by Elaria Ride
When Fantasy Kara starts to cry out in pleasure above me with the force of her release, I know I don't have long to wait either… I let out a final grunt as my seed spills onto my hand, moaning in a mixture of relief and frustration. Ropes of thick white cum run down the sides of my hands with a volume and force I haven't experienced in longer than I can remember.
After a few agonizing moments, I let out a sigh of disgust and get some tissues to clean myself up. Nonetheless, though, I'm convinced I've made the right decision.
If I came this much — and this quickly — from just thinking about Kara, there's no way in hell I would have lasted long enough to be alone with her… even if baking is all we do.
Kara
I love my parents. I really do.
But good God, they are the furthest thing from subtle.
As soon he walks away, my dad starts in on what a good guy Harrison is. Apparently, he donates a certain amount of his (allegedly ample) restaurant profits to charities. He also pays my dad the best price around for his bread, and goes out of his way to maintain “the best restaurant my father has ever stocked!”
I roll my eyes, about to ask if how Harrison also walks on water, but before I even get that far, my mom starts in on a tirade about how he’s single. As dinner progresses, she drinks every glass of wine that comes her way. By the time she’s reminding me of “what a respectful young man” Harrison had been in high school, I can tell that my sweet, demure mother is somewhere between tipsy and drunk.
“You could do a lot worse than Harrison Bosco, Kara,” my dad finally adds as he takes a bite of his tiramisu. I do the same, but immediately make a face — both at his words and at the quality of this dessert. For a restaurant that had done so well in every other category, this is falling flat. It’s got a weak booze-to-cake ratio, and the cocoa powder is almost impossible to find.
“I could certainly do better than this tiramisu,” I mutter, putting down my fork. It’s wholly unappetizing, even for someone who loves to eat as much as I do. My parents, for their part, don’t seem to be able to tell the difference, which figures; I’ve always been a foodie snob.
“Well actually,” my dad says, his eyes twinkling. “That’s part of why we brought you here in the first place.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh?”
My mom gives me a smug grin. “Harrison…might have an offer for you. If you choose to accept,” she adds hastily as my eyes narrow.
“What type of offer?”
I’m really, really getting tired of their shit.
My mom just giggles and finishes her final glass of wine. I’m glad my dad’s a little better off, because she’s in no position to drive.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she says in a singsong voice, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t annoy me even more.
I know, though, that there’s no sense in trying to get out of whatever she’s expecting me to do. It’s been that way my whole life. My mother is nothing if not persistent. And stubborn.
I’m not going to admit this part— not to them, anyway— but Harrison’s request to see me after dinner has already gotten me more than a little aroused.
Of course, the wine hasn’t hindered this process, I’m sure. I finish my glass as the waiter comes to remove our plates, and almost before I notice what’s happening, my parents are rising from their seats and getting their coats on.
“Wait, where are you going?” I blurt, but they ignore me as they confidently stride towards the exit.
My dad simply shakes his head and laughs at me from over his shoulder. “See you at home, Kara,” he says with a smirk. “Or not.”
I let out a frustrated groan and rush to stand up myself. Are they fucking serious?! As much as I’d like to get some alone time with Harrison Bosco, I have a few womanly rituals I need to attend to first— ones that require materials I simply do not have access to right now!
For being older, the two of them move quickly— I’ll give them that. Between the positioning of the chairs and tables around the restaurant and the fact that they’re surprisingly spry, I’m thwarted in every attempt to intercept them before they leave. Damn my short legs! And then, in a blur of rushed giggles, my parents are at the door in just a few confident strides…and in another instant, they exit the restaurant like two bats out of hell.
Traitors.
I reach the door just as it closes behind them, and I think I’ll finally be able to slip outside to at least get my luggage from the car.
But then my mom pops her head back in the restaurant and ruins this plan, too.
“There’s a little bag under your seat,” she whispers, a grin spreading across her face. And then, even softer: “We won’t wait up.”
I stare at her, open-mouthed and incredulous, but she doesn’t give me a chance to object before she disappears, right behind the French doors. I just stand there, confused and irritated and also turned on…but I don’t bother to chase after them. They’re two of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. If they’ve decided I’m staying here, I will be staying here.
It’s almost reminiscent of high school, really, when they’d gone out of their way to keep me from going to parties. Unlike during my rebellious teenage years, though, I don’t have the energy to fight it. Not this time. Besides, I’m thankful that my mom’s been considerate enough to plan ahead on my behalf with whatever is in that blue bag. It’s really the least she could do, I suppose, for conspiring to keep me here. Still, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t packed proper pants. Or sexier underwear. Not exactly the first impression I want to make!
I’m still mulling all that over when I’m approached by Kristoff, lone waiter who has stayed past closing. He gives me a reassuring nod and touches me on the shoulder. My heart jumps with renewed possibility. If my parents hadn’t been able to help me get a change of clothes (at least!) maybe he will!
For several seconds, I foolishly believe that Kristoff will be able to provide me with any additional information on what’s happening. But instead of offering any advice— or helping me whatsoever— he just shakes his head, gives me a knowing smile, and slides out the front door, too.
