“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me all night?”
My mouth bobs to argue, yet I can’t.
Honestly, hadn’t even realized I had been leering at her that long. It’s insane, but I swear when this woman walks into the room my world stops. It’s like my mind isn’t capable of processing anything else until it’s finished mentally devouring her. And I’m not just talking about how fucking amazing she looks. No. It’s everything. The warmth she radiates. The boldness. The unapologetic command for respect. It’s all…dangerously intoxicating. I finally get how Jay-Z and Beyoncé were drunk in love.
Not that I’m in love.
No.
Just…infatuated more than any reasonably minded man should be.
She drops her hand onto one hip and leans accusatorily to one side. “Do you hate this dress or something?”
I steal an additional glance of the long sleeve, short black lacy dress that is making my palms itch.
Fun fact.
Out of all the material in the world, I love hearing the way lace rips the most.
After tossing the last bite of my burger, which thanks to that dress I’m no longer hungry for, onto my plate, I cock a crooked grin. “I hate that it’s not on my bedroom floor.”
Julez shoots me a wink. “Our bedroom floor.”
Convincing her to ditch sharing a suite with her friend for the weekend to share one with me instead was easier than I expected. Then again how much of a fight could she really put up with my dick in her mouth?
“Damn, that’s got a nice ring to it…” I promptly wipe my hands and walk over to where my suit jacket is draped over the edge of the couch.
“Agreed.” Julez tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But seriously? Is this alright? I’m not really sure the tone of the evening.”
Another smile slides onto my face. “It’s a dessert bar, Sweet Cheeks. Look good while eating good. Pretty cut and dry.” Once I’ve slipped the last of my attire into place, I extend my hand for her to take. “Shall we?”
Her hand doesn’t hesitate to connect to mine, and the electricity that bolts through my body is ground shaking.
Fuck, what is that?
I mean, I’ve had chemistry with women before. We’ve meshed together in the sheets and over a great glass of red or white or champagne. I’ve been tempted to call a select few out of the blue a couple weeks post one nightstand, but never have. There’s never been an urge to continue our mutual agreed upon fleeting moment until now.
I’ve never been this…attached to another person.
I’ve never wanted to be.
I’ve never needed to be.
And that’s what it is with Julez. I need her to soothe all my senses.
I need to be touching her.
Smelling her.
Hearing her.
Tasting her.
Fuck. Me. I need to always be tasting her.
The two of us take the elevator down to the lobby in sweet silence. Our fingers are tightly tucked together, and our arms continuously brush up against one another as if to say I’m glad you’re near.
Thankfully, the driver I’ve hired is already parked right outside the entrance patiently waiting for us. He opens the door to assist us both inside before strolling around to get in himself.
As soon as we’re both buckled in and he’s been given the location of the event, Julez turns to me to ask, “What exactly are you doing tonight? Just walking around the kitchen criticizing people?”
I toss her playful look. “Do you think we’re about to record an episode of Kitchen Nightmares?”
“Maybe…” mirth grows in her tone. “You do have the whole young Gordon Ramsey vibe without the accent, which is a shame because I love his accent.”
“Chi ha bisogno di un accento quando so come implorare per farmi mangiare quella figa in oltre sei lingue?”
Who needs an accent when I know how to beg for you to let me eat that pussy in over six languages?
Her lips and her thighs simultaneously press together.
“Exactly.”
“So, then tell me Chef,” the emphasis on the word calls to my cock to join the conversation, “what will you be doing tonight?”
“Getting my hands dirty.”
Her smile remains despite the rolling of her eyes.
“Everything from prepping to cooking to making sure the floor runs smoothly.” Our SUV cruises to a stoplight, and I readjust my body to face hers. “There will be two dessert stations on opposite ends of the room. One for chocolate lovers, which includes fountains of milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and white chocolate for them to dip food in, while the other one is for candy lovers, which will include an assortment of childhood favorites along with a few local specialties. Coming out of the kitchen will be miniature fresh fruit compilations like pizza bites and forbidden bowls that will be served out of grapefruit halves and contain chunks of the delicious red treat, bits of pomelo, splashes of brandy, drizzled lightly with agave and garnished with a small slice of orange.”
The look of being impressed is immediate as is my dick’s response to it.
It’d be a lie to say it doesn’t feed my ego to exceed people’s expectations, but the way Julez is gawking at me is doing more than tossing it a few scraps. It’s stroking it. Soothing it. Almost mollifying it to no longer need the praise or approval of anyone else.
