prickly situation; but hate-fucking was my kink, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I could tell Elliot to shove it, though. "Let's not bring up that kind of shit in public, friend," I said to them, sliding my arm under theirs as Grace waved us over to the doors. "I'd rather she not ever find out about it. If she knows I think she's hot, she'll keep teasing me."

Elliot shrugged, and we entered the loud club blaring its dubstep music. We shoved past sweaty bodies sipping from neon straws, sloshing their pungent liquor all over the concrete floors. Lights flickered overhead in greens, yellows, blues, spilling sparkling colors all over us as we made our way to the bar.

Since I'd started with wine, and I never mixed my booze, I ordered a glass of Pinot. I settled at an empty barstool, turning it away from the bar while Luca and Grace braved the dancing crowd. Elliot stood between us, hesitant to go shake their ass or to keep an eye on me; but I shooed them off, promising I'd be okay.

I didn't like clubs, but I knew how to handle them: stay far from the dancefloor, keep my drink in my eyesight at all times, and don't make eye-contact with anyone for too long—

Oh. Three seconds into this place and I'd already broken my third rule.

I spotted a hunky piece of ass walking towards me, dark eyes reflecting the neon yellows from the bar-counter behind me. He wore tight jeans that molded to his muscular thighs, and a silky gray short-sleeved shirt revealing bulging arms trailed with obscure tattoos—

I'd seen those tattoos before, but where?

He approached me, squinting at my face before his eyes widened in recognition. "Béatrice," he said, loud enough for me to hear him, and with an accent that I hadn't heard since—

Dinner.

Since the chef of Gastrognome had stormed out of the kitchen to berate me.

"You?" I arched one eyebrow and studied him, head to toe. He was already hot in his chef uniform; but in normal clothes, he was delicious. He no longer gave off a whiff of fried food and latex, but instead like a spicy musk I wouldn't mind licking off his tanned skin.

"Me." He snickered, but there was a hint of amusement in his gaze, and an openness in his posture. He didn't come off as threatening as before, at his restaurant. "Funny finding you here."

"Why?" I lifted my glass and swirled the red liquid within. "Am I not allowed to party?"

"Ha," he bit the corner of his lower lip, eyes roving over my plunging décolleté.

When Grace decided to drag us here, I'd gone to the bathroom to remove my shirt, leaving me in my flared pants and suit-coat—with nothing but my lacy bra underneath. Not that I'd been planning to seduce anyone, but the best way to end such a stressful night, for me, was with sex.

"Béatrice Balzac, the award-winning chef and best-selling author and now TV show host? Here, in a noisy, not-so-fancy L.A. nightclub? I thought you were too uptight for any kind of activity that involved being social. Or dancing. Or...partying, in general."

I glared at him, bringing my cup to my lips. "You don't know me. Just because I don't like parmesan doesn't mean I don't like nightclubs."

"You like nightclubs?"

He laughed, then leaned by me to order a drink from the bartender. When his arm grazed mine, his musk enveloped me, hypnotizing. I licked my lips as I let my eyes roll back for a moment—savoring him, his proximity, the heat radiating off him and giving me goosebumps.

When he returned to his position in front of me, I noticed dots of sweat glistening along his hairline. Had he been dancing? Or was this place too hot for him? He didn't smell like perspiration, as most men in this club did; no, he smelled too heavenly to handle.

"Nightclubs are for dancers. Why aren't you dancing?"

I motioned at my drink. "Can't dance while holding this baby."

He angled forward again, for a second making it seem like he was about to get close to my face. In reality, he was grabbing something from the bar, and when he straightened up, he handed me a small shot glass. "Cheers."

I took the glass, but scowled at it. "What is this?"

He snorted. "Oh, picky about your drinks too, are you?"

I sensed a growl growing in my throat. "Fuck you." No, Béatrice, no shots, no shots, no— "Cheers."

I clinked my small glass to his and reared back the strong, amber liquid he'd ordered for us. It burned down my throat, but I'd had so much wine by that point that the flavor got lost somewhere halfway down, and I didn't care.

