She was starting to think everything had been a terrible idea when they reached the loch and there, bathing near the shore, was Grant's familiar form. Maisie's shoulders relaxed.
“Stay here,” she told Ramsay, and carefully made her way down to the water's edge. She made no effort to hide the noise her footsteps made. When she was close Grant twisted about, his shoulders dropping when he saw it was only her. Confusion crossed his face.
“What are ye doin' here?” he asked, making a move towards her before remembering he was naked and giving the water a frustrated look. “Ye should be home, with yer family.”
“But that's not where I want t' be,” Maisie replied. “I spoke t' my father and brother. They're nae thrilled, but they want nothing more than for me t' be happy, and I'm happy when I'm with ye.” Ramsay skidded down the rise of the hill behind her, pebbles skittering under his boots.
“Are ye goin' t' let her stay with ye or nae?” he asked. “Because I've walked all th' way out here with her and if all ye're goin' t' do is break her heart then I'm taking her back.”
Grant looked between Maisie and her brother and cleared his throat. “I... if ye dinnae mind turning yer backs for a moment?”
Maisie closed her eyes and listened as Grant waded out of the water. When he cleared his throat she opened them and bit her lip to keep from making a sound that would embarrass her in front of her brother. Grant had hastily wrapped his kilt about his waist and held it with one hand. Water shone on his skin in the sunlight and ran in rivulets down his body.
“Will ye give me an answer now?” Ramsay asked, sounding impatient.
Grant ran a hand through his wet hair and sighed. “Is this what ye want, lass?” he asked.
Maisie nodded. “Aye.”
Grant sighed again and nodded. “I willnae break her heart,” he said to Ramsay. “Ye have my word.”
“Good,” Ramsay said.
“I'll be inside,” Grant said softly, and held out his hand for the bag Ramsay carried. Maisie watched him retreat into the shadows of the cave then wrapped her arms tightly around her brother, burying her face in his neck.
“If ye need to, ye come home,” he said gruffly. He wouldn't cry, but his voice was thick with tears. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Maisie whispered. Ramsay squeezed her waist so hard he pushed the air out of her lungs then let her drop the half inch he had lifted her off the ground.
“I'll tell Father all is well,” he said. “Take care. Visit often, aye?”
“Aye,” Maisie replied. She stepped back and brushed wetness from her eyes. Ramsay squeezed her shoulders and took a good look at her face, then nodded and turned away. Maisie watched him disappear over the rise of the hill, hugging herself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Grant slip into the open air, dressed and looking hesitant and concerned.
“Maisie?” he asked. “Are ye well?”
Maisie nodded, letting out a heavy sigh, and reached for his hand. “Aye,” she said. “I'm perfect now. But I willnae live in a cave.”
Grant let out a full laugh and grinned at her, pulling her close. “I'll build ye a house with my own two hands,” he said, before lowering his head to cover her mouth with his in a brief but fiery kiss and lifted her up into his arms, continuing to kiss her even as he navigated the corridors of his cavern home.
She felt the warmth of the sun on her skin as they crossed beneath the hole in the roof of his room and then the softness of the bed beneath her and the firm heat of Grant above her, kissing her back into the pillows and furs.
“Grant,” she gasped out, “I want t'… feel ye, but... if we do this and I conceive a child... will it carry the same burden as ye do?”
Grant propped himself up to look down at her, his eyes dark but gentle. “Only if you have a son,” he said, “and I am more than equipped t' deal with that.”
Maisie felt something inside her relax. “Good,” she said, and went to pull Grant back into a kiss.
He resisted, a question in his gaze. “Why did ye come back?” he asked.
“I'm happy here,” Maisie said, “in the quiet, surrounded by nature. Surrounded by ye. I cannae explain it more. Is that enough for ye?”
Grant tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded. “Aye, 'tis enough,” he said, and kissed her firmly. He hadn't properly dressed, and so it was all too easy for Maisie to get her hands underneath his clothes and to the hot skin beneath. He was always so warm, like constantly being near a fire.
He settled between her legs, letting his mouth drop to brush kisses along her jaw and neck and lower to her collarbone, pushing her skirt up and wrapping one of her legs around his waist. His kilt still separated his hips from hers, but she could feel the hardness of his erection pressing against her sex, and the gentle grinding exasperated the familiar, growing ache. Grant reached down to touch her, his hand fitting easily between their bodies and his fingers teasing at her entrance until she canted her hips up and he took it as an indication to gently press one into her. She felt her walls clench around his digit and try to pull it deeper.
