Melted and Whipped

by Cleo Pietsche

  “I really like it,” I say.

  He takes another sip. “You’re sure it’s not too dry?”

  I nod and push my glass forward. “I’m sure. Are we making stir-fry?”

  He grins. “You’re not making anything. Is stir-fry okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” The wine is certainly better than what I’ve been drinking lately, and in any event it gets the job done. Half a glass later, I’m finally starting to feel comfortable.

  Porter is chopping onions, and he refuses all my efforts to help, so I alternate staring out the enormous window at the valley of trees and staring at Porter.

  He turns on the stove, then pulls off his sweater, and I forget all about the window.

  I knew he was in shape, but I didn’t realize his body was perfect. In college he got a lot of attention because of his build, but he was thinner then.

  He’s certainly grown into his frame, and the thick muscle suits him. I wonder when a guy who runs a company has time to work out. The body I’m looking at takes serious dedication. I’m jealous of his gray button-down shirt, the way it gets to cling to him.

  “What’s your company?” I ask, the wine having loosened my tongue enough.

  “Financial consulting,” he says, tossing a look over his shoulder. He smiles.

  Porter’s smiles will be the death of me.

  “That’s very mysterious,” I say.

  “The reality is rather simple. Let’s say you have ten thousand dollars to invest,” he says, turning to face me. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

  “That’ll be the day,” I say with a laugh. My glass is almost empty.

  “It’s just a number I threw out there. We don’t accept clients who have less than a million to play with, and most have at least five times that.”

  “Damn,” I say, shocked. In college, at least we were both students. Now the gulf between us is like the Grand Canyon. I point to the wine. “May I?”

  “Sorry, I forgot my manners.” He refills my glass, then he refreshes his, which was only about half empty, I notice.

  Which means I need to slow down, so I help myself to a small wedge of soft white cheese, a Brie or something like it. It’s salty and delicious, the creamy texture decadent on my tongue.

  I swallow the cheese. “So someone comes to you and says, ‘Help me. I’ve got ten million bucks, and I don’t know what to do with it.’ Then what?”

  He laughs as he leans up against the counter again. “We have a consultation, we make recommendations. For our help, we take a percentage.”

  “Of the profits?”

  “Of the amount invested,” he says.

  “You must be very, very good at what you do.”

  He nods. “I am.” The simple admission doesn’t sound boastful. More like a statement of fact.

  “So why quit?”

  “I’m surprised you of all people would ask me that,” he says.

  “It’s not the same, though. Even if I’d slaved for decades, I would have barely hit six figures a year. I was stressed, overworked, and office politics made me dread getting up in the morning. When you own your company, you can fire the people you don’t get along with.”

  “That’s essentially what I’m trying to do, except it’s not my employees I want to get rid of.”

  “Then who?”

  He turns to the stove. “The clients.”

  I ponder that for a few minutes while admiring the stretching and flexing of his back as he adds ingredients to the pan. Delicious aromas of lemongrass and ginger begin to flood the kitchen, and my mouth waters for something more substantial than red wine and cheese.

  “Let’s talk about Scooter,” I say, thinking we should get that out of the way while I’m still sober enough to form coherent sentences. “He’s got promise.”

  “One second.” He adds a cup of liquid to the pan, creating an almost deafening sizzle and lots of steam. He waves it away with a dishtowel.

  “There’s a…” I join him at the stove and push the button to turn on the exhaust fan.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I always forget to do that.”

  I’m standing close enough to feel the side of his muscular arm as he shakes the frying pan over the stove. I know I should walk away, but I don’t want to.

  Porter abruptly turns off the heat and drops a cover over the pan. “That needs to sit for a few minutes. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here, after all. Scooter—”

  “This isn’t about Scooter.” Porter turns to look at me, and because we’re so close together, I have to really crane my neck to meet his gaze.

  I’m too close, I realize. This is inappropriate. This is—

  He catches his face in my hands. His eyes briefly flare with a question—very briefly—before he dips down to mold his lips over mine.

  Chapter Five

  I’m so stunned that I don’t even realize what’s happening at first, but then Porter’s tongue traces the closed seam of my mouth.

  My lips soften, opening to him.

  In response, his large palms cup my face even tighter, and his body rocks a little, inching closer.

  A moan of longing rises in my throat. Embarrassed, I try to pull away.

  Porter releases me. “Are you okay?”

  All I can do is nod.

  “Good.” He steps in close. His warm breath caresses my lips. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since…” He shakes his head and the next thing I know, his tongue is sliding over mine.

  He tastes like the wine. Strong. Powerful. I’ll never be able to drink red wine again without remembering this, without getting turned on.

  Because I am turned on. Pulsing heat throbs in my core, and I feel my pussy getting slick with desire.

  I’m about to reach for him, to finally feel his perfect body under my fingertips, when he breaks our kiss.

  Eyes closed like he’s savoring the moment, he continues to hold my face, then brushes his lips over mine, which are throbbing like the rest of my body. They feel swollen, lightly bruised.

  “I think dinner is ready.” His voice is husky and raw.