It went against all my rules—sipping on something I hadn't watched being prepared, clinking glasses, mixing drinks—but the way he ogled me, drinking me in...

Fuck, if this guy asked me to drop my pants right now, I'd probably do it. He was so sexy, so handsome, glowing like he was on fire, yet his voice and presence were like ice. He was positively evil, and it woke an arousal in me I hadn't expected to feel that night.

He gave me the same feelings Grace did—lustful hatred—and I'd be damned if I resisted him. Grace, I had to refrain from touching; but this guy? If he came on to me, if he kept berating me, I wouldn't stop myself.

We had a few more shots, saying little else except more snippy comments to belittle one another. He called me a coward for not broadening my culinary options, and I called him a piece of shit for shaming me.

Every time he ordered another round, he touched my arm and peered down into my suit coat, while I planted my ass on my stool and kept purposely opening and closing my legs to taunt him.

"Dance with me," he said, shoving up to me, sliding between my thighs. His lips were inches from mine, coated with liquor, plump and yummy and inviting.

No, Béatrice, no dancing, no dancing—

"Fine." I pressed my hands to his chiseled chest to push him out of my way as I hopped down from the stool. "Let's dance."

I might as well have said let's fuck, because that was what it felt like. He pulled me into him, my back to his torso, and glued his hands to my waist to keep me as close as possible. Unable to control myself, I grinded against him, slowly feeling him swell up with desire from the friction.

He grew—it grew, a very significant bulge in his jeans—and the more I heard him moaning in my ear, the more I wanted to turn around and slide my tongue into his mouth.

He twisted me to face him, our eyes instantly connecting. His were rounded, glistening with lust; I imagined mine were narrowed in loathing as I tried so hard not to want him.

"I have to say," he leaned near my ear to speak over the music, "you're immensely irritating, but sexy as fuck."

I smirked, but the instant he pulled away and was able to see my face, I snarled at him. "And you're an asshole, but well-endowed." I gestured towards his evident erection, my fingers a whisper's length away from touching it. And fuck, I wanted to touch it.

"Ah, so that you're not picky about, either?" His eyebrows wiggled as he tugged me against him. He was a few inches taller than me, and had to crane his neck to stare down at me, as I stared up.

"If you have a dick and know how to use it, then no," I drug my teeth over my lip, "I'm not picky." I rubbed up against his hardened cock, barely contained in his jeans. "You have a dick, from what I can tell. Can you use it? Or will I have to be nitpicky about it?"

He seized my chin and held my face up, our lips lightly touching. "Do you want me to show you how I use it?" When he spoke, his liquor breath blew into me, and the force of his grip made me squirm. Not in pain, but in arousal. I wasn't one to be turned on by physical brutality, but there was something about his brutality that wouldn't quit poking me between my legs.

"If you're asking me if I want you to fuck me," I slithered my tongue over his lips, "then yes. Please."

We left the club in such a hurry, I hardly had a chance to let Elliot know I was leaving. Or to reassure Grace that I'd be on time tomorrow afternoon for the shooting of our second episode.

But I didn't know where I was going. I was too busy fucking this man's mouth with mine in the backseat of our Uber. Too busy trying to get my hand down his pants when we waited for the elevator in the building. His building, from what I could tell, when I quit groping him long enough to realize we'd arrived at a door, and he got out a set of keys to open it.

I paid no attention to the decor or the surroundings; all I wanted was that massive bulge to be unleashed, for it to ram inside me as soon as possible. My center pulsated with desire for him, and my underwear was so drenched that it was unbearable.

We fumbled through the dark to remove clothes and ended up laying on something cushioned and cozy; a bed or a couch, I couldn't tell, and didn't care. There was hardly enough illumination in this area to see his face, his eyes, and the bare minimum of a silhouette in order to know what we were touching.

That was enough for me. I'd already captured his face to memory. I didn't need to admire him in full light to know how hot he was, well-formed, trimmed like a sex-symbol, endowed like a god. I didn't need brightness to how much I wanted him.

He almost tore my suit-jacket off me, but I pushed him off. "This was expensive," I said, slurring my words as I sensually unbuttoned the jacket and tossed it to the floor. "No ripping the precious buttons."