“God above, Maisie,” Grant breathed into her chest. “Ye'll have me undone before I've even had ye.”
“So take me,” Maisie said through a gasp. She reached down to pull at his kilt until she freed it from where it was pinned between their sexes and rubbed against his hand, not caring how wanton she seemed. It felt too good to deny herself the pleasure of it, and Grant clearly cared for hers as much as, if not more, than his own.
“Are ye sure ye dinnae want a bit more... this?” he asked, curling his finger.
Maisie moaned and hooked her other leg around him, pulling his hips closer. Grant groaned and removed his hand, stopping only to brush his thumb over her aching nub as he slowly guided himself inside her. It was a change from his finger, but not so much that it was painful. Her initial tightness passed after a few seconds, and the feeling of him properly inside her became less awkward and more pleasurable.
“It helps if ye move, Maisie,” Grant said softly into her ear.
His teeth scraped against the shell before he sucked the lobe between his teeth. Maisie let her fingers tangle in his hair and rolled her hips up. Grant placed both his hands on her waist to guide her until her body found its rhythm. She already felt close to bursting, hot and aching and lingering just on the edge though he had hardly touched her. He thrust into her in all the right ways, not too fast but not too slow, and firmly enough to shake the bed but not so hard that it hurt her. It just pushed her closer to her peak, and from the sounds he was making next to her ear, it sounded like he was close as well.
He moaned her name, quietly, but it was enough to push her over the edge. She clenched around his length, trying to pull him even deeper, and it seemed to be enough for him as well, for he let out a strangled groan and his hips bucked sharply, pushing the tip of his cock further into her just before a rush of sudden heat signaled that he had finished. His thrusts lessened but didn't still completely until Maisie pushed him away, her body too sensitive to handle anything else. She pulled his lips to hers, the first thought coming to her mind the question of if they had made a child just now.
Grant stretched out next to her and pulled her snugly against his chest, pressing a kiss to her brow. He had a smile on his lips.
“I still want my house,” Maisie said into the comfortable silence that followed. Grant's laughter echoing around the room was the sweetest sound she could imagine.
THE END
Bonus Story 33 of 40
The Live-Ins
The sun breaks through the window and I instantly hate myself for not shutting the blinds before falling asleep. I can’t be too hard on myself—after what Dominic did to me last light I’m honestly surprised I’m awake at a reasonable hour. I roll over in his scratchy sheets and he’s still asleep—he probably will be for the next few hours. He closed Harvest Bar last night and now I’ve got to go open.
I run around Dominic’s apartment searching for my
white double-breasted jacket and toque with no luck. He’s the one who tore everything off me—he’s the one who will know. I have no choice but to wake him.
“Dommmminnnnic,” I play, whispering into his ear. He swats at his nose like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Too cute.
“Dominic,” I repeat louder. “I need to find my uniform for work and I need to be there in twenty-minutes, including ten minutes in line at Coffee Train.” Exhaling ever so cutely, he ignores me, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.
“Wear mine,” he mumbles from underneath. “In closet. Need sleep.”
He gets like this anytime he closes, but I’ve never had to go into work in his uniform before. I go to the closet, open the door quietly, and look through the clothes hanging up. There is nothing white, let alone anything that resembles our uniform. Looking down, I see his white jacket, black pants and toque jumbled in a wrinkly ball. Great. I pick them up, shake them off, and not only are they a size too big for me but they’re also covered in spicy marinara sauce. Even better.
“Dom, you don’t have another pair?” I ask. “These are all sauced up.”
“Drycleaner,” he warbles.
Ugh! Think, Tara, where the hell did Dominic strip you last night? I check the bathroom—behind the shower curtain, the living room—behind the couch, the kitchen—under the table. Nothing, nada. I can either keep searching and possibly come up with nothing or leave now in tomato sauce-stained clothes and still enjoy a dirty chai latte. I choose to put on Dominic’s baggy, stinky uniform. At least my shoes are still by the door.
Life after Le Cordon Bleu is not as extravagant as I’d envisioned it. I’m 26 and a sous-chef at one of Century City’s finest wine bars. It’s not Beverly Hills but Harvest Bar is huge step up from the burger joint where I worked before school. Although I graduated toward the top of my class the only reason I was hired here is because Dominic has been my closest friend for years and just so happens to be the head chef at Harvest Bar. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter where you went to school—Los Angeles is a tough place to find good work in the culinary arts.