“Mio Dio, that sounds complicated. And you’re just gonna walk into that unprepared?”
“Unprepared? Sweet Cheeks, I’ve spent the last week finalizing the menu, the suppliers, the kitchen accommodations, and searching Doctenn for the best fucking catering staff I could find. My day to day shit may be breezy, but anytime I step foot into a kitchen whether I am the executive chef or there to assist, I treat the situation as seriously as life or death. That’s how much I love what I do. Like a surgeon doesn’t want his patient to die on his table, I don’t want a plate to die on mine.”
Her smirk only momentarily glistens in the evening sun. “How could you spend the entire week doing that shit when you were all the way back in Highland?”
“I wasn’t.”
Julez expression becomes incredulous. “Then why were you in the city this morning?”
“To pick you up.”
She drops her jaw in disbelief. “You flew all the way back to Highland just to pick me up?”
My nod is bashful. “I needed an excuse to see you again, and when Pax handed it to me on a silver fucking platter there was no way I was going to pass it up.”
To my surprise, her body seems to sag slightly in relief.
Maybe I should’ve started our conversation on the plane with that information. Doubt it would’ve exploded the way it did had I gingerly began it rather than fumbled out accusations. The crazy thing is that’s just what Julez does to me. She turns me from the “Charming Chef”, the man who knows just what to say, when to say it, and how to say it, to get everything and everyone he wants, into a cluster fuck of babbles and brain glitches.
I hate it.
I love it.
I can’t get enough of it.
Julez’s hand creeps across the seat between us to find mine. For the remainder of our ride, we don’t speak. We simply enjoy the rap music that is playing low and the hum of the busy streets.
Once we’re dropped around back at the kitchen entrance I prefer to use when I’m more than kissing ass for the night, we’re promptly greeted by my newest personal assistant, Tabitha.
“Evening, Chef!” She greets with enthusiasm and a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Evening, Tabby.” I gesture my hand towards Julez. “Tabby this is Julez. Julez this is my assistant, Tabby.”
Rather than sneer or glare at the young, fit, perky blonde blocking her path, Julez plasters on a warm grin and extends her hand. “Pleasure.”
They shake. “Same.”
Tabby is the longest assistant I’ve had. Unlike Holden who used to have a hard time keeping his nannies due to lack of competence, I have a hard time keeping assistants due to my dick quite often being as hungry as my stomach. Unfortunately, fucking your assistant is a terrible idea that always leads to trouble. And sometimes trashed hotel rooms. However, Tabby and I have a slightly different problem. We have a tendency to chase the same type of women.
When I notice my assistant’s stare linger too long, I place a firm finger on their clasped hands to part them. “Julez is my date, Tabby. You’re gonna have to find your own.”
Her blue eyes playfully roll.
My arm slides around Julez’s waist at the same time I continue to speak to Tabby, “Do you have everything ready for me?”
“Shoes, shirt, and headset set up in the office. Staff will be on the line ready for motivational speech in four minutes.”
Julez cautiously questions, “How close to all the action am I going to be?”
“How close do you wanna be?”
The corner of her lip tips up. “How close can I get?”
My eyes steal a glance of the red kicks she’s sporting. “Tabby, find her a pair of non-slip and a headset.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Her lack of hesitation to fulfill the request causes Julez to tease, “You love the fact she has to take orders without objection.”
“I do.” My hand slides a little lower to curl around the curve of her ass cheek. “But I love having to use my manners with you.”
There’s a small pleased hum out of Julez before I lead her towards the manager’s office.
After I insist she shuts the door behind her so that I can change in private, she asks, “Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?”
“More or less.” I shrug out of my jacket and begin to unbutton my shirt. “When I was growing up, sugar wasn’t the only thing my parents treated like the enemy. According to them, the kitchen wasn’t a place I belonged, so every chance I had, I’d sneak in there to see what the cooks were creating. The easiest days were when we were expecting a crowd of people. Those were also the only ones where sweets were ever on the menu. I’d wait until drinks were served then peek into the kitchen to see this beautiful, bustling cinematic like scene.” My shirt lands on top of the jacket as I reach for my black chef coat. “Sometimes it looked like they were a bunch of mad scientist experimenting with magical potions and other times it looked like art. Like they were mixing paints and placing them on canvases. It was…mesmerizing.” I don’t bother to stop myself from grinning. “Miguel, head of the kitchen staff, used to let me help when he could. Explain to me how cooking was more than just tossing shit into a pot or pan or baking tray. How each time you added an ingredient, you were adding a piece of your soul.” Quickly, I begin to fix the cuffs. “The kitchen was the only place in that house I ever felt like myself…”
She offers me a soft smile. “How do your parents feel about you being a chef?”