I lunge to grab the door behind him, but he’s also quicker than he looks. I open my mouth to protest, but Kristoff just winks at me from the other side of the glass. Then, in one graceful, practiced move, he stares at me and locks the door. Without a second glance, Kristoff promptly turns on his heel and walks away into the night.
My frustrated shriek is cut off by his dancing laughter, and I know — just know— that Harrison has won.
And now, I’m trapped in this restaurant with the sexiest man I’ve ever seen…one I’ve had a thing for since puberty…because my own parents have conspired to keep me here.
Fine.
I snort and head back to my seat to inspect whatever this bag from my mother contains. I’m sure this whole setup is a totally normal way to spend the day before Christmas. It must happen all the time!
At the same time, though, I know I don’t actually have anything to fear. These feelings are mostly born out of frustration and the unpleasant sensation of having the wool pulled over my eyes. I’m not in any real danger; my parents wouldn’t have gone to such great lengths to secure this rendezvous if there were any chance of that. Besides that, I have my phone— and I grew up here. A single call to any of my contacts (and not to mention the police station) could have me out in less than five minutes.
I approach my seat, and spot the medium-sized blue bag— one I somehow hadn’t seen during dinner. I bend down to remove it before placing it on the table to inspecting its contents. My mother has included a handheld hairbrush, a toothbrush, some toothpaste, some minor makeup items…and a pair of pajamas. They aren’t scandalous by a long stretch, but they are red flannel— and they’re more than a little reminiscent of the typical attire worn by members of the Bosco lumberjack family.
Oh.
I swallow and take a seat, resting my head in my hands.
/>
And that’s when I numbly realize that maybe— just maybe— my good-natured-but-ridiculous parents are right.
Maybe I need to just take this experience as it comes, to ride the wave, to see what happens. I’m so tired of fighting losing battles back in LA, so exhausted from denying the inevitable…
I let out a resigned sigh. It would be nice, I admit, to just go with the flow. For once. And if this particular flow lands me in the arms of someone I’ve been fantasizing about since adolescence? Well, I suppose that’s ok, too.
So I rise from my seat one final time with a renewed conviction. Yes…I’m going to take this as it comes, to give myself over to unpredictability. I stride towards the bathroom, prepared to make a few minor adjustments to my appearance before I see Harrison again. Even if I’m still in yoga pants and a hoodie, I have to believe that look he’d given me meant something.
Because for the first time in my life, I’m going to let life happen…even if that terrifies me more than I’d like to admit.
Harrison
Waiting for Kara to finish eating had been one of the most agonizing things I’d ever done. I’d kept myself busy, of course — because just thinking about her was making my pulse pound in ways it hadn’t done in nearly ten years.
Even though I’d already made myself come thinking about her, it hadn’t been enough. Just the thought of her being in the restaurant was enough to render me little more than a nuisance as I helped the staff close down.
As a result, I’d been distracted, unable to concentrate, and my maitre d’ had finally snapped at me to “just go clean the kitchen” after my fourth failed attempt to cash out.
I hadn’t needed to be told twice.
So here I am, alone in my restaurant — save for my most trustworthy waiter and the Crane family. Kristoff has instructions to leave as soon as her family departs the restaurant, and he's being paid for his discretion. I certainly don't want him… overhearing anything that might transpire between us.
So now I'm standing in front of my stainless steel food prep table with an erection so stiff and pounding it could probably pierce through my pants. Despite my overwhelming desire, I'm still a little nervous about the proposition I'm about to spring on Kara. It's like my teenaged self has returned, a version of me that had been too afraid to ask her out in the first place — and truth be told, I'd really like to get it over with.
Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long.
Almost immediately, the kitchen doors swing open, and in strides Kara Crane in all her beautiful, buxom, bouncing glory. Fuck. I feel my mouth going dry, just at the sight of her. She’s literally the picture of every teenaged fantasy I’d ever had.
And more.
I've never been happier I'd decided to masturbate first — because there's no way I could have retained any semblance of composure right now. I give her a gentle smile, but she doesn't return the gesture. It seems she doesn't have time for games. Honestly, I can't blame her, not after a setup as elaborate as this one.
Kara takes a few more steps until she's fully inside, and then sniffs as she looks around. "Nice kitchen," she says cooly, shifting her weight.
Then she looks at me in the face. "I can't say the same for your tiramisu, though. It left me quite… wanting.”
My pulse quickens. Am I just imagining the way her eyes trailed up my body on that last word?
But I won't bow to her commands… I never have, not that quickly. This banter is precisely what I've missed the past ten years of my life, and I'm not going to let it stop this soon.
“Well, I’m glad you mention that, Kara Crane,” I drawl, taking slow steps until I’ve got her backed right against the food prep table. I position my arms on either side of her body, effectively trapping her between them.
She peers up to defiantly meet my heated stare, but she can't manage to stop a whimper from escaping her lips. My cock answers with a twitch, my arousal reborn despite having been taken care of less than an hour ago. Shit. Being around her again is awakening every dirty teenaged fantasy I’d ever had...
