CHEF BRYANT STARED at me. “Is there something particularly wrong with Kansas? I’ve never been, but lots of people live there. Surely it must have some redeeming features.”

“It’s great,” I said. “But it’s not here. With you.”

He reached down and grasped my chin with his hand, tilting my face upward toward his. He studied me carefully as if trying to read my mind. “You’re going to have to leave eventually. This is a television studio, not a bed and breakfast.”

“I know,” I said. “But not yet. I’m having fun, like you said. Aren’t you?” I couldn’t believe I asked that last part. This was a man who’d dated some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood. He could probably have a hundred naked women in his kitchen at the snap of his fingers. But it really had seemed like he’d been enjoying this.

“Yes, it was fun,” he said, at long last, dropping his hand.

“Could we keep going, then?” I ventured.

“Another lesson?”

“Yes. I mean, if you don’t mind, Chef Bryant.”

He took a step back, looking at me speculatively. “For a second private lesson, the price goes up. My services are not cheap. I’ve got a living to make,” he said, with a wry smile. It was pretty funny stuff, coming from a multimillionaire, but I was more focused on what he might mean by the price going up.

“Umm ... what will the price be this time?”

“Let’s start with some ground rules. My kitchen, my way. That’s not just the bloody slogan of the show. That’s how I’ve always been. I was a tyrant in the kitchen long before they turned a camera on me. If you stay—you’re going to have to do as I say. No matter what that is. We’re talking grown-up stuff, love. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I understand,” I said, hoping I did.

“Are you sure you do? I like to be in charge and things can get pretty hot and spicy in my kitchen. You sure you’re up for that?

“I am,” I breathed.

“We’ll see. But let’s give you a safe word in case the heat level is too high for you. Let’s see ... what’s your least favorite spice?”

“Anise,” I said without thinking.

“Not a big fan of licorice? Okay, if at any point you want out, say the word “anise.” Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, wondering what exactly I was getting myself into if he felt he needed to give me a safe word. But truthfully, I was dying to find out.

“First rule,” he began.

“I know. Your kitchen, your way.”

He grinned. “That’s more of a universal truth. I was talking about specific rules. The first one is you will keep your legs spread at all times.”

My heart skipped a beat and then doubled in tempo. “What?”

“You heard me. Keep them open. I want those slutty little high heels at least two feet apart when you’re standing or sitting. Not when you’re walking, of course, that would look daft. Think you can handle that, Shy Little Cheyenne?”

“Yes, Chef Bryant,” I said, almost managing to keep my voice from quavering.

He looked at me pointedly for a long moment. Oh. Sheepishly, I took a step out to either side. I could feel air rush between my legs. I felt both slutty and super excited.

“Excellent. Keep that rule in mind, or you’ll be punished. Rule number two: be professional. You’re a talented young chef, so act like one. Keep your mind on your task, and produce the highest quality dishes you can, no matter what you’re wearing or what I’m doing.”

“What you’re doing?” I echoed, a little faintly.

He treated me to the evilest of smiles. “Oh yes. This lesson will definitely be hands on.”

* * *

My next lesson wasn’t any easier. Chef Bryant gave me twenty minutes to prepare a restaurant-quality entree for him, and I was doing everything in my power to make that happen. Or at least I was trying to. According to him, one of my weaknesses was not performing well under pressure. His solution to that was to set a timer for twenty minutes and then do his best distract me. As if trying to cook while remembering to keep my legs spread wasn’t distraction enough. As if standing next to Chef Hardbody wasn’t distraction enough.

I’d started the veggies and seasoned the meat, but twice, after running for an ingredient, I’d forgotten to spread my legs when I got back to the workstation. Both times, he’d smacked my ass with a hard, rubber spatula. The man knew his cooking utensils—and he had good aim.

Nevertheless, I was working too quickly to fixate on his sexy little dominance games. I was making filet mignon, medium rare like he liked it, with asparagus and a hollandaise sauce.

I seared the edges of the thick steak, basting it constantly to keep it from drying out. He was crowding me, pressed up against my back. His arms rested lightly on my sides, as he leaned over me, watching what I was doing. He had big hands, and while his palms touched my sides, his long fingers curled around and brushed lightly against my breasts. No, that wasn’t distracting at all.