“Publically? For the sake of the Kutner name and reputation? They’re thrilled. Couldn’t be happier to have a son internationally known for creating culinary perfection.” A short scoff slips out as I lean against the desk to change shoes. “Privately? I’m an embarrassment.”
“How?!”
“Gym Life is a franchise, how can I not be one by now with all the success I’ve had? Why don’t I have a chain of Charming Chef restaurants around the globe or culinary wear or my own television show?”
“Do you…want any of those things?”
I hastily shake my head. “Fuck no. Everything I do is my choice. I’ve been offered all that shit and passed because doing what I do, the way I do, on my terms, is the most incredible feeling in the entire world. I make the rules and boundaries for me. I set my standards. No one has the power to take away my happiness because it’s not profitable. You know if the day ever comes and I’m forced to settle as a fry cook in some mom and pop shop, I’d still be happy because I’d find a way to make those burgers, my burgers.”
Admiration spreads across her face. “You’re passionate.”
“That’s what makes me a chef and not just another cook with too much ego.”
There’s a tiny knock on the door. “Chef! I got the shoes!”
Julez opens it with a look of surprise. “Really?”
“Always keep extra…everything in the trunk of my car,” Tabby explains while she squeezes through the cracked entrance. “The damn thing looks like a strange hotel lobby gift shop meets backwoods liquor store.”
I lightly chuckle.
“Your fault,” she scolds me. “Your asinine requests over the last four months have reached Mariah Carey level of diva.”
Julez laughs, yet I unconsciously look away.
Now is not the time to discuss…that.
One conversation about my parents is plenty.
I nod my head towards Juelz. “Change.”
She gives me a defiant look I love receiving.
“Per favore.”
Julez shoots me a good natured wink. She changes her shoes, we adjust our headsets, and exit to the kitchen where a well assembled team is waiting to directed. Like usual, my speech is short and sweet, filled with positive energy and pre praise for having the balls to be members of my army for the evening. Tabby takes her two minutes to announce to us, which food blogs are in attendance for the night, their impact, and following, which directly amps my stress level. Almost immediately after everyone is dismissed, I walk Julez through the empty, intimate area where the party will be occurring while trying to push Tabby’s news to the back of my brain. I briefly explain that the two paid members of staff will be responsible for replenishes and readjusting the displays throughout the night. She volunteers to help with the task, yet I quickly inform her she will have a much more personable job of mingling and allowing me to hear firsthand through the headset how everyone is enjoying their treats.
People will praise a chef whether it’s earned or not.
People will give their honest opinions to a curious stranger when they have nothing to gain from lying.
I love the way food can make an honest man a liar and a liar an honest man.
The party launches without a hitch. People praise both dessert stations between their sips of champagne or bourbon. While I can hear the excitement, thanks to Julez’s mic, there’s no time to appreciate it. My attention centers on keeping the fruit bowls at the perfect temperature and preventing those accompanying me in the kitchen from placing too much or not enough agave. Of course, like any party, one crisis adverted is always followed speedily by another. Smells of slightly burnt crust outrage my senses sending me into full dictator mode. However, unlike other events I’ve catered, the foul mood doesn’t linger nearly as long as the odor thanks to Julez teasing me via the headset. Tabby is tuned into the two floor member’s headset frequency leaving the line to be a private connection for the two of us. The frustrations of mistakes are easily swatted away by Julez’s jovial reminders of what happened to other assholes in history who overly abused their subordinates rather than molding them into better soldiers. Around her fifth beheading joke, I notice our performance has reached its optimal flow. Dishes are no longer nearly leaving my presence sloppy with drops of syrup dripping off the corners of the plates. Crusts to the pizza treats and pastries aren’t being tossed into the edible disposal pile I have Tabby take to local homeless shelters. There aren’t near collisions causing more clean ups than necessary. Everyone seems to have become in sync to the kitchen mind resulting in an endless execution of flawlessness.
Surprise over it happening so early in the night has me anxious to see the woman I know is adding to the natural high I’ve achieved.
