Steam Room Cravings: Silver Fox Pastry Chef Claims His 19-Year-Old Intern

Steam Room Cravings

The kitchen had finally gone quiet. The last line cook had clocked out twenty minutes ago, leaving only the low hum of the walk-in compressors and the metallic tick of cooling ovens. I wiped the final streak of tempered chocolate from the marble counter, my white chef’s coat sticking to the small of my back. My name tag—Liam, Culinary Intern—felt ridiculous after fourteen straight hours on my feet, but I kept it pinned like a badge of honor. At nineteen I was the youngest person ever accepted into the program at La Maison, and the reason was standing ten feet away, loosening the knot of his own coat with slow, deliberate fingers.

Marcus.

Fifty-two years old and built like a man who still lifted fifty-pound bags of bread flour every morning. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped close on the sides, longer and slightly wavy on top, now damp with sweat. The silver at his temples caught the last fluorescent light and turned it into something almost metallic. His jaw was still sharp, his shoulders broad under the thin white T-shirt he wore beneath the coat. When he rolled his sleeves up in the pastry station I had spent entire shifts trying not to stare at the corded muscle of his forearms and the dark hair that dusted them.

“Steam room’s open,” he said, voice low and rough from shouting orders all night. “Whole staff’s gone. You look like you could use it, kid.”

I swallowed. The staff steam room was legendary—cedar benches, eucalyptus-scented steam so thick you could barely see three feet. It was also strictly off-limits after midnight unless you were management. Marcus was management. I was the intern who had been shadowing his every move for six weeks. The one who had started dreaming about those experienced hands gripping my hips instead of piping bags.

“Yes, Chef,” I answered, the words automatic.

He gave me a slow, knowing smile that made heat pool low in my stomach. “Lose the coat, Liam. And the pants. Nobody here but us.”

I stripped in the changing alcove, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My body was lean from years on soccer fields before culinary school—narrow waist, long legs, ass I’d been told was “obscene” by a couple of clumsy college hookups. I kept my black boxer briefs on, suddenly shy. When I stepped into the steam room the heat hit me like a wall, thick and wet, instantly coating my skin.

Marcus was already there.

He sat on the top cedar bench wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. The fabric had parted over one powerful thigh, revealing the thick, heavy shape of his cock resting against the inside of his leg. Even soft it was impressive. His chest was dusted with dark hair going silver at the center, abs still faintly defined beneath a natural layer of padding that made me want to bury my face in it. Water beaded on his shoulders and ran in slow rivulets down the grooves of his biceps.

He looked like a fucking god of indulgence.

I chose the bench across from him, but the room was small. Our knees almost touched. The steam swirled between us, turning everything hazy and intimate.