So I decide to speed this along, lest I give away my true intentions before we even begin.
“I need a pastry chef,” I say, unable to keep the husky reverberations out of my voice. “And from what I hear? You’re the best of the best.”
She cocks her head and opens her mouth, but I silence her with a finger on her lips.
“Don’t deny it,” I say with a smirk, although my insides are reveling in the fact that I’m touching even one part of her.
“I wasn’t going to,” she replies, her voice muffled around my finger.
But then she gets a faraway look in her eyes. I drop my hand, confused.
When she glances up again, I see that a trace of hurt has replaced the faraway look that had been written across her face before. Something feral and controlling immediately springs to life in my chest; I’m seized with a need to protect her, a feeling I haven’t felt since she’d been teased in high school.
Kara swallows, but explains. “My shop is going under. I’m not sure it’s fair to say I’m world class...”
Oh, that’s all she meant? I roll my eyes.
"Kara," I say plainly. "We both know how hard it is to make it in this business — especially in LA. I'd bet my restaurant that the quality of your product is unrelated to sales."
She snorts in response. With that small gesture, it seems she’s reclaimed her confidence.
“Damn straight.”
I grin. That’s my girl.
But her admission of skill isn't enough. I still have plans for her… plans that might involve being with her in new and fascinating ways. Plans that might involve taking us back to our high school days, but with a lot more intrigue.
“Ok,” I say with a grin. “Then prove it.”
The cocky look slides off her face. “What?”
“Prove it,” I repeat, stepping back. “Prove that you went to some fancy Italian school. Prove that you’re better than the closed bakery would suggest.”
Kara crosses her arms, but I’ve known her long enough to tell that she’s actually considering my offer. “And what’s in it for me?”
I pause, a look of faux-thoughtfulness on my face. Luckily, we had years in school to perfect this type of exchange.
"Well," I begin slowly. "You'd get to work with yours truly...that's a plus" — Kara rolls her eyes at this — "but also?"
I give her what I hope is a sincere stare. It’s time to put my cards on the table.
"I've... really missed you," I admit, staring at the ground. "And I'm not just saying that because you're hotter now."
My words fall heavy between us before I realize what a colossal gaffe I’ve made.
Fuck.
I freeze on the spot, utterly mortified.
I can’t believe I actually said that last part out loud.
Shit. Shit shit shit... it had just rushed from my lips faster than I could stop it.
I glance up at Kara, hoping to do some damage control, but she doesn't seem terribly... bothered.
At least not in the way I'd anticipated. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes slightly hooded, and if I'm not mistaken, she appears to be... panting. Rather heavily.
The thought of Kara being wet (and for me) is almost enough to totally derail this entire attempt at seduction.
But she doesn’t pull any punches, this girl.
Instead, she arches an eyebrow. “Well, if you thought I was hot at all in high school, you had a pretty shitty way of showing it.”
Oh.
I shove my hands in my pockets, not quite prepared to have this conversation yet. Kara does deserve answers, though. So I'll be as vague as I can.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, staring at the prep table. “Literally none.”
She takes a step in my direction. “So tell me.”
I glance up to meet her heated stare. When I finally begin to speak, my words are almost a growl.
“I’l
l tell you,” I mutter, taking a step closer, “after you show me how you make a cannoli.”
She reels back, confusion splashed across her face. Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting that.
“What?”
I gesture to some ingredients sitting on the table, and she blinks over at them like she’s noticing their existence for the first time.
"I want you to show me how to make cannoli dough. And if you're good?" I give her a wry grin. "I might consider allowing you to work for me.”
Kara purses her lips, but nonetheless reaches for the ingredients.
“You should be so lucky," she murmurs, reaching for the measuring cup and the food processor. I chuckle softly and just lean back, happy to observe a master at work. She adds a whole cup of flour before combining the sliced butter. The butter is already at the perfect temperature for dough — which I'm sure she knows. I’d brought it out early, after all, specifically for this opportunity.
For just a moment, I'm content to watch her as she combines ingredients and pulses the food processor, each step being done with textbook, perfect precision. She's clearly been classically trained. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, this whole thing might be a little intimidating.
But on Kara Crane? I shake my head. It’s almost arousing, how confident, how deliberate, how in control she is. She squints down at the dough, and all of a sudden, I feel like I’m being compelled closer to her, tugged by some unseen magnetic force.
I step even closer to her body, relishing in the sharp intake of breath as she feels my heat behind her. I’m hard, of course; rock hard, so hard that I could burst through my jeans. Again.
I’m not sure when, exactly, I should reveal that she's gotten me deliriously aroused, just from her yoga pants and the floral smell of her perfume, but I have a feeling I won't be able to hide it for long…
Kara, for her part, looks amazingly unaffected as she takes more pats of butter and adds them, slowly, individually, to the churning food processor. And to anyone else, she might look thoroughly professional… but I studied the girl through most of high school. I know her tells, so to speak. Her breathing has increased just a bit and the back of her neck has turned pink.