I inform my sous chef for the evening that I’ll be stepping into the party for a few and quickly change out of my cooking attire back into my formal wear.
Finding Julez in an overcrowded room isn’t nearly as difficult as I was picturing. The sweet aroma that is all her own combined with the soft snickering I’ve spent the night listening to like my favorite Wale song swiftly leads me to her location.
Upon arrival, I slide one hand around her lower waist and prepare to invade the conversation she’s having with two men standing much too close for my liking. “You two aren’t harassing the most beautiful woman in the room, are you?”
Julez’s instant relaxation into my touch has me more proud of that than the food displayed beside us.
Martin strokes his salt and pepper goatee and takes a small step back. “Didn’t realize she belonged to you, Chef.”
I offer him a phony grin and grip her tighter. “She does.”
Julez glances over at me with displeased sarcastic expression.
“At least as long as she’s wearing my headset,” I tease, tugging at the object with my free hand.
The pudgy, middle aged man slightly chuckles and reaches for a glass of champagne from a passing server.
“Should’ve known.” Roland shakes his rectangular shaped head and provides us with a bit of distance. “You do have a tendency to stake your claim early in an evening.”
I bypass the snarky line and question, “How’s dessert so far, gentlemen?”
“The kiwi tarts are exquisite.” Roland has a small sip of his bourbon. “I’ve taken several photos for the Tenntial. Once I add how phenomenal they taste, readers will be tripping over themselves trying to find bakeries who sell them.”
“Always a pleasure to hear I’ve pleased this country’s most respected media presence.”
Beats the hell out of when I occasionally end up on their least respected gossip site.
Roland hums and stands a little taller. “You know I only report the most objective opinions in regards to food. That’s what the readers deserve. There are plenty of ‘feeling based’ blogs out there without adding to the bias bullshit.”
I don’t verbally argue.
Sure, there are bloggers out there who obviously have pallets that don’t understand the depth of culinary artistry, however, I think food should be a feeling-based activity. I love when something I created invokes an emotional response. Whether it reminds you how hung over you were after prom or turns you on to the point you have to bang your wife in the nearest bathroom, I find it to be a form of the highest praise.
Martin eagerly glances around at the waiters maneuvering their way around the room. “Speaking of those little bastards, when will more be coming out?”
“Soon.” Nonchalantly, I execute their exit. “Why don’t you two go try the chocolate bar while you wait?”
Martin momentarily smacks his lips and eyes Julez. “You know the affinity I have for…chocolate.”
My hand curls tighter into place at the same time my vision narrows.
“Standard display?” Roland ponders.
“No. There’s fresh fruit you can dip along with less conventional items such as pretzel sticks and bacon.”
Both men display faces of excitement and saunter away to explore the suggestion.
As soon as they’re out of ear shot, Julez sighs, “God, that was awful. Listening to Roland was like being lectured by a slightly younger John Stossel, while engaging in any kind of conversation with Martin was like having a pervy Mr. Rogers hit on me.” Our stares meet on a laugh. “Is Martin a food critic, too?”
“Nope. He owns an adult film company.”
“Should I get another STD checkup after talking to him?”
Another chuckle escapes me. “As long as all you did was talk you should still be in the clear.”
“Are you sure? I felt like he breathed the clap onto me.”
I shake my head, doing my best to hold in more laughs.
We’re both in the clear on that front. Or at least so she says. I’d never taken a woman ever in my life without a rubber, yet I did on the plane without a second rational thought. Because it’s damn near impossible to think rationally around this woman. She’s the type you go to war for regardless if you know it’ll get you killed. The type that if someone glances at her for too long you’re seeing fire engine red. The type you rush off to Vegas to marry in the middle of the night because you know you’ll never meet another woman in your entire life that gets your heart racing as fast as she does…On the original note, Julez was checked for STDs and got a birth control shot when she landed in Highland. She hasn’t been with anyone else since she moved back to town, and like I told her, I haven’t had another woman touch my dick since we met. I typically get a STD exam every few months or so, but always get a wellness check the Monday after my birthday. Gotta make sure I’m fit enough to be globetrotting without any major complications. Last thing I need is a secret disease to expose itself in the middle of dinner with a Duchess…
Gesturing my hand to the table, I question, “Have you tried anything?”
“I thought I was supposed to be working.”
“All work and no play is not the Charming Chef way.”
Her nose crinkles. “Is that really your slogan?”
