by Falls, K. C.
Desire for Dinner
by
K.C. Falls & Torri D. Cooke
Restaurant critic Kelly Willet is delighted to find her favorite ‘bad-boy’ chef getting ready to board the flight she’s taking to her summer home in Maine. When Carson Davis admits to his fear of flying Kelly is more than willing to ‘take control’ and keep his mind on something in exchange for a dinner date. But Kelly has more than just a desire for dinner with the handsome chef. She’s ready for a feast with Carson that’s more than mere food.
Contains “recipes for romance”-- scrumptious dishes featured in the book. Cook up something spectacular for those moments (before or after) that you just have to come up for air! You’ll find them highlighted and linked throughout the text. The recipes are provided at the end of the book.
Content warning: Adult scenes with graphic, explicit descriptions of sexual acts.
Recipe warning: Tempting concoctions are not for those on a celery and water diet. Read at your waistline’s risk!
Copyright © 2012
torridcooke.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
The material in this book is intended for adults only.
Table of Contents
Desire for Dinner
Companion Recipes
More From K.C. & Torri
About K.C. Falls
About Torri D. Cooke
The Condom Conundrum
####
“Not the most comfortable seats in the world, are they?”
Carson looked up from his magazine briefly annoyed that the sweet-faced blond beside him had chosen that moment to interrupt what was (for once) a halfway decent review of one of his restaurants. Four joints on two coasts with reservations weeks in advance, a best-selling cookbook and his own cooking show and still the smarmy critics found fault. This particular one at least liked the food, even if she did trash the presentation, decor and service.
“I mean, this is a waiting area,” the blond persisted. “You’d think someone would have actually tried out these seats before buying, like, ten thousand of them.”
“I think that’s the point,” he answered, “It’s the same principle as salty pretzels on a bar--they make you want to drink more. These lousy seats encourage you to leave as soon as possible.”
“Where’re you headed?” She had a voice that brought the image of a purring cat to his mind.
“Bar Harbor.” Carson didn’t even want to say the words. He’d been trying ignore the fact that he was about to get on a puddle-jumper on a blustery, late summer day. He’d been on lots of them over the past year and hated every flight. He felt every bump in the air in those flying torture chambers. “I’m not looking forward to it.”
“That’s my final stop too. You don’t like flying?”
“No, I don’t,” he confessed. “I don’t like flying even when I’m on a big airbus, but I like it even less on these mini-planes. Every time I get on one I’m sure it’s my last flight”
She laughed a small, snorty kind of chuckle. “They’re really quite safe, you know. Small planes are designed to ride the wind.” She motioned a wavy up and down path through the air. He noticed that her nails were perfectly done and brilliant scarlet, like a porn star. He let his imagination picture the hand wrapped around his cock. Nice.
“Tell you what. If you’ll entertain me--keep my mind off of the journey--I’ll buy you dinner tonight.” He was used to having plenty of female attention on these god-awful book tours. Some of it was welcome; like the pretty food groupies so willing to bed the ‘famous’ chef. Other kinds, not so much. He’d lost count of the number of beefy matrons who thought they could score with their encyclopedic knowledge of every show he’d ever made and every article he ever penned.
If she was surprised at his invitation, she didn’t show it. But then, she had the kind of face and body that probably prompted plenty of spontaneous invitations--for dinner or otherwise. She threw him the old ‘head toss’ and accepted. “I know the town pretty well. Did you have a particular place in mind?”
“Whatever place you choose will be fine with me. Somewhere quiet so we can talk.” Carson was hoping for a lot more than talk. She hadn’t yet recognized him, which he thought was a little strange. Not that he was some mega-star, but he could hardly go anywhere these days without someone approaching him either for his autograph or some inane conversation about food. If she didn’t know who he was, it wouldn’t be as easy to seduce her. He had grown accustomed to his celebrity giving him a little boost with the women he met.
He needn’t have worried. Just as they were about to board the plane, a mousy woman with two kids in tow approached him. “Chef Carson,” she gushed, “I just had to tell you how much I enjoy your show. I have every one of your cookbooks, too. I sure wish I had one with me to get your autograph.”
Carson eyed the blond to gauge her reaction. She looked a little confused. Carson pulled a business card from his pocket and asked the Olive Oil-esque mom what her name was. “Debbie,” the mom said. He would have guessed Jane or even something old-fashioned and ugly like Doris or Edith. He penned a quick autograph on the back of his card and handed it to her. She thanked him effusively and was on her way.
“I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place you. You’ve got that show--sort of a ‘day in the life of a chef thing’--right?” She smiled. He had to give credit to the dentist who gave her that set of chops. “I don’t watch a lot of TV but I think I saw it once or twice.”
“Yes, that would be me. I also own a few restaurants. They actually came before the TV show.” He offered her his hand. “Carson Davis”
Her handshake was soft and feminine and he could feel the porn star nails lightly rake his palm as she drew her hand away. “Kelly Willet.” She seemed utterly unimpressed by his credentials.