The filet was almost done, so I turned off the heat and popped it in the oven to finish it off. I refocused on the veggies I was sautéing as a side. Chef Bryant’s body shifted behind me, and then his mouth descended onto my shoulder, his lips brushing past my neck. He kissed the side of my throat and shivers went up and down my spine. How was I supposed to cook when this gorgeous man who obviously had muscles to spare was practically wrapped around me? Even if his lips weren’t on my neck, the hard, insistent bulge in his jeans pressing against my side would have been a huge distraction. And I meant huge in a very literal way.

Then he straightened up with a curse. “You’re too bloody short. All the good parts are out of reach.”

I smirked to myself. Served him right for making me keep my legs spread, which made me even lower to the ground. Of course, it also made it harder for me to reach the counter and stovetops, which was probably slowing me down.

He moved away from me, and returned a moment later as I flipped the veggies in the pan, adding a little more salt. They were almost done.

The next moment, strong arms encircled my waist and I shrieked in surprise. He lifted me completely off the ground, and there was a scraping noise. He set me back down, and I looked at my feet. I was standing on a small footstool.

“That’s better,” he said, kissing my neck again. This time he didn’t have to bend so far.

With no time to focus on my sudden increase in height, I glanced at the timer. I had less than five minutes left but for the first time, I was pretty sure I was going to make it. Maybe I was feeling a little too confident because I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Thanks, now I don’t have to keep my legs spread.”

He growled in my ear. “Sure you do, love. That’s rule number one. Now it’s even better because I get to punish you for disobeying.” He bit gently on my earlobe, tugging with his teeth. Then he released it and stepped back. A sharp sting landed on the part of my ass not covered by the apron.

He’d used his hand this time. Wow, it stung. His hand came down twice more. I was perfectly still, every nerve in my body braced, wondering if more smacks were coming. But a few traitorous body parts were preoccupied with the image of his hand lingering on my ass, stroking, squeezing … and then moving between my legs. But he didn’t spank me again, and I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed.

When I was sure he was finished, I jumped off the stool and dashed over to the cupboard. In thirty seconds, I was back in position with one final seasoning for the veggies. Chef Bryant’s large palm landed on my butt the minute I was back in place. He spanked me once more, then twice. Was he going to do this the entire rest of the time? It was erotic, sure, but it was slowing me down. It was making my blood rush away from my brain in favor of more sensitive body parts.

Finally, his hand stilled, kneading my stinging flesh. “Okay,” he breathed into my ear. “New temporary rule. While you’re on the stool, you don’t have to keep your legs spread … but you do have to arch your back and stick out that gorgeous ass.”

What? Surely he was kidding. But no, the firm pressure of his hand on my backside let me know he wasn’t. So I did it, arching my spine and pressing against his hand. He squeezed again, and then shifted, pressing the front of his body against my back, his arms wrapping around me.

It was like wearing a warm cloak—a cloak that had a prominent, hard bulge pressing against my bare skin. Chef Bryant leaned his head to the side, his chin resting on my shoulder.

Somehow, I finished the meal. I got it arranged on the plate and added the sauce about four seconds before the timer went off.

“That was cutting it close.” Chef Bryant gave me a final squeeze before stepping back.

I stood there panting, looking from him to the meal I’d prepared, and back again. Now that he wasn’t tantalizing me with his hot, hard body rubbing against me, it was easier to concentrate on the food before us. I’d just prepared a meal for a world class chef. Would he like it? I knew he liked my body—that much was clear. But I wanted more than anything for him to be impressed with my cooking.

“Let’s see how you did,” he said, echoing my thoughts. He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me. I was a small girl, but I wasn’t used to men lifting me up like this. I had to admit, I liked it though. It made me feel small and delicate—and made me realize how strong and powerful he was.