“It sells.” Before she can muster up a rebuttal, I remove my grip and reach for a plate. “How about a sushi roll?”
“I may not be a cooking expert like you, but I am intelligent enough to know sushi is made with fish.”
“There’s fish on the table.”
“Those are Swedish Fish.”
I keep a smile plastered on my face while reaching for a plate and packaged Fruit Roll Up. “Still fish.”
“Only because they look like fish!”
More snickers seep free as I unroll the childish treat and begin to explain, “You take one of these and flatten it. Next,” I grab the spoon for the candy dish I need, “you sprinkle in Smith and Sam, which are like a sour version of Mike and Ike’s and only found here in Doctenn.” After the task is finished, I scoop a couple Swedish onto the plate and begin to arrange them accordingly. “Then you place them like this, so there will be one in every bite.” I quickly roll the candy product before using a knife to cut it into pieces. Finally finished, I grab a bite and lift it up towards her scarlet lips. “Mangiamo!”
There’s a mixture of disgust and curiosity on her face that has me more nervous than any restaurant critic could ever make me. “You’re serious.”
“Obviously.”
“Not happening.”
“Afraid?”
“More so of vomiting than the emergency dental visit I’ll need.”
I helplessly smirk. “You like candy, right?”
“Sì.”
“Both sweet and sour?”
“Sì.”
“Then try this.”
She sneers again.
“Per favore?”
Her jaw reluctantly pries itself open.
I ignore the gnawing irritation over having to beg someone for the first time in my entire career to taste one of my creations and watch with intense fascination the way the dessert slides across Julez’s tongue. At first, her face remains blank, a clear sign of a woman completely in control of all of her emotions, yet mere moments later she gradually begins to chew, leaving me anxious for a verbal response.
“Well?”
She slowly shakes her head. “Why the hell is that so good?”
Relief and excitement soar through me, my ego thankful to be stroked by someone who matters. “Because it wasn’t boring.” I slide my arm back around her waist. “How about we do a small lap around the party?”
“And then you’ll give me an actual reason to be wearing these God forsaken shoes?”
Unable to stop from laughing, I nod. “Yeah. I’ll slip you into the back. Show you where the magic happens.”
“Alright, I Dream of Genie,” she snatches a lollipop from the display tree in the center of the table, “let’s make this quick, so you can show me your lamp.”
Together, we stroll around meeting fresh faces and receiving praise from the old. Everyone who crosses my presence treats me like a rock star and reminds me of why I do what I do. I love seeing people be pleased.
Smiling.
Happy.
Life is fucking dreadful enough with heartbreak and bills and diseases. Why not make the little moments I can better?
Brighter.
Happier.
By the time we enter the kitchen; Julez has ditched the headset, shoved the lollipop into her mouth and turned it into a teasing mechanism I can barely handle.
Unfortunately, instead of being able to execute something I’ve been dreaming up, my attention is snatched by a pair of plates preparing to leave the area. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Are you kidding me?” Rushing away from her side, I stop the two waiters and tug them back to the expose area. “Do you not see that shit?” I grab a clean towel and wipe it all the way around the rim. “Clean and pristine, or it doesn’t leave the scene.” My narrowed eyes dart up to stare at them. “What the fuck is my motto back here?”
The brunette woman states, “Clean and pristine, or it doesn’t leave the scene, Chef.”
“Then why the fuck did you almost walk out of here with drops of syrup caked along the edge?!”
The young red headed man tries to explain, “We were just so busy and-”
“Repeat. The. Motto.” His hesitation causes me to grumble. “Now.”
“Clean and pristine, or it doesn’t leave the scene, Chef.”
My eyes swing to the woman. “Your turn.”
“Clean and pristine, or it doesn’t leave the scene, Chef.”
Satisfied, I nod and send them out the door.
“Klyde!” I shout, marching around back where he’s pulling something from the oven. “Who the fuck is supposed to be on expo? We almost had two plates leave here with shit dripping from them!”
The Sous Chef for the evening, a Doctenn native I enjoy working with immensely, gently places the sheet down on top of the stove and sighs, “Dezi.”
“Dezi!” I shout just as two more cooking assistants put the finishing touches on Forbidden Bowls. “Dezi!”
All of a sudden, a tiny bobbed hair blonde comes bouncing back in. “Sorry! Sorry! I had to pee!”
“Pee during your own fucking time! Not mine!”
Tears threaten her brown eyes. “Sorry, Chef.”