  Dinner is the last thing on my mind, but I think it would be rude to suggest we skip it in favor of doing more of the kissing thing.

  When he releases me and turns his attention to the pan on the stove, I flee to my glass of wine. I don’t bother with the polite dance of asking if I can have more; it’s not like he’s going to say no.

  I fill my glass and take a long swallow. Heaven help me—the wine tastes like his kiss.

  “Can you carry these?” He slides two plates, two red cloth napkins, and two sets of silverware onto the counter. “It’ll save me a trip. This way.”

  I follow him out the open side of the kitchen, toward the window. We enter a dining room with a table long enough to comfortably seat the entire U.S. Olympic alpine ski team.

  A fancy centerpiece of candlesticks surrounded by holly adorns the end closest to us. Porter lays down two red cloth placemats and a trivet, on which he places a glass bowl of stir-fry.

  I begin to distribute the place settings while Porter returns to the kitchen. He makes about six trips in all, and even though he tells me to sit, I hover uncomfortably to the side, my mind still buzzing from that kiss. Why did he do it?

  The answer seems obvious: because he wanted to.

  He’s not the same as he was in college. He’s even more self-assured, which I hadn’t thought was possible. It makes me unsure of myself, like there’s a predetermined amount of confidence that can exist between two people, and Porter has taken it all.

  I learned a lot about men through my twenties, and while a big part of me only wants to know what Porter is like in bed, another part of me already knows I’ll be disappointed with just a one-night fling.

  After all these years, it’s possible that the fantasy is better than the reality could ever be. I never thought of it in these terms before, but
Porter is the perfect man in my memory, an unattainable ideal that no one could possibly live up to. What if he’s bad in bed? What if he’s a selfish lover?

  Worse, what if he’s amazing, but then he disappears? He’s successful, rich, powerful. It’s insane to think his interest in me is anything more but casual. Really, with so many tourists in town with their families, and so many of the transplanted locals out of town, it’s not like there’s much choice for a man looking for fun between the sheets.

  The wine isn’t helping me sort through my jumbled thoughts. As soon as I reassure myself on one front, the assault starts again from another angle.

  If only this weren’t Porter, but some other gorgeous millionaire. No, billionaire. He was already a multimillionaire before college, thanks to the family fortune.

  I snort. There aren’t many gorgeous billionaires to be found, and why can’t I enjoy the evening? I wish I weren’t buzzed.

  Porter pulls back two chairs, and I slide into the closest one, leaving him to sit at the head of the table.

  “This is amazing,” I say as he serves me jasmine rice and fragrant stir-fry. “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure. But you should know that I can only make two other things. Three, if you count pancakes.”

  “Pancakes definitely count.” I reach for my glass, but Porter places his hand over mine.

  My gaze lifts to his. Have I had so much to drink that he needs to cut me off? I’m buzzed, not drunk, and I could have another glass—especially while I’m eating. Unless he’s planning to kick me out in an hour, I’ll be sober by the end of the night.

  “I think you should stop,” he says evenly.

  My face burns with shame. Was the kiss that bad? At least now I know where he and I stand.

  “I’m not sure what’s going through your mind right now,” Porter says, “but I should be clear about why I’m asking you to stop drinking.” His hand slips under mine, and his fingers tighten, pulling my palm into his. The gesture is intimate. He’s staring at me like he’s weighing something.

  Shaking my head, I say, “Porter, it’s fine. I understand. We have a lot to discuss and—”

  “You don’t understand.” His fingers tighten. “I need you to stop because I want you.”

  I want you. My lips part as I stare at him. His expression is so serious, I must have misunderstood…

  Porter’s fingers tighten around mine. “I want you in my bed, and I want to do things… things that will require your consent. Slow down on the wine for now.”

  A smile of relief relaxes my face. I don’t want him to know how insecure I was about his intentions, so I blurt, “Things that require my consent?”

  “What?” he asks, the corners of his own lips rising. “What’s so funny?”

  If I weren’t buzzed, I wouldn’t say it, but I am, so… “Things that require my consent? Sexual things? Or do you want me to sign a contract? Fill out financial forms?”

  He smiles, but I can tell he’s being polite. A long moment passes while his gaze roams slowly over my face.

  “Sexual things,” he says in his seductive, deep voice.

  Like spanking? I want to ask.

  Oh, God, this is happening… assuming I don’t do something to screw it up.

  Chapter Six

  Porter walks into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.

  When he sits, he asks what I like about my job.

  I think I give him a coherent answer. It’s difficult to know for sure because I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen after dinner. I can’t stop smiling, which is stupid, like I’m a teenager, a college freshman all over again.

  Porter doesn’t seem to have any problems concentrating. “What’s your endgame?” he asks. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

  It’s a sobering question, or maybe the wine is wearing off already. He looks very interested in the answer, so I try to pull myself together.

  “It depends on the day of the week,” I say. “When I’m feeling optimistic, I imagine opening my own company, catering to tourists. Leading tours. I’ve got some connections, a few repeat customers who would follow me if I struck out on my own. But even if they all showed up every year, it’s not enough to live on. It would be a struggle.”

  “And on other days?”