Carson realized that he wasn’t going to be able to ride on his fame with this one. That was okay, he wasn’t so out of practice that he couldn’t charm a woman in his own right. The ‘big chef’ aura was a good hook, but it wasn’t requisite.
“We’re finally boarding,” she said as she bent down to get her carry-on. Carson got a good look at her tight little ass and a couple of thighs he was already sure he wanted to bury his face between.
They had managed to finagle a seat swap and were seated on opposite sides of the one narrow aisle that ran between the single seat rows on either side of the plane. It was by far the smallest commercial airplane Carson had been in. He was claustrophobic immediately. There wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on how closed in he felt as the plane filled up and took off quickly. He went from merely uncomfortable to terrified in seconds.
“You look a little pale, Carson.”
“It’s like we’re riding through a hurricane.”
“Hardly. Trust me. I fly this route several times a year. It’s usually a bit on the bumpy side. But you’re still safer here--”
“I know, I know. Safer in the skies than on the highways.”
“Exactly.” She reached across the aisle and patted his arm. He felt a couple of burners on his stove light up. “Why don’t
you tell me about your restaurants.”
“Well, I started on the east coast, in D.C. with a casual dining place called Orson’s Onion.”
“Cute name.”
“My parents helped me come up with it. I knew I wanted something that combined a name with a food and both words with the same first letters.”
“Alliteration.”
He hadn’t been able to call up the term he knew his mother, the teacher, had used to describe what he wanted in his restaurant’s name. That’s cool, he thought, I like brains in a chick. It’s a lot less boring than the alternative. “That’s right, and easy to remember.I sort of wanted to use my own name, but I couldn’t think of a good food to go with Carson.”
“So, Orson’s Onion was a big success?”
“Hell no. I failed miserably.” Just then the plane hit an air pocket and bumped roughly along the aerial currents. Carson abruptly stopped talking and clenched the armrests with a white-knuckled death grip. He could feel the hot-cold sweat of fear gathering at his temples.
Kelly reached across the narrow aisle and put a slender hand over his tensed fingers. “We’re fine. Everything’s fine, Carson. These little planes are like surfboards. In spite of what it feels like, it is almost unheard of for a plane to be ‘knocked out of the sky’ by turbulence.” She patted his hand. “Tell me more about the restaurant. Why did it fail?”
The touch of her soft hand distracted from his terror. He could feel little sparks making the hair on his arm stand up and wished he could fast-forward himself out of the rocking plane and onto the promise of rocking the night.
“It failed for all the usual and predictable reasons restaurants don’t make it. Too many dinners comped for friends and family. Too much expensive liquor consumed by staff, too many steaks walking out the back door in too many pockets. Lazy chef/owner--that would be me--doing a few too many recreational chemicals and waitresses.”
“Obviously you learned your lesson.”
“I learned a lot of lessons. The second restaurant was one I opened at the harbor in Baltimore. The rent was surreal and I really thought nobody would pay the exorbitant prices I had to charge just to keep the doors open. But I was wrong.” His eyes widened as the plane tossed in the turbulence.
“Don’t pay attention to that,” she commanded. “Concentrate on your story.”
Carson was a bit taken aback by her sharp tone, but it did the job in pulling his thoughts away from his conviction that death was minutes away. “The restaurant is called Andalusian and it’s an American version of a traditional tapas bar. It’s still open and very successful. I’m amazed, ten years on, how much people are willing to pay for a snack.”
“Right now, I’d pay through the nose for a snack. I’m starving.” She put her hand against her flat belly and Carson had a nice visual image of what that part of her looked like under her tight summer dress. If it took lust to keep his mind off of the plane ride, it was fine with him.
He decided it was about time to turn some attention to her. Talking about himself wasn’t the best tactic in the world for seduction, especially with someone who hadn’t indicated she was at all impressed with his credentials. “So, what takes you to Bar Harbor several times a year?”
Suddenly, she looked very wary. “My...I have a summer place there.” She changed the subject back to him. “You said four restaurants. What about the other three?”
Carson described his second American tapas place in San Diego and his two more formal ones, one on each coast. He told her about the cookbooks and the dizzying rise to fame as a TV chef. He found himself expressing things he rarely told anyone--how tiresome it was to be recognized everywhere it went, how he missed being in the restaurants with his hands on his craft, how much he enjoyed the solitude that went into putting a cookbook together and how loathsome the book tours had become.
Kelly would make a very good investigator he thought as the plane began its final approach to the tiny airport. She’s managed to get me to tell her my life’s story and all I know is her name and that she’s going to her ‘summer place’. I’ll have to do better over dinner.
Kelly suggested that they meet for dinner at Cuatro. “It’s small, dark and intimate,” she had said in a way that Carson hoped was meant to be suggestive. “It’s also got a latin type menu that you may enjoy given your taste in food. But maybe you’re sick of that kind of cuisine. Should I pick something different?”
