Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  “I did not mean…”

  “I don’t care what the hell you meant. You opened your damned mouth and you basically called me a tramp. How dare you, you arrogant pig,” I shout at him as I turn to leave the kitchen.

  I know running isn’t a great thing to do, but my defence level is at its maximum and I’m afraid I won’t interpret whatever Pierre has to say in anything but a negative manner.

  “Holly.” He runs after me.

  “Just leave it alone until the end of service, then we can talk. If we talk now, I’m afraid I may say something I’m going to regret. I’m not calm, so please just leave it alone.”

  “Holly.”

  I hold my hand up and shake my head. “Give me until the end of service. I can’t talk to you while I’m so angry.”

  “Please, communication is very important to me.” He looks sad, defeated.

  “I understand, and after service we can talk,” I lower my tone. Taking a step toward him, I lean in and kiss his cheek, letting my lips linger a moment too long.

  “I will prepare us a tray of hors d'oeuvres, they will help us talk, oui?” he asks, hopeful.

  “That sounds lovely.” I go to leave but stop and turn around to face him. He’s standing at his full height, his eyes glued to me, following my every move. “Thank you for understanding,” I add, hoping it placates him and keeps him from decimating that poor, partial animal.

  “Intolerable,” he mutters as he turns and walks into his kitchen.

  Smiling, I go to the reservation list to see how busy we’re going to be.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 19

  Pierre

  Angus. Hmmm, I think we’ll have to have a conversation. I don’t like him trying to touch anything of mine.

  Holly may think she doesn’t belong to me, but she does. I’ll just let her believe whatever her silly female brain wants to think. I know the truth, and that’s all that matters.

  The half lamb I’m chopping into is copping the brunt of my foul mood. Who the hell does Angus think he is?

  “Chef,” I hear someone call me, but my mindset is heavy and I’m not in a talking state. “Chef.” I keep ignoring the fool who dares to disturb me. “Chef!” I hear the urgency and turn to see who’s been calling me.

  Eric is standing beside me, hand up in the air with a blood-drenched towel wrapped around it.

  “What did you do?” I ask as I lower my cleaver and step up to him.

  “My pinkie, it’s not all the way off, but it’s not great either. I need to get to the hospital.” He looks at me, ashamed and embarrassed. And he should be, he’s a sous-chef. He should know better than to have his digits close to a knife. Especially our chef’s knives.

  “Have you called an ambulance?”

  “No, chef.” He’s looking quite green and ill; maybe it’s his nerves.

  “Angus,” I call from the kitchen, as I point my finger toward the door, silently telling Eric to get his arse outside and out of my kitchen. “Chris,” I call to one of the other chefs.

  “Yes, Chef,” he says as he walks toward me.

  “Take over Eric’s duties,” I instruct him. “Eric, how much blood is there?”

  “Yes, Chef,” Chris answers and walks away.

  “The food’s contaminated; it’s got to be binned.” He lowers his eyes, in shame.

  “You are professional chef,” I yell at him.

  “I’m sorry, chef.”

  “Oui, you should be sorry. You know how to handle knives. What the hell is going on with you?”

  “Pierre.” The soft voice instantly calms me and drags my anger away from Eric.

  “Holly,” I address her as I turn to see her standing in the kitchen. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong out there, but something’s obviously wrong in here.” She nods her head toward Eric. “And you’re quite loud, which alerted me something was wrong.”

  “He is imbecile and cut his finger while chopping. He has now spoiled everything which will put us behind. Imbecile.” I shake my head and turn toward Eric to continue and unleash the anger bursting to come through. Part of it because Eric is an idiot, but mainly because I’m pissed off because of Angus and Holly.

  “Did you cut yourself on purpose, Eric?” Holly interrupts my thoughts and asks.

  “No way,” Eric replies.

  “Did you stick your finger out to even graze it?”

  Eric chuckles. “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you doing this to get the night off work?”

  “No.”

  She lays her hand on my shoulder. A bolt of lightning touches me, momentarily making me marvel at the sheer impact of just her touch.

  “It’s okay, Pierre. He didn’t do this on purpose,” she lowers her voice and slightly rubs her hand on my back. A touch which hushes the fury inside.

  “You are an imbecile,” I say to Eric, but notice the tone of my voice isn’t as harsh.

  “Yes, Chef,” he says in a quiet manner.

  “Pierre,” Holly whispers, her voice so small she’s trying to gently encourage me to calm.

  I take a deep breath, and go to run my hand over my temple, but stop when I catch sight of the blood from the carcass. “Go to the hospital; call me when they are done.”

  “Pierre, what’s happening?” Angus says as he walks in. He looks among the three of us, just assessing and taking in the situation. “Holly, are you okay?” he asks as he takes a step closer to her.

  A low grumble wants to explode from my chest, and I feel my jaw clenching together and suddenly my heart jumps at the thought of him going near Holly.

  “She is fine,” I say as I take a protective step in front of her.

  “Pierre, I can speak for myself.” Her hand drops from my back. I look over my shoulder at her, and she gives me a pleading smile.

  I inhale deeply again, counting to ten in my head slowly, calming down.

  “I’m fine. Eric’s hurt himself and I came in to see if everything’s okay,” she answers as she steps out from behind me.

  My eyes widen when I notice her arse, and how beautiful she looks in her suit today. She’s wearing heels, not too tall or she’d not be able to stand by the end of service, but what they do to lengthen her legs is unbelievably sexy.

  Damn it, I can feel myself twitch inside my uniform. As I watch the curve of her arse, the perfect globes innocently tease me, sending my cock into hyperactivity. If I do not stop looking at the beautiful derrière tempting me, I am afraid I may just take her right here.

  Everyone is talking around me, and I am in pain. Erotic pain. My cock is desperate, wanting to bury itself deep within her. Take her every which way I can. Own every part of her soft, womanly body. To stretch her mouth as she kneels in front of me, and sucks my cock. I want to see her tears flowing exquisitely down her porcelain skin as she hums and murmurs around my hardness. Swallowing me with enthusiasm as her fingers pull and play with my balls.

  God damn it, I fucking want her.

  I need for her to sit on my face, drