Sold To My Ex’s Dad: An Age Gap, Secret Baby Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

Rushing home with tears in my eyes isn’t exactly how I pictured my evening ending.

But here I am, mascara running down my cheeks, all because of Chef Marco’s reign of terror.

He swooped in, fork in hand, to pass judgment on my latest creation. He took a bite, and for a second, his eyes lit up like a kid who’d just discovered the joy of popping bubble wrap. But then, he frowned.

‘This is all wrong!’ he declared, his voice rising over the sizzle and chatter of the kitchen. ‘The balance is off, the presentation is amateurish, and this …’ he gestured to my dish with the fork, ‘… this is simply unacceptable.’

Maybe it was all in my head, but I could have sworn I saw a dusting of white powder under his nose, evidence that he’d been spending time with his drug of choice.

Before I could muster a defense, he’d tossed my lovingly crafted dish into the trash with all the ceremony of a judge delivering a life sentence. My heart sank to the floor, watching hours of work consigned to the garbage.

But while Marco was deciding that my dish belonged in the trash, a little switch flipped inside me, and I realized I was done. I’d put up with Marco’s bullshit for long enough, and now I had a new job. I had prepared to give him two weeks’ notice, but at that moment, I had no more fucks to give.

I squared my shoulders and said, ‘Marco, you’re nothing but a bully. You’re so scared of a little competition; you’d rather trash good food than admit it’s better than anything you’ve plated in years.’

For once, Marco was speechless, and before he could come up with another insult, I said, ‘I quit! Consider this my notice. Find someone else to push around because I am out of here.’

And then I’d stormed out, letting the heavy kitchen door slam behind me. I refused to look back, even though I felt dozens of eyes on me, watching my dramatic exit.

As I stepped outside into the cool night air, my heart was pounding, and I felt a wild mix of fear, relief, and exhilaration. Perhaps I’d just burned my bridges, but I felt freer than I had in years.

Walking away from Marco’s kitchen, I couldn’t help but think about what the future would hold for me. It was a terrifyingly blank canvas now, but I knew one thing for sure: No one was going to treat me like that ever again.

I’m a whirlwind of emotions as I burst through the door to my apartment. I am teary-eyed but defiant. And to my surprise, the place is empty. No roommates, no dubious smells wafting from the kitchen—just blissful silence.

For a fleeting second, I think, This is what it would be like to have my own place—no sharing a bathroom, no food disappearing from the fridge.

I decide to seize the moment. I pour myself a glass of wine from whatever bottle was already open in the fridge and head to the bathroom for a luxurious soak, complete with some fancy bath bombs I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Because if surviving a showdown with Chef Marco and hurling myself into the unknown isn’t special, I don’t know what is.

Slipping into the bath, I let the warm water envelop me. The fizzing of each bubble of the bath bomb seems to whisper, ‘Here’s to fresh starts and fiery exits.’

I close my eyes, sip my wine, and feel myself start to relax. Savor’s kitchen awaits, and with it, a chance to prove that I’m more than just a one-night stand—I’m an excellent chef with hopes and dreams and maybe a dash of boldness.

As the warmth of the bath seeps into my muscles, I let my mind drift toward a fantasy that’s been in the back of my mind. My hand slips under the warm water, making its way between my thighs.

The scene unfolds in Savor’s kitchen, but it’s not the hustle and bustle of a typical day. Instead, it’s just Patrick and me alone, the tension between us as palpable.

In this fantasy, I’m at the counter, focusing intently on chopping something. Patrick’s overseeing my technique, but the professional critique soon veers into playful banter.

‘You sure can handle a knife,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye, ‘but can you handle the heat?’

‘Oh, I thrive on heat,’ I quip, my words laced with a double entendre.

The air crackles with tension. Then, as if drawn by some magnetic force, we are face to face. The kitchen fades into the background.

Patrick reaches past me to turn off a burner, his arm brushing against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Our eyes meet, and there’s a moment of silent acknowledgment of the intense attraction that’s been bubbling just under the surface.

He smiles a cocky grin that says he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. ‘Careful, Allie,’ he whispers, his voice low and husky, ‘this kitchen isn’t just for cooking.’

The words hang in the air, charged with the possibility of our flirting becoming something more. My heart races, my breath quickens, and for a fleeting second, the fantasy feels almost real.

“Then what is it for?” I ask playfully.

He reaches for me hungrily. “Let me show you.”

With that, he pins me against the counter with his hands on either side of me. He’s so close I can feel his hardness. I moan and squirm against him.

He leans down and kisses me hard. Even though it’s just a fantasy, I can somehow taste his lips and it seems just as real as it did the night we made love. Patrick’s got a good eight to ten inches on me, and I have to crane my neck up to meet his lips.