Curse these Century City apartments without elevators! I take the stairs five floors down and step out of the complex. It’s a warm February day—definitely beats the winter they’re having back home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Cleveland right now.
Dominic’s building is a five-minute walk from the mall, which is most of the reason I consistently crash at his place. I live in Burbank, and with traffic it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get to Century City on the 405 if I’m lucky. My rent is also a quarter the amount of Dominic’s, but there is no way I could afford to live this close to the city.
It’s too damn hot to wear the chef jacket so I fold it, throw it over my shoulder, and walk to the mall in the black tank-top I wear underneath. My hair is extra frizzy today but I can probably braid it quick and shove it into the toque—one of the small perks of being a female chef—I don’t have to think too much about my hair.
I love crossing Santa Monica Boulevard because I get a view of palm trees, buildings, mountains, and good-looking men. L.A. is the biggest melting pot I’ve lived in—Cleveland was primarily African American and Caucasian. Here, however, I get a variety of any kind of man I could want. Walking across the four-lane boulevard in my black slacks and black tank top, I don’t get as many look-backs as I’d prefer. My number one insecurity is that to these big businessmen and agents I look like some kind of hood rat, so I just keep my eyes on the scenery and enjoy the warmth on my skin.
***
Once I step into the prep area I’m instantly pissed by what I find—all of last night’s closing work has been left for me. Damn you, Dominic, I think. I don’t care how busy they were last night; I’m tired of picking up his slack. After all, he does make ten thousand dollars a year more than I do.
By the time Tim, my general manager, comes in, I’m only halfway where I need to be for the restaurant to open on time.
“I’m sorry, Tim, I was left with a mess this morning,” I say, loading the dishwasher because the stewards don’t come in for another hour.
“You know we have the Phillips P.D.B. today, right?” Tim asks. Oh, my God, I realize. Today is the day that we’re booked for Denver D. Phillips, billionaire and owner of PaeroTech—a conglomerate in the software industry. Do I know anything about software? No. But I know that P.D.B. stands for Private Dining Buyout, and that this company has rented the entire restaurant to serve five people.
“That would be today,” I say, sprinting to the walk-in freezer. The whole time I’ve been here I should have been preparing the special courses instead of our standard menu.
Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. “Do you want me to help, Tara?” he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.
“No, I got this,” I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks. “You look kind of like you’re having an off day.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.
“Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night,” he says.
I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who happen to sleep together often.
“Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom,” Tim says. “That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”
I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?
“I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect,” Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.
“I’ll do my best,” I answer.
“Do better,” he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.
***
With most of the core cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.
In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.
Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.
“Isn’t that right, Chef?” he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.
“I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that?” I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. “I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.”
“I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies.” He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.
“Right, a seasonal specialty,” I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.
The key is to not take up too much of t
heir time while also giving them a unique presentation. After all, PaeroTech paid well over twenty grand for this brunch. Once I’m done they will eat, discuss business, and when they are finished the plates will be cleared so they can begin their slideshow presentation. At that point servers will be on the clock to close out the deal.
“Well, this morning I thought I’d prepare a healthy, exotic, and seasonal omelet,” I say. I open the self-serving presenter on my side and Tim presents the other side. “This morning you will be enjoying free range egg whites scrambled to perfect in a seafood omelet of tiger shrimp, Maine lobster, Dungeness crab, Gouda cheese, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and chive batons. Enjoy your breakfast and thank you for dining at Harvest Bar.”
With that spiel memorized, I take a long-needed breath, bow out, and exit the room to let Tim handle the rest. It’s amazing what someone can pull off in a pinch with some culinary knowledge and genuine inspiration.
*****
While the Phillips party goes into their presentation, I go outside to partake in one of the menial jobs of being a sous-chef at Harvest Bar—harvesting the herb garden outside the restaurant. The thing is, I actually enjoy the feel of rosemary, thyme, parsley and chives—and am infatuated by their aromas. I take sprig of rosemary between my fingers and place it in the herb jar when Tim runs out the back door, blasting both open at once.
“What the hell did you put in that omelet?” he screams, taking me by the sleeve of my chef coat.
“What do you mean? Are they allergic to shellfish?” One of my worst nightmares is someone dying from something I cooked. It jolts me awake at least twice a week.
“No, but Mr. Fredegar is in anaphylactic shock. Did you put peanuts in the omelet?”
Alien Affair Page 110