  “Isn’t this a bit heavy for Christmas Eve?” I smile.

  “You don’t have to answer,” Porter says.

  I fork up rice drenched in sauce and try to decide if I should tell him. In the end, I figure I’m coming off as needlessly coy. “Other days I think I should invest in a tin cup, a cardboard sign, and fingerless gloves,” I admit. “When I came out here, it was supposed to be temporary while I figured out a better career. I even kept paying rent on my apartment back home for the first five months.”

  Porter leans to the side, his broad shoulders turning to face me, one of his arms draped over the back of his chair. He’s getting comfortable, settling in to listen. It’s a pose I recognize, one I remember from our freshman year of college.

  For all that’s different about him, he’s still Porter.

  “Are you thinking about leaving?”

  I sigh. “I’m addicted to powder. Just like it says on the novelty T-shirts. After my injury, I thought it would be too painful to be in the mountains, but the opposite turned out to be true.” Geez. I sound like someone who doesn’t want to grow up and get a real job.

  Porter is nodding, but I’m feeling over-exposed and uncomfortable.

  “We should talk about Scooter,” I say, and take a hasty sip of water.

  “Scooter?” One side of his mouth quirks in a crooked grin. “Please don’t think less of me, but that was a ruse to get you to agree to dinner.”

  Pleasure floods me, but I’m determined not to start grinning again like an idiot. I shake my head in faux disappointment. “You said my boyfriend had nothing to worry about.”

  For the first time, uncertainty flashes across Porter’s face. “I checked around and heard you were single,” he says. “It must be a new relationship, then?”

  “No, no boyfriend,” I say far too quickly. Damn. I really have no game. Then I process what Porter just admitted. “You checked around?”

  He shrugs. “I wanted to know. Actually, I assumed you were seeing someone, but you aren’t wearing a ring, so I figured it must not be that serious.”

  I’m flattered by the things he’s saying, and I’m dying to ask him why. Why me? Is he just horny? Bored?

  Or does he actually like me? Does he count the brief time we were close as important? If so, why did he say it wasn’t a good idea to go out with me?

  And does he know it was me outside the theater that night?

  “You’ve never been married?” he asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

  I shake my head. “I dated one of the other instructors for a bit, but he wanted to go to Jackson Hole, and I wanted to stay here, so we broke up.” I twirl the stem of my empty wine glass. “That’s your cue to say he was a fucking idiot.”

  “I didn’t realize I needed to state the obvious. You know what I thought when I saw you yesterday? My first thought? Finally.”

  “Finally?”

  He leans forward. “When we first met, when we were hanging out all the time, I thought we were…” He trails off, then grins. “Now I wish I were drunk so I wouldn’t feel stupid admitting this, but it was a long time ago, and we were young, inexperienced. At least, I was.”

  Sliding my arms on the table, I prop my head in my hands. “Please tell me,” I plead.

  A strange look crosses his face. “Ask again.”

  I frown, then decide he’s playing a game. “I would love it if you would please tell me the thing you don’t want to admit.”

  “That’s unimportant. I need to tell you something else.” The look on his face tells me he’s not joking.

  That makes me sit up straight and pull my arms in like a chill has come into the room. “What
is it?”

  “Adult things. Perhaps it’s better if I show you.” He stands and holds out his hand.

  Even though I’m a little worried, I don’t hesitate to place my hand in his. This is Porter, and even though I barely knew him years ago, I understood him. He’s changed, but he’s the same.

  Anyway, I think I know what he wants to show me. Gathering my courage, I ask, “You’re into handcuffs and whips and all that, aren’t you?”

  He spins me around, pushes me up against a wall. His body pins me in place. My heart pounds in my chest, and it’s not because I’m afraid.

  Through our clothes, I can feel the outline of his erect cock.

  Porter’s cock.

  I’ve fantasized about it plenty. Well, not his cock specifically, but what he can do with it…

  His hand slides under my blouse, and his fingers brush across the small of my back. Then he’s moving down, greedily grabbing.

  I gasp, my arms coming up to circle around his neck, to meet his kiss. This one doesn’t start off sweet. There’s hunger there, his and mine. I pulse my hips against the hardness in his pants, and I can tell he’s big, thick.

  It’s what I wanted, but I didn’t dare hope. It wouldn’t have been a deal breaker.

  I’m smiling with a mix of triumph and anticipation, which makes it impossible to kiss Porter back.

  He’s pulling my leg up, his warm hands on my bare thigh, and then his bulge is pressing right against my pussy, with nothing but a few thin layers of clothes between us. My entire body shudders, then begins to tremble lightly. The soft noise I made when he kissed me in the kitchen is back, but it’s louder, hungrier.

  I’m not smiling now.

  Porter releases my leg and ends our kiss. He rests his forehead on mine. “You asked if I’m into whips and chains and all that,” he says. “I am. I don’t want to scare you away, but I learned a long time ago that it’s better to say it up front than to drop hints after two years.”

  Two years. That’s about how long he was with his first college girlfriend. But dropping hints? I don’t remember that at all. He’s probably not talking about me.

  “I’ve never tried it,” I say hesitantly.