🔥 After Hours 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Taco Tuesday

Thank You for Reading! 💜

You made it to the bonus content—which means you’ve experienced Dani and Julianne’s journey from rivals to partners to wives. Thank you for giving their story a chance.

This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

⚠️ Content Warning

This bonus scene contains EXPLICIT sexual content including: kitchen sex, oral sex, counter sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, and married sapphic intimacy. This scene is significantly steamier than the main book and was deemed “too hot for Amazon.”

Adults only. You’ve been warned. 🔥

After Hours

Two years after the epilogue

I.

The last customer left at eleven.

Dani locked the door behind them—a pair of food bloggers who’d stayed an hour past closing, rhapsodizing about the mole pappardelle and taking approximately four hundred photos of the tres leches—and leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

“They’re gone?”

Julianne’s voice came from somewhere behind the bar, accompanied by the soft clink of bottles being sorted.

“Finally.” Dani turned, taking in the empty restaurant. The candles had burned low in their holders. The Edison bulbs cast everything in warm amber. The tables were cleared, the kitchen dark, and her wife—wife, two years and she still got a little thrill every time she thought the word—was bent over the bar inventory with a pencil between her teeth.

“Stop looking at the numbers,” Dani said. “It’s our anniversary.”

“I’m not looking at numbers. I’m looking at the champagne selection, because someone—” Julianne pulled the pencil from her mouth and pointed it accusingly, “—forgot to order the Veuve Clicquot I specifically requested for tonight.”

“I didn’t forget. I just thought we could do better.”

“Better than Veuve?”

Dani crossed to the bar, ducking under the pass-through, and reached into the wine fridge. She pulled out a bottle with a familiar label—not French, not famous, but instantly recognizable to anyone who’d been paying attention.

Julianne’s breath caught.

“Is that—”

“Prosecco from that little vineyard in Tuscany. The one we went to on our honeymoon.” Dani set the bottle on the bar. “I had Marcus track down a case. They don’t export, so he had to call in about seventeen favors, but—”

Julianne kissed her.

It was sudden, fierce, the kind of kiss that knocked Dani back against the bar and made her grab the edge for balance. Julianne’s hands were in her hair, on her face, pulling her close with an urgency that sent heat flooding through Dani’s entire body.

“You remembered,” Julianne breathed against her mouth.

“Of course I remembered. You cried when we left that vineyard.”

“I did not cry.”

“Jules. You cried into your pasta. The waiter thought someone had died.”

“It was really good pasta.” But Julianne was smiling—that soft, unguarded smile that still made Dani’s heart flip, even after all this time. “And you remembered. You tracked down wine from a vineyard in Tuscany that doesn’t export. For our anniversary.”

“I also made you something. But that requires the kitchen.”

Julianne’s eyebrow arched. “The kitchen?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“We’re closed.”

“I know.”

“The staff is gone.”

“I know that too.”

“So it would just be us. Alone. In the kitchen. Where there are… surfaces.”

Dani grinned. “Now you’re catching on.”

II.

The kitchen of Haute Heat was different at night.

During service, it was controlled chaos—heat lamps blazing, tickets printing, the constant percussion of pans and calls and the organized madness of a well-run line. But now, dark except for the under-cabinet lights Dani had flipped on, it felt almost sacred. A temple after the worshippers had gone home.

“Sit.” Dani pointed to the stool she’d positioned at the end of the prep counter. “I’m cooking for you.”

“You cook for me every day.”

“This is different. This is anniversary cooking. Very special. Very exclusive.” She was already pulling ingredients from the walk-in—things she’d prepped earlier and hidden behind the bulk containers of crème fraîche where Julianne would never look. “You just have to sit there, drink your prosecco, and let me take care of you.”

Julianne sat. She accepted the glass Dani poured for her and took a sip, watching over the rim as Dani moved through the kitchen. There was something different about watching her cook now—not as a consultant or a partner, but as a wife. The way she handled the knife, the economy of her movements, the quiet confidence that had replaced the defensive edge she’d carried when they first met.