“Not at all. Sounds perfect. Can I take you home? My rental is at your service.”
“No. I have a car here. I’ll see you at Cuatro at eight, then?” With that she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and walked briskly away. He watched her pleasantly rocking hips moving away and briefly admired her utterly feminine gait.
He didn’t really consider it odd that she preferred to meet him at the restaurant rather than have him pick her up. He understood that with all the wack-jobs and wingnuts in the world that women preferred to have some control over when a date ended. He reasoned that he felt the same way. Some of the women he had encountered over the past few years had left him very grateful to be able to say ‘nighty-night’ when a date went south.
Bar Harbor was winding down for the season. It was still technically summer, but schools had started so the crowds had thinned considerably. He had no trouble driving down Route 3 into the picturesque little town and found the Waterview hotel that the travel site had promised was “away from the hustle and bustle of town with spectacular views of Frenchman’s Bay”. It was a good choice. Comfortable king sized bed for whatever sport the night brought, nice balcony for apre-sex star-gazing, big jacuzzi tub if she was inclined to that sort of thing.
He had plenty of time to check in with the bookstore for the signing tomorrow, nap and have a shower before dinner.
***
She was already seated at a banquette in the far corner of the small dining room when he arrived at Cuatro. She had a small glass of sherry in front of her and there was another waiting for him. He slid onto the cozy suede couch and his cock did a little happy dance when he saw how she had prepared herself for their date. She wore a rather oriental looking dress with a high neckline and capped sleeves. The scarlet brocade of the fabric clung to her every curve. There was a teardrop shaped cutout exposing her generous cleavage and he noted with delight that the dress had a thigh high slit that went far enough for him to see the lace tops of her stockings.
Oh stockings! One of the best signs of a willing woman, he sang to himself. God curse whoever invented pantyhose, the most singularly un-sexy garment ever made.
“You look gorgeous, Kelly.” He sat down next to her and got a subtle whiff of her perfume.
She tilted her head and the long chandelier earrings she was wearing sparkled against her neck. “Thank you, Carson. You look very fine yourself.” She smiled at him and it felt like a gift. “I think you’ll like Cuatro. I hope you don’t mind but I ordered an appetizer for us and this Amontillado” She picked up her glass of amber wine and he raised his to it.
“Cheers. The place looks great. What have you ordered for us as a starter?” The sherry was excellent and he was looking forward to dinner...and dessert.
“Polenta Pamplona. It’s basically a polenta ‘toast’ with a chorizo topping. It’s just excellent.”
“Sounds delicious.” He was far more concerned with her deliciousness at that moment. She crossed her legs and he could see the way her ankle tapered to a perfect foot all dressed up in mile-high black heels. He flashed on the mental image of those heels up in the air as he fucked her. He’d make sure she kept them on.
He picked up his menu to choose his main course, but she stopped him. “I was thinking, since you are constantly making decisions about food--what to cook, what to write about--why don’t you leave the choices to me tonight?” It was a little odd, but he rather liked her forwardness.
“Sure, go ahead.”
He was pleasantly surprised by her choices. She ordered a pork tenderloin d
ish for him that was rich with Manchego cheese, roasted garlic, fresh herbs and vegetables. For herself, she ordered green mussels in a buttery sauce that begged to be sopped up by the crusty Spanish style bread they were served. She chose a white rioja, an unusual offering and an excellent choice for both entrees.
They shared the main courses, taking turns to feed one another a bite from their plates. He loved watching her hold the mussel shells, the red shellac on her nails brilliant against the mossy-black sheen of the butter-soaked mollusks. He watched her slurp the briny juice from the shells and had a vivid visual rush of his semen glossing her lovely mouth.
She was giving off all the right signals. A hand laid on his arm here, a seconds longer than necessary gaze there. A not at all subtle flick of her tongue to catch some errant crumb. Carson admired her proficiency in the art of silent seduction.
When dinner was over, he was more than ready to move on to the next level. She beat him to it.
“Why don’t we take a drive over to my place for dessert?” She ran the toe of her come-fuck-me shoe behind his calf. He felt his groin stir to life.
“That’s an excellent idea, Kelly.” He scanned the restaurant for their waiter.
“No need for the check,” she smiled. “I’ve taken care of it. Let’s be on our way.” She slid out of the banquette and for the first time that evening, he got to have a good look at her entire ‘costume’. The way she had put herself together was almost too perfect. Not that he minded. He had always figured that men were pretty simple when it came to the visual cues. The tight red dress, the sheer black stockings, the black ankle strapped spikes, the hair gathered up with come hither tendrils caressing her long creamy neck--yep, she hadn’t missed a single cue.
I’m liking this chick. I can dig the take control character and I don’t mind at all that she picked up the tab. She led him through the parking lot to a sleek silver Mercedes roadster. Holy Shit! That’s a two hundred grand car. No wonder she wasn’t all gooey over my ‘famous chef’ routine.