I moan, his hands finding my hips and holding me right where he wants me. His touch makes its way to the buttons of my black chef’s coat, undoing them one by one. It’s impossibly hot, especially because he’s about to make love to me in his own kitchen. The fact that we’re about to do it someplace we most definitely shouldn’t makes the fantasy that much hotter.

I undo the buttons of his shirt, exposing his white T-shirt, which strains against his muscled shoulders and chest. There’s something irresistible about seeing him in that tight T-shirt and those black pants, knowing he’s about to take me in his domain.

I moan in the tub, my leg draped over the side, water dripping onto the mat. My hips are angled in such a way that I can rub my clit just how I need to in order to rush to a quick climax. I’m alone for the moment, but it’s only a matter of time before one or more of my roommates return and need to use the bathroom.

I push those boring, real-life concerns to the back of my mind and return to the fantasy. Chef Patrick has my chef’s coat off and his hands are under the sleeveless undershirt I have on beneath. His fingers slip under my bra, and he takes hold of my breasts.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to ignore you when you’re here in my kitchen?” he asks as his lips roam my neck and hands knead my breasts. “Do you know how much time I spend thinking of fucking you just like this?”

All I can do is moan. He’s so hard, and it’s unfair that he’s not inside of me. Patrick rubs his cock over my pussy before lifting me onto the countertop. He grinds against me, his manhood pressing against my clit through my pants.

“Stop teasing me,” I say, my fingers working through his hair as he plants kisses along my collarbone. “Just take me.”

“Just take me what?” he asks, pulling my shirt over my head.

“Just take me, please, Chef.”

He grins, and I know I’ve given the right answer.

With that, he removes my pants and underwear, and I feel the cool stainless-steel countertop cool against my bare ass. I return the favor, yanking down his pants, his cock leaping out into my hand. He feels perfect to the touch.

“You’re so hard,” I say, stroking his length.

“Hard for you,” he replies, leaning in and nibbling my earlobe, “so fucking hard for you.”

I take him by the base and place his cock at the entrance to my slit. But when I attempt to guide him inside, he pauses.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

He backs slowly from me.

“Where are we right now?”

I’m confused. “In your kitchen?”

He nods slowly, a sexy-as-fuck, wolfish grin on his lips.

“That’s right. My kitchen. And in my kitchen, we obey my rules.”

I swallow. He’s back to being the boss.

“And what rules might those be?”

“Rule one.” He raises a single finger. “You do what I say. Understood?”

“Understood, Chef.”

Another grin.

“Hop off the counter.”

I do as he asks and stand in front of him. He looks up and down at my naked body with an appraising glance as if I’m the kitchen’s daily meat delivery and he’s checking its quality.

“God, you’re fucking sexy.”

The pressure between my legs is so intense that I can hardly focus on his words.

“Turn around.”

I do as he asks.

“Bend over and grab the counter.”

Again, I do as he asks. I start to turn to look at him but only manage a quick glance before he orders, “Keep your eyes forward.”

Again, I obey.

“Do you see the spatula on the wall ahead? The one with the red rubber end?”

I spot it. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Grab it and give it to me.”

In the blink of an eye, I feel the sensation of the cool metal against my ass.

Then, before I can react, he spanks me on one cheek with it. I feel the sting, but I don’t react; it’s kind of exhilarating.

Before I can stop him, he spanks me on the other cheek. A perfect blend of pain and pleasure rushes through me. He then places the corner of the spatula against my lower back and trails it up my spine. The feel of the cool metal makes me shiver.

“How does that feel?” he asks. “Do you like it when I’m rough with you?”

“Yes,” The word shoots out of me before I have a chance to realize what I’m saying.

But it’s true. I love it.

He sets the spatula down gently on the counter. Then he penetrates me with his cock at my opening and pushes inside. I’m so freaking wet that his thrust into me is totally effortless. He glides inside and stretches me out with his thickness, bottoming out in an instant.

Back in the real world, I hear the telltale sound of the front door opening, followed by the chatter of roommates, which brings me back to reality.

Shit.

Someone comes to the bathroom and pulls the handle. Thankfully, I’d remembered to lock it.

“Hey, you in there?” asks Myra.

My eyes flash, my hand still on my pussy.

“Um, yeah! Two seconds!”

I push myself back into the fantasy, imagining Patrick driving hard into me over and over, his hips crashing against mine, his hands on my sides. He spanks me again and again, and soon, an orgasm is ripping through me.

It’s more intense than I’d been expecting, and I have to grab the towel and bite down hard on it, the thick fabric muffling my shouts of total pleasure. The orgasm fades, and I’m done, totally spent, my leg limply hanging over the side of the tub.

The knob jangles again.

“Come on!” Myra whines. “I really have to pee!”

“Almost done!”

I hop out of the tub and dry off, wrapping a towel around myself before opening the door. Myra blows past me into the bathroom. I hurry into my room and sit down on the bed, the fantasy still fresh in my mind.