“What are you making?”

“That would ruin the surprise.”

“I’m your wife. I’m entitled to spoilers.”

“You’re entitled to sit there and look pretty while I work.” Dani glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Although if you wanted to take off some of those chef’s whites, I wouldn’t object.”

“I’m still in uniform.”

“I noticed. Very formal. Very buttoned-up.” Dani set down her knife and crossed to where Julianne sat, stopping just close enough that Julianne could smell the garlic on her fingers, the cilantro, the particular warmth that always radiated from her skin after a long service. “We should do something about that.”

Julianne’s pulse quickened. “We should?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s our anniversary. There are rules about anniversary attire.”

“What rules?”

“The rules that say—” Dani’s fingers found the top button of Julianne’s coat, working it free with deliberate slowness, “—you’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Dani. You’re supposed to be cooking.”

“I am cooking. I’m multi-tasking.” Another button. The collar loosened, revealing the pale column of Julianne’s throat. “You know how good I am at multi-tasking.”

“I know how good you are at getting distracted.”

“That too.” Dani leaned in, pressing a kiss to the newly exposed skin just above Julianne’s collarbone. “But this is a good distraction. The best kind.”

Julianne’s head fell back. Her fingers tightened on the wine glass as Dani’s mouth traced lower, lips and tongue mapping familiar territory while her hands continued their work on the remaining buttons.

“The food—” Julianne managed.

“Can wait.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said.” Dani pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes, and the look there made Julianne’s breath catch—dark, intense, full of the particular hunger that still surprised her, even after all this time. “I also said I was going to take care of you tonight. This is part of that.”

She pushed the chef’s coat off Julianne’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Beneath it, Julianne was wearing a simple white tank top—practical, unremarkable, the kind of thing she’d worn under her whites for years. But the way Dani was looking at her made it feel like lingerie.

“Stand up.”

Julianne stood.

“Hands on the counter.”

“Dani—”

“Hands. On. The counter.”

Julianne turned, placing her palms flat on the cool stainless steel. Behind her, she heard Dani move—the soft pad of bare feet (she’d kicked off her clogs at some point), the rustle of fabric, the quiet intake of breath.

Then Dani’s hands were on her hips, pulling her back, and Dani’s mouth was on her neck, and Julianne stopped thinking about anything at all.

III.

Dani had always loved the way Julianne fell apart.

It had taken months—years, really—to get here. To break through the walls, to earn the trust, to build the kind of intimacy where Julianne could let go completely. But now, watching her grip the edge of the prep counter, head thrown back, making sounds that echoed off the stainless steel—this was Dani’s favorite part. The surrender. The absolute trust.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Dani murmured against her ear. Her hands were sliding up under Julianne’s tank top, fingers tracing ribs, the curve of her breasts, the rapid flutter of her heartbeat. “So perfect.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect.” She unclasped Julianne’s bra with one hand—a skill she’d honed over two years of practice—and palmed her breast, thumb brushing the hardened nipple. “And you’re mine.”

Julianne gasped. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours. God, Dani—I’m yours—”

Dani spun her around, lifting her onto the counter in one smooth motion. Julianne’s back hit the cold steel and she arched into it, the sensation making her gasp. Dani stepped between her legs, hands sliding up her thighs, finding the waistband of her chef’s pants and tugging.

“Off,” she said. “Now.”

Julianne lifted her hips. Together, they stripped away the last barriers—pants, underwear, the tank top that had somehow stayed on—until Julianne was naked on the prep counter of their restaurant, skin flushed, chest heaving, watching Dani with eyes gone dark with want.

“You’re still dressed,” Julianne pointed out.

“Noticed that, did you?”

“I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”

Dani laughed—low, warm, the sound vibrating through Julianne’s body everywhere they touched. “Complaint noted. But right now, I have other priorities.”

She dropped to her knees.