My nipples became rigid against the lace fabric of my bra as he launched himself onto me, grabbing at my breasts as if he'd never touched boobs before. But he soon showed me he knew what he was doing, when he pulled down the material and ran his thumbs over my hardened peaks, getting a low moan out of me.

He lowered his mouth to my right nipple and swirled his tongue around it, cautiously at first, leaving me gasping for more. He toyed with my other nipple with his fingers, before he trailed his tips down my stomach and under the hem of my pants.

"Ohhh," he said, the sound echoing into my breast and making me shudder. "Fuck, you're so wet for me." His fingers crept over the damp fabric of my underwear, rubbing briefly so close to my clit, I almost screamed for more.

"And what are you going to do about that?" I arched my spine, forcing him to take more of my boob into his mouth. He growled, gripping my lower waist to pull me into his lap, straddling him.

"Do you need me to type it all up nice and pretty and put it on a menu for you?" He leaned back to admire my breasts, outlined by the faint light coming from a window somewhere.

"I need you to quit dicking around and fuck me," I said, getting off him to unclasp my bra, and to remove my pants. His jaw dropped at the sight of me, though he hurried to fix it back into place, his gaze zoning onto my underwear. I snuck my hand past said underwear, finding my wetness. "Hmmm, yeah, I think you need to get in here."

He shot up from the couch so fast, I almost stumbled backwards. He took off his shirt, then unbuckled his jeans and removed them, and his boxers, in one fell swoop. There he was before me, naked, his cock throbbing as it pointed at me.

Fuck, it looked appetizing. It was girthy and just long enough and waiting for attention. But I didn't have time to suck him; not now. Right now I wanted him inside me.

"Condoms?" I sucked my lips in and gently lowered my underwear to the floor, stepping out of it.

He paused, a bewildered air about him as he continued to fixate on my pussy.

"You better wrap that beast up fast, before I take care of myself," I said, sliding my finger into my crevice, poking my chest out. I fiddled with one of my nipples and released a soft moan.

"Fuck," he said, shuffling away and disappearing into the dark. He returned a minute later, tearing into a condom wrapper. I watched him roll the thing over his shaft, then glance at me with his tongue dangling out of his mouth, ready to receive a tasty treat.

I came up to him, lifting to my tiptoes to caress his earlobe with my tongue, before forcing him back onto the cushions. I gave him a second to adjust his seating before I mounted him, but I didn't let him enter me yet. Instead, I rubbed against him, working my clit, warming myself up.

He grasped my ass and helped guide my rhythm, pressing me harder against his girth, dampening it. "Oh my god, Béatrice."

Goosebumps prickled down my spine as he said my name. "Hmmm." I rocked faster, my legs numbing as the pleasure started to spread up my belly, tingling into my breasts. "Don't you dare stop saying my name."

I didn't want to know his name; only wanted him to chant mine as if I were a goddess he sought to summon, to fuck into oblivion.

I kept going, back and forth, back and forth until I reached my peak, and came down with an explosion of arousal all over his cock. He shivered with me, pulling me down to kiss me, taste my tongue before he raised me up and guided his penis inside me.

As I felt him filling me up, I almost came again. He was deep in, pressing into me, and as I began to pump my pussy up and down his length, I watched his face contort in pure pleasure. He was holding back, though, I could tell; cramping his lips shut and only unleashing a low moan or two.

I stopped moving, and grabbed his face between my hands, our noses touching. "Say my fucking name, chef. Say my name as I fuck you."

He let out an animalistic growl as he dug his fingers into my hips and pulled me to and fro, sliding him in and out of me.

"Béatrice," he said, his voice a breeze on my skin, awakening more euphoria in my ribcage.

"Béatrice," he said, as he thrust into me from below, slamming into my wetness in such rapid motions that I struggled to keep up.

"Béatrice," he moaned as he approached his climax, and I was tipping over the edge of mine.

"Béatrice!" he screamed as he came, as we came together.

I crumbled into him, my heartbeat racing, my eyesight foggy, and my legs limp and exhausted.

Hate-fucking truly was delightful.

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