“Calm it down, Stalin,” Julez unexpectedly grunts. “The woman had to pee.”
My short fuse that exists behind kitchen doors causes me to spin on my heels. “You don’t fucking tell me what to do in my kitchen.”
To my surprise, Julez doesn’t shrink away. She steps closer. “You don’t fucking tell me what do to do ever.”
The retort drops my jaw.
“You’re charming out there but an asshole to the people back here. The people you fucking need to get shit done. It’s ridiculous.”
“Excellence in the kitchen isn’t achieved by ass kissing! It’s about discipline!”
“And?”
“Respect!”
“And?”
“Communication!” As soon as the last word rolls off my tongue, I’m knocked back to my senses. “Communication…” My body turns to face the young shaking woman. “How long had you been waiting to pee?”
“S-S-S-Since we started, Chef.”
“Why didn’t you go before the people started coming in?”
“Tabby needed me to help one of the girls on the floor with the fountains and then there was an issue with the way the fruit was being displayed on some of the toothpicks. I had to relocate those to the edible disposal pile we keep in the cooler and then replace those pieces. By the time I was finished with that task, I was needed on the line.”
Her explanation receives a harsh exhale and a nod of understanding.
Julez smacks on her lollipop. “Hope you feel like an asshole.”
“I really like her,” Klyde chortles.
The other cooks join him while Dezi tries to hold in her laughter.
“Communicate,” I instruct. “At all times. The expo cannot be left unattended. You need to pee? Fine. Let Klyde know, so he can get his ass out here for those three minutes or instruct one of the servers to step up in the gap. This runs best when we’re talking to one another-”
“Not yelling,” Julez playfully reminds me, receiving a shake of the head from me.
“Got it?”
“Yes, Chef…”
“Good.”
“Kiwi Tarts coming out!” Klyde shouts. “Strawberry lime going in!”
A nervous expression begins to flood across her face, and I smile to myself at the work ethic I was too angry to see earlier. “Go.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
“Thank you, Dezi.”
“There’s the charm,” Julez coos, prompting me to cross over to her. She pulls the lollipop from her mouth and shakes it at me. “You need to learn to keep that shit on all the time.”
“It’s stressful back here.”
“Capisco, but shouting and screaming doesn’t help. You can take and keep control without making everyone in your path feel like they’re one mistimed sneeze away from being beheaded.”
Fuck, she has a point.
I know she has a point.
But when you come from a high pressure family that’s spent more time yelling and dictating than ever guiding, it engrains itself in your system…I’ve outgrown so much bullshit my parents plagued me with, but there’s still more to remove. They’re destructive habits are like the fucking cancer my mother has. Each time they think they’re in the clear, another cluster of cells appears in a different area.
Frustration and embarrassment has me running my fingers through my hair.
“Take a few to yourself, Chef.” Klyde suggests. “We can manage.” I toss a glance over my shoulder, and his eyes lock onto mine. “You’ve taught us how to manage. I can lead this shit for a while. Go. Get a drink. Eat something. Fuck, go enjoy the food you create!”
After nodding to him my gratitude, I divert my attention back to Julez and the candy rolling across her tongue. “I need to cool down. Join me?”
She offers me a sweet smile. “Lead the way.”
My hand finds hers, and I direct us out of the main kitchen area. Around the back, near the office, is our destination. I open the cooler door releasing a blast of frigid air that makes her entire body shiver.
“Accidenti, fa freddo!” She steps inside and chatters, “You weren’t kidding about the cooling down part, were you?”
Once I’ve shut the door, I nudge her body to the side until her back hits one of the shelves. “I’m gonna cool down, but you’re gonna heat up, Sweet Cheeks.” My fingertips softly skim the skin on her arms during their trek downwards. In one fluid motion, I snatch her hands and pin them above her head. “Keep those there for me, s'il vous plaît.”
“I see you do have manners.”
“In multiple languages, Sweet Cheeks.”
Her cocky grin is short lived thanks to my thumb toying with her plump bottom lip. I use it and my index finger to remove the lollipop that’s been taunting me. After relocating it to my own mouth, I lower myself to my knees and slink my hands underneath the hem of her dress. Julez’s body arches forward in anticipation. A cocky chuckle begins to escape as I inch the clothing upward, however, the revealing truth of her walking around bare all evening turns the sound into one of exasperation.
My eyes find hers. “You didn’t think I’d wanna know I had an unwrapped treat waiting to be tasted?”