Julianne’s hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the dark waves as Dani’s mouth found her center. The first touch of her tongue made Julianne cry out—too loud, echoing through the empty kitchen—and Dani made a sound of approval that sent vibrations right where she needed them.

“Oh god—Dani—”

“Relax.” Dani’s breath was hot against her most sensitive skin. “Let me take care of you.”

She did. With tongue and lips and two fingers that slid inside exactly when Julianne needed them, curling to find the spot that made her see stars. Dani knew her body better than anyone—knew exactly how to build her up, how to hold her at the edge, how to push her over when she was ready.

“I’m going to—” Julianne’s voice broke. “I can’t—”

“You can. Come for me, Jules. Let go.”

She let go.

The orgasm crashed through her like a wave, pulling her under, making her whole body arch off the counter as she cried Dani’s name. Dani worked her through it, gentling her touch as the aftershocks rolled through, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs.

“Good girl,” Dani murmured. “That’s my good girl.”

Julianne was still trembling when Dani rose, climbing onto the counter to straddle her, pulling off her own shirt as she moved. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“No?”

“No.” Dani kissed her, deep and filthy, letting Julianne taste herself. “We’ve got the whole kitchen. And I intend to christen every surface.”

IV.

An hour later, they were on the floor.

Specifically, they were on a bed of discarded chef’s coats and aprons behind the line, both of them finally, completely naked, limbs tangled together in satisfied exhaustion. The prosecco bottle was empty. The food Dani had planned to make was still uncooked in the walk-in.

Neither of them cared.

“Best anniversary ever,” Julianne said.

“We haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“Don’t need dinner. I’m perfectly satisfied.”

Dani propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at her wife. In the low light, Julianne looked relaxed in a way she rarely allowed herself to be—hair a disaster, makeup nonexistent, a lazy smile curving her lips. She looked happy. She looked loved. She looked like someone who’d finally stopped running from the things that scared her.

“I love you,” Dani said.

“I know.”

“I mean it. Every day. Every argument about paint colors and grout and whether we’re playing Debussy or Selena during prep—I love all of it. I love you.”

Julianne reached up, cupping Dani’s face in her hand. “I love you too. Even when you refuse to follow the schedule. Even when you change the specials without telling me. Even when you—”

“Okay, okay. Point made.” But Dani was grinning. “You know what Rosa would say if she could see us right now?”

“That we should have at least put a towel down before we had sex on the floor of our restaurant?”

“She would definitely say that. But she’d also say—” Dani pressed a kiss to Julianne’s forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth. “She’d say she was proud. Of both of us. Of what we built.”

“What we built,” Julianne repeated. “Together.”

“Together.”

They lay there for a while longer, skin cooling, hearts slowing, watching the shadows play across the ceiling of the kitchen they’d created together. Eventually, Dani stirred.

“I should make you that dinner.”

“Or.”

“Or?”

Julianne’s hand slid down Dani’s stomach, fingers tracing patterns on her hip. “Or we could christen the walk-in. We haven’t done that in at least six months.”

“Julianne Sterling-Rivera. Are you suggesting we have sex in the refrigerator?”

“I’m suggesting we continue our anniversary celebration in a location that’s conveniently temperature-controlled.” Her fingers dipped lower. “Unless you’d rather eat.”

Dani’s breath hitched. “Walk-in. Definitely the walk-in.”

They didn’t make it to the walk-in.

They made it approximately four feet—to the expediting station, where Julianne pressed Dani against the pass and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what she’d learned about multi-tasking over the past two years.

The food stayed in the fridge until 3 a.m., when they finally stumbled upstairs to their apartment, made grilled cheese sandwiches in their underwear, and fell asleep on the couch watching terrible reality TV.

It was, Julianne thought as she drifted off with Dani’s head on her shoulder, the perfect anniversary.

Messy. Unpredictable. Full of moments that would have horrified the woman she used to be.

Absolutely, completely perfect.