The kitchen roared with the scent of seared herbs and caramelized onions, steam rising in thick curls from copper pots while flames licked the edges of a massive range. Jordan Rams-me stood at its center like a storm given flesh, his broad frame clad in a crisp white jacket that strained across his shoulders, dark eyes sharp as he barked orders at the line cooks. "Faster on that reduction—don't you dare let it split." His voice cut through the din, low and unyielding, drawing every gaze before settling on the redhead hovering at the doorway.

Ivy Love stepped forward on unsteady legs, her green eyes wide and cheeks already flushed beneath a cascade of fiery curls that escaped her loose ponytail. The 25-year-old clutched a worn knife roll to her chest, her soft Irish lilt trembling as she managed, "Mr. Rams-me? I'm here for the mentorship audition." He turned fully, towering over her petite frame, and the air between them thickened with something hotter than the stove's blaze. "Call me Chef," he commanded, his hand closing firmly around her wrist to guide her to the prep station, fingers lingering just long enough to send a shiver racing up her arm. "Show me what those hands can do. Dice these shallots—precise, even cuts. No hesitation."

She obeyed with a quiet gasp, her slender fingers gripping the blade as he loomed behind her, his breath warm against her neck while he adjusted her stance, one palm pressing low on her hip to correct her posture. The contact ignited an unexpected spark low in her belly, her pulse quickening as his voice dipped into a growl. "Good girl—firmer grip, like you mean it. You'll learn to submit to the heat, Ivy, or it'll consume you." Her knife faltered briefly under the intensity, but she pressed on, the first lesson unfolding in the charged space between his dominance and her yielding surrender, the kitchen's warmth mirroring the flush spreading across her skin.

The shallots yielded under her blade in neat, glistening piles, each precise cut drawing a low hum of approval from Jordan as his hand remained anchored at her hip, thumb tracing slow circles that sent ripples of heat through her thin chef's whites. Ivy's breath hitched, her green eyes fixed on the board while warmth pooled between her thighs, her body instinctively leaning back into the solid wall of his chest. The kitchen's clamor faded to a distant roar around them, the sizzle of pans and clatter of utensils underscoring the way his fingers flexed against her, possessive and unyielding, as if testing how far her submission would stretch on this first day. "That's it, Ivy—feel the rhythm, let it own you," he murmured, his voice a gravelly caress against her ear, and she shivered at the command, her nipples tightening against the fabric as an insistent ache built low in her belly.

Hours bled into one another under his relentless guidance, the audition evolving into a whirlwind of flames and flavors where every correction came with a lingering touch—a palm sliding up her spine to straighten her posture, a firm grip on her wrist steering the whisk through thickening sauces. Ivy's shyness melted into eager focus, her cheeks perpetually flushed as Jordan's dominance wove through each lesson, his broad frame shadowing hers at every station, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the herbs and smoke. By the time the line cooks dispersed and the range cooled to embers, her arms ached pleasantly, a deeper thrum of arousal leaving her panties damp and her thoughts tangled with the promise of more.

As the last light faded from the windows, Jordan stepped back, his dark eyes appraising her with a satisfied nod. "After a long day it's finally over—congratulations, you got the mentorship. You're mine now, Ivy. Report at dawn."

The weeks that followed settled into a grueling dance of precision and proximity, Ivy arriving each dawn with her knife roll clutched tight and her body already humming in anticipation of Jordan's nearness. She mastered reductions and emulsions under his watchful eye, his hands guiding her with possessive weight—sliding along her ribs to adjust a stance, cupping her ass briefly as he corrected her plating—until the kitchen's chaos felt like an extension of their private current. Her initial shyness gave way to eager submission, her thighs often slick by midday from the low growl of his approvals and the way his dark gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts straining against her jacket.

One humid night, the line long cleared, Ivy plated her final test dish only for Jordan to slice into the chicken breast with a vicious flick of his fork. "It's raw," he shouted, the words cracking like a whip through the empty kitchen, his face flushing with that familiar fire as he slammed the plate down. "Go to my office. Now." She followed on trembling legs, the click of the door sealing them in his wood-paneled sanctuary where the air thickened with the scent of aged whiskey and his cologne. "You've been a bad girl, Ivy," he rasped, spinning her around to bend her over the desk, one broad palm cracking sharply across her ass through the thin fabric of her whites, the sting blooming into heat that made her pussy clench and drip. "And now I'm going to give you something raw." He yanked down his zipper, freeing the thick length of his cock—veined and heavy, the head already glistening with precum—as he pressed it against the curve of her reddened cheek, his free hand fisting into her red curls to hold her still.

Ivy readily took it into her mouth, her soft lips parting with a needy whimper as she leaned forward despite the firm grip in her curls, tongue swirling eagerly over the slick head to taste the salty bead of precum. The weight of him stretched her jaw, thick and pulsing against her palate as she sucked him deeper, her green eyes watering from the angle but her body arching back into the sting of his earlier slap, thighs pressing together to ease the throbbing ache in her pussy. Jordan groaned low, the sound vibrating through his broad chest as he thrust shallowly, controlling the depth with his fistful of red hair while his other hand slid beneath her to cup and squeeze her breasts through the jacket, thumbs circling the hardened nipples that strained for more attention.

The desk creaked under her weight, the scent of aged wood and his musk filling her senses as she bobbed with increasing hunger, saliva coating his veined shaft and dripping down her chin in warm trails. His dominance wrapped around her like the kitchen's earlier heat, each pull of her hair sending sparks of submission flooding her core, her hips rocking instinctively as if seeking the raw thrust he had promised. "That's my good girl," he rasped, voice thick with approval, the fiery intensity of his temper softening into something possessive and intimate that made her heart flutter even as her mouth worked him with wet, eager sounds. Her free hand reached back to grip his thigh, nails digging in for balance, the taste of him overwhelming her shyness until all that remained was this raw connection—her yielding surrender to his command, the pulse of his cock against her tongue mirroring the desperate clench between her legs.

He pulled back just enough to let her breathe, strings of saliva connecting them, before guiding himself back in with a deeper thrust that made her moan around his length, the vibration drawing another curse from his lips. The office's dim light played across his commanding frame, sweat glistening on his neck as he watched her with dark, satisfied eyes, his thumb stroking her cheek in a tender contrast to the firm hold on her hair. Ivy's body hummed with the blend of pain and pleasure, her panties soaked through as she surrendered fully, the mentorship's professional edge blurring into this explicit intimacy that left her craving every inch of his control.

It's Raw!