Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords
http://www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2011 Pepper Anthony
ISBN: 978-1-926950-38-9
Cover Artist: LF Designs
Editor: Kimberly Bowman
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For Tommy, who always knew I could. And for Amy and Carmen, whose feedback and support are invaluable.
NAKED TREATS
Pepper Anthony
Copyright © 2011
Chapter One
Zack Cranston’s new favorite thing was breakfast with Rose. On the first and third Sunday of every month she would arrive at dawn, let herself in using the key he’d given her, and quietly go to work in his kitchen. By the time he got up at ten or so, she’d have concocted a culinary masterpiece for him. Eggs Benedict or crepes or seafood omelets with fresh fruit and wonderful, exotic coffee.
And she would serve it to him naked.
Naked!
Well, there was the tiny lace apron she wore tied at her slender waist, but that hardly counted since he could see right through it.
While he ate she would sit across from him at the glass-topped table by the window sipping her coffee and nibbling dry toast. The fact that she often assumed a somewhat relaxed position, her thighs parted, was a distraction to be sure. And after the third or fourth Sunday he’d formed an indelible association between the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and glimpses of her neatly trimmed pussy. That association had caused him discomfort more than once in client meetings.
The fact that she was so relaxed with her nakedness, which he’d loved at first, had lately begun to make him slightly uneasy. What if someone in a neighboring building glanced across? Since he paid for her culinary services shouldn’t he be the only one privy to the view of her voluptuous breasts and breathtaking behind?
He had that thought this morning as he watched her at the stove, where she was poaching eggs and making Hollandaise sauce. He’d gotten up unusually early using the excuse of a hangover, but he really craved watching her work. The open floor plan of the condo gave him an almost unobstructed view, and oh, he was being richly rewarded this morning for his loss of sleep.
Rose’s body wasn’t perfect, but she was healthy and young and her curves were lush and utterly feminine. As she stirred the sauce her whole body moved along with the circular motion of the wooden spoon. Her breasts bobbed and swayed, her hips undulated, her long, sable hair swung like a satin curtain. She was really something to see.
Zack swallowed hard and popped a wedge of grapefruit into his mouth.
“Marry me, Rose,” he said without thinking, his eyes glued to her dusky nipples.
As soon as he heard the words escape his mouth a flash of panic went through him. Why had he said such a thing? He didn’t even know her.
What if she said yes just to mess with him?
But Rose simply turned and smiled at him, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks.
“Eat your fruit, Mr. Cranston,” she said primly, “the sauce is almost ready.”
A rush of relief washed the panic away. She hadn’t taken him seriously. Thank God. He wasn’t a marrying man and never would be. He didn’t know where that foolish impulse had come from.
In a moment she came to the table with a big white platter laden with food. Toast points smothered in the golden sauce, asparagus spears, the perfect eggs, and several disks of lean, crusty ham. As she leaned down to set the plate before him, the tip of one breast dipped into the Hollandaise.
“Ouch.” She hopped back, her nipple now decorated with a creamy yellow smear. “That’s hot.” But she laughed, looking down at herself with amusement.
The sight of the yellow smear instantly made him hard beneath his bathrobe. All he could think about was licking the sauce away. In his imagination he pulled her up close, putting his hands on her hips and guiding her to him, parking her firmly between his thighs. Then he lifted his lips and sucked her nipple clean.
“Ahhh,” the imaginary Rose moaned, her hands finding their way into his hair, fingernails raking his scalp. “That feels so good.”
When she tugged that nipple free and offered him the other one, he didn’t quibble. He licked and kissed that one too, then drew it deep into his mouth, reveling in her sweet flavor and firmness. She had great breasts, soft and round and just the right size. Before he knew it, his hands had strayed down over her hips, his sly fingers finding their way beneath the lacy drape, invading the dark cleft between her thighs. In his mind, he clearly heard the sharp little catch of her breath and smelled the perfume of her arousal.
But in real life, a more staid Rose went to the sink and washed the sauce away with her own hand.
Such a waste.
He tried not to be obvious as he watched her cup her breast and hold it near the faucet, rinsing it clean. Her nipple pebbled and peaked under the cool water. She turned suddenly and caught him watching.
“Your breakfast will get cold,” she said, but her face had a faint pink glow, hinting at a sense of modesty he hadn’t known she possessed.
“Marry me,” he said again, hoarsely.
“Eat,” she said, not even bothering to look back at him as she began to load the dishwasher.
****
A little after two, Rose got off the elevator and crossed the lobby, greeting Jeffrey, the doorman, on her way out. She’d developed a real fondness for the sweet, old man in the six months she’d been coming to Mr. Cranston’s building. Despite his grizzled chin, his scarlet uniform was always impeccably pressed, and he never failed to smile at her.