He set me on the counter on the far side of the food. I gasped, feeling the cold stainless steel under my bare bottom. I was eye level with him now, and I couldn’t help staring into his face. Those hazel eyes were so damn mesmerizing. Right now, they were twinkling. His right eyebrow raised at a cocky angle. “Forgetting something?” he said

I looked back at the food, suddenly panicked that I’d left out a key ingredient. But the filet looked perfect, moist and juicy. The spears of asparagus were propped up against the steak with just the right amount of sauce drizzled over them. Everything looked all right to me.

But apparently, that wasn’t what he’d meant. Hands descended on my knees, and with a firm movement, he pulled my legs apart. “Don’t. Forget. To. Spread. Your. Legs.” He punctuated each word with a sharp tap on my inner thighs.

Ouch! I looked down at my widely-parted knees, and at the apron stretched tight across my upper thighs. It was still covering me, but just barely. My pulse sped up. I’d never realized before how being exposed like this could be both embarrassing and a complete turn on. Maybe I was a closet exhibitionist? Or maybe it was the fact that the sexiest man I’d ever met, a man I had a huge crush on, was so clearly enjoying this. Or maybe it was both.

He pushed himself against the counter between my legs, his body inches from mine. Years of culinary school had never provided a cooking lesson that was even a tenth as strange as this. Nor a tenth as effective.

He reached for my plate and set it down on my lap where it barely fit wedged between us. I could feel the heat from the dish even through my apron. I tensed when he picked up the steak knife, but he carved off a bite of meat efficiently. The man was an artist with a knife, I knew that, but I wasn’t used to having sharp utensils near any part of me except my hands.

Chef Bryant held the morsel in the air, examining it from all sides. Then he placed it on his tongue and sighed. “A perfect medium rare,” he said, then fed me a piece. It was delicious. In spite of the bizarre situation, I was proud of my accomplishment. I’d made a meal that he approved of, and I’d done in it under twenty minutes with a hot-as-hell man doing his best to distract me. And he’d been damn good at distracting me, too. As he was now.

He pierced a large stalk of asparagus and held it up, examining it, too. As far as I could see, I’d nailed it. It looked firm but perfectly seasoned. He pushed the asparagus spear toward my hand, not my mouth, and I took it between two fingers, confused.

“Go down on that,” he said.

“What?”

He grinned. “Eat it in a suggestive manner,” he clarified.

Seriously? Right here inches from him? But one look at the sparkle in his eyes and his wicked smile told me he was serious. He was a grown man, a man about twelve years my senior, but sometimes he got this look in his eyes that made him seem like a boy. A very, very bad boy. He made me want to be bad with him.

I darted my tongue out, tasting the tip of the asparagus stalk. I paused a minute to appreciate the hollandaise sauce on it. The side dish would definitely meet his approval. Now I wanted to see if my performance would. I brought it to my lips and swirled my tongue around it, my eyes never leaving his. He ate another piece of steak, but his gaze was glued to my mouth.

Slipping the point of the asparagus spear past my lips, I closed my eyes and gave a little moan, imagining that it was the head of his cock. I wished it was. I bet it would taste a million times better than the asparagus covered in a rich, creamy sauce. Wait, now Chef Bryant’s warped kitchen perversions were putting my mind in the gutter, too.

I sucked the stalk a few inches into my mouth, swirling my tongue, pursing my lips, bobbing my head. He was staring at me raptly, not eating at all now. I moaned deep in my throat—too bad the asparagus wasn’t able to enjoy the extra vibration. I opened my mouth, pushed my tongue out, and then slowly slid the tip farther back into my mouth, farther and farther, resisting the urge to gag.

Chef Bryant was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse. When I couldn’t take the asparagus any deeper, I pulled it back out. I slowly closed my lips around it … and then bit off the tip.

He blinked once, then twice in surprise and laughed. “Not bad,” he said, “though that finish made me wince.”

We sampled a few more bites of steak and veggies. It was delicious, but then I started getting anxious again. This was quite clearly the end of this lesson. Would he want another round? I had no intention of stopping now—but it wasn’t up to me.

But he answered that question quite easily. “Have you ever made sushi?”

“No,” I said, though I’d seen it done and knew the basic techniques.

“Want to learn?” he said.

I definitely did.