Humor dances its way through her expression. “Thought you were on top of everything and everyone in your kitchen, Chef.”
Her challenging tone receives a barbaric grumble. “Spread your legs.”
Julez widens her stance.
I guide one over my shoulder and brush the tip of my nose against her clit. I take a sharp inhale, soaking in the delectable aroma coming from the juices dripping down her pussy.
Fuck, it’s like getting that first whiff of fresh baked apple pie…It makes your whole goddamn mouth water.
The vibrations from my pleased humming steal a small squeak from her lips and prompts her hips to eagerly roll forward. With a crooked smirk, I slowly pull the lollipop from my mouth and whirl it in tiny circles around her clit. Her breathing instantly starts to become choppy. Forgoing the urge to watch her reactions, I focus my attention on letting the state of her pleasure be revealed to my other senses. There’s no vacillation in my next decision. I drag the candy down to her entrance and gently press it against her opening.
“Wy…” She breathlessly whispers.
Whether it’s in warning or trepidation is irrelevant at this point.
She’s in my kitchen.
She’s in my hands.
She’s going to be tasted my way.
As soon as the candy portion is out of sight, my mouth latches onto her clit. A heavy, hungry groan reaches the tip of my tongue at the same time the cherry flavors burst across it. Like a new to the scene food critic who’s finally being given his big chance to judge a culinary masterpiece, I relentlessly sample taste after taste, keeping the pressure light.
Teasing.
Torturous.
Julez’s body responds like a dream.
She digs the heel of her foot between my shoulder blades.
Lets her arms knock into boxes on the shelves.
Keeps her begging silent but obvious by driving her pussy closer to my face.
To the satisfaction she’s waiting to feel.
Despite wanting to increase the speed to properly fuck her with my tongue, I keep the movements feathery, yearning for her to break.
Whimpers spring forward. “Wy…”
“Yes?”
“Stop teasing me,” she pleads.
Pleased to have her right where I want her, I counter, “Manners.”
“Per favore…”
My smirk is devious. “And whose kitchen are you in?”
“Yours.”
“And you’re gonna scream it, so everyone in the kitchen never fucking forgets it.”
I harshly suck the little nub between my teeth and roughly thrust the lollipop further inside. All of her breath is banished. My tongue doesn’t waste a moment to sync to the speed of the shoves. It spins in rapid circles, applying more and more pressure with each push. Julez starts to shake, yet it doesn’t deter me from scraping her sensitive clit with my teeth or frantically pumping the sugary treat. Sweet, sticky juices drip down my nose. My lips. My chin. My fingers. Each drop spirals me further into madness. Spurs my mouth to conquer more territory. I manically glide my tongue along the inner and outer surface of her lips. I lash it against each of her holes. I grant the hard candy brief intermissions to allow myself a more direct taste before piercing the pulsing muscles with both tools at once.
Like guzzling the nectar of the Gods, I unrelentingly gorge until the temperature of my dessert reaches a much hotter level. The scorching sensation coating my tongue is accompanied with screams equally as gratifying. “Sì! Sì! La tua cucina! Your kitchen! Your kitchen, Wyatt!”
I swipe one last taste before yanking out the lollipop.
Julez’s entire body lifelessly sags as I lean back onto my heels to admire the mess I’ve made.
Women are like kitchens in various ways.
Hate a dirty one, love being the reason they’re messy.
The beautiful sight of my handiwork and watching her struggle to breathe has me drop my free hand to my suit pants. I give my rock hard dick a less than pleasurable squeeze, hoping to alleviate just a bit of the pressure.
Not sure how effective I’ll be if I have to spend the rest of the night worried about my cock accidentally getting burnt by the burners or crushed by a mixing bowl.
Julez finally manages to lower her stare to me.
Cockily, I shove the cum covered lollipop in my mouth and state, “This is definitely my new favorite flavor.”
She beams brightly at the compliment.
I’d bottle her up if I could. Put her in my work bag alongside my favorite tools and a few of my favorite less commonly used spices. Take her everywhere and anywhere she was willing to go. Show her the world and use her to make it better, the same way I do everything else I carry from city to city.
Most of the women I’ve met in my life are no different than the ingredients I use.
Perishable.
Replaceable.
Short shelf life.
Not Julez…
She’s like a timeless recipe that’s only handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. Having her is something to be proud of. Something to be passionate about. Something to fucking treasure.