“Afternoon, Miss Rose.” He held the door wide for her and followed her outside, sheltering her with his big umbrella. A spring rain fell in a steady drizzle. She gathered the gray wool of her coat up close around her as she slid into the taxi that pulled up to the curb.
“East one hundred twenty-fifth Street,” she told the driver. She glanced at her watch. Dr. Felger would be waiting for his Sunday supper.
As the car began to move, she took out her compact and lipstick, refreshing the outline of her mouth. In the tiny mirror she winked at her reflection and gave herself a jaunty thumbs-up. Things were going well.
Rose had stumbled upon the idea for her special catering style the year before. Fresh out of culinary school, she’d hit the streets with every expectation of finding kitchen work in no time. But she soon found that the recession had taken its toll on the city’s better restaurants. Kitchen staff had been trimmed to the minimum across the board. In turn, personal chefs were now a dime a dozen. How would she ever distinguish herself from the crowd?
Lizzie, her younger sister, had first suggested she could cook in the nude, facetiously of course. The more Rose thought about the idea, the more she could see the merit. Having worked as an artist’s model at the local college the summer before, she’d gotten used to being stared at without her clothes on. Nudity didn’t bother her in the least. She was willing to bet that clients, men especially, would be happy to pay a premium for her services if a fine gourmet meal came with a stimulating floor show.
“You’ve got to be kidding! Seriously?” Lizzie had said when Rose revealed her plan. “You’re just asking for trouble. You know that, right?”
“I’ll make my boundaries very clear to
my clients.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Can you think of a faster way to get Mikey home?”
Lizzie hadn’t been able to come up with a better idea.
And, in fact, Rose’s business was going smoothly and paying her three times what she would have earned as a restaurant sous chef. She had started out by having a law student friend of hers draft a concise and binding contract that clearly spelled out what her services entailed. Then she registered her business with an upscale employment agency that helped screen out potential problems. The result was that Rose now had five very happy, private clients who were willing to pay her well to cook for them. There were three part-time weekend clients, like Zack Cranston, and two weekday clients. All were men with the exception of Millie Hunt, an elderly lesbian Rose made lunch for three days a week.
So far none of her clients had bothered her or tried to take advantage of the unusual arrangement, though Mr. Cranston did seem to enjoy teasing her.
If everything continued as planned, she’d have enough saved up by next summer to hire the expensive trial attorney Mikey needed to handle his appeal. He was counting on her. She had to make this work.
Besides, she had to admit that part of her rather enjoyed being looked at the way Mr. Cranston had admired her this morning. She didn’t for a minute take his silly proposals seriously; they were most likely just a typical, primal male reaction to the combination of naked woman and good food. In fact, from the beginning she’d picked up on a clear “not available” signal from the man, which sat just fine with Rose. With all the balls she had to keep in the air, the last thing she planned on was to get personally involved or distracted from her goal.
As the cab pulled up in front of the doctor’s old brownstone, Rose paid the driver and hopped out, reaching inside her coat to straighten her clothes. Dr. Felger insisted she wear a vintage style shirt-waist dress with a belt and full skirt. He wanted the job done in his quirky way.
At the front door he buzzed her in. She stopped in the long hallway, glanced around and then backed into a dark corner. She quickly reached up and hooked her finger in the waistband of her panties, pulled them off, and stashed them in her purse. The elderly doctor’s favorite part of their routine was to “help” her in the kitchen. This most often entailed him pulling her skirt up as she stood at the stove, using the rubber tip of his cane. He never touched her body, touching wasn’t allowed, but he loved to peek at her naked behind. His style was a little on the kinky side but harmless enough.
Tonight she’d be preparing roast chicken and root vegetables and a lovely apple crumble. As usual, he would have had the groceries delivered fresh earlier that day. When she knocked at his door at the end of the hall, he opened it eagerly. He must have been leaning there against the jamb waiting for her.
“Good evening, doctor,” she said, giving him a pat on his wizened cheek as she went past him.
“Good evening, Rose,” he said, following her like an eager dog to the back of the apartment where the kitchen was.
He sat down at the scarred table and folded his hands; his eyes bright as she removed her coat, washed her hands, and began to unpack the groceries from the brown paper sack. She hummed a wordless melody as she worked. A steady stream of gray rain spattered against the little window above the sink.
“Are you making plans for the long weekend, doctor?” Memorial Day was a week away.
“I’ll be going to see my daughter and grandchildren in Providence.”
“How wonderful to have family close by.” She stood at the sink, long, brown potato peels coiling onto the porcelain. From the corner of her eye she saw him inch his chair a bit closer to her then lift the cane. A slight draft kissed her thighs as he elevated the hem of her skirt. She pretended not to notice but added a bit more shimmy to her movements as she prepared the potatoes, the carrots and turnips, the tiny onions. Finally she had to move away to add the vegetables to the roasting pan. As she piled them up against the side of the bird, she heard him sigh. She smiled to herself as she slid the pan into the hot oven. There were still a dozen apples to peel and core for the crumble. She would make certain the doctor got his money’s worth before she left his home this evening.
****
Zack picked up the Sunday paper and set it back down again. Got up and grabbed a news magazine from the table and began to leaf through it. In five minutes he tossed the magazine back on the coffee table. He was fidgety today. Ever since Rose left the apartment he’d been unable to keep his attention on any one thing for more than a few minutes.
Not for the first time, he wondered about her. Where did she go after she left here? Who would she see next?
More importantly, who would see her?
When he’d first heard about her service and decided to hire her, more as a novelty than anything else, it hadn’t mattered who Rose was. Payment for her services was anonymously handled through his Paypal account. She was simply the gorgeous and mysterious young woman who appeared in his kitchen twice a month in the buff and prepared his yummy breakfast. He enjoyed her unselfconscious availability. He liked just looking, no strings attached, at her creamy thighs, her softly rounded ass, her great breasts. He liked sneaking peeks at the dark triangle visible behind the lace of her apron. That didn’t make him a bad person, did it? Noticing her body on glorious display was rather the whole point of her unique service, right?
But somewhere along the way, something changed.
He wanted to do more than look at her. Yes. He wanted to touch her. He couldn’t deny it. Just the memory of the Hollandaise smeared on her breast this morning made his cock hard again.
But beyond the growing urge to take her in his arms, he found himself wanting to know her. Who was Rose? What had led her to this point in her life where she so willingly sold the “visual rights” to her naked body? Unlike some stripper in a seedy men’s club, this woman had real class. And her services weren’t about sexual titillation at all, she was an excellent chef. She was also very self-possessed and in control.
But mostly, Rose was a mystery.
He realized he might never get to know her better. Without a last name there was no way to find out more about her. The contract he’d signed specifically ruled out any type of personal conversation. Their perfunctory breakfast chats usually centered on weather predictions, sports scores, or menu ideas. The irony of this wasn’t lost on him. For years he’d sought only shallow relationships with sexually available women. Now he’d give anything to know Rose’s birthday, her favorite color, or the story of where she grew up.
He got up from the couch and strode to the massive picture window. Arms folded over his chest, he watched as the late afternoon sun found its way through the rain and glinted off the glass in a neighboring high rise. Building after building, gray and tan and brick red, marched away into the distance. The city was massive. And somewhere out there, Rose was probably standing naked in some other guy’s kitchen stirring his sauce.
So to speak.
The thought made him crazy.
That settled it. Tomorrow he would call the agency and book Rose for all the Sunday mornings of the month.
Chapter Two
“Every Sunday morning?” Rose repeated to the woman on the phone. “But I always reserve the second and fourth Sundays for my family.”
“The client, Mr. Cranston, is very insistent. He’s willing to double your usual fee.” Of course that meant a bigger fee to the agency. The woman’s voice sounded thick with avarice.
“I’ll have to talk it over with Mr. Cranston when I see him next.”
“He advised me that he’d like an answer by this evening.”
“Fine. I’ll give him a call. What’s his number?” Normally she let the agency handle all prospective client communications. But since he’d already been a client for over six months, Rose felt she could call Zack–Mr. Cranston—and explain to him why she’d be unable to grant his request.
****
Zack answered his cell phone on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hello. This is Rose, your Sunday chef.”
A shiver ran down Zack’s spine. Bombarded as his senses always were by her naked beauty, he had never noticed before the rich, sultry qualities of her voice.
“Yes. Rose. I was expecting a call from the agency.”
“I told them I’d call you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I can’t give you my other Sunday mornings. I have an ongoing obligation that cannot be rescheduled.”
“I’ll double your fee.”
“Yes, the agency mentioned that, and that’s very generous of you, but I really must reserve my other Sundays. I’m sorry.”
She did sound sorry. It must be something very important that kept her from accepting his offer. Perhaps some other client. An arrow of pain shot through his gut.
“I see.” Another man watching Rose at the stove, another man sitting across from her at the table, peeking through the sheer lace of her apron. Or did she even wear the apron with this other man? A second pain shot through him.
“I do have most of my Friday evenings open,” she offered.
“Friday?” His usual night to party. The night he dated Paige or Kathy or Dawn or whoever, and brought her back here for a night of wild sex. Was he really willing to give up a sure thing to have Rose here, naked, but only cooking his dinner?
“Fridays would be great,” he said.
“Wonderful,” she purred. “I’m busy this coming Friday, but I can come the Friday after that. What time should I arrive?”
“Seven?”
Naked Treats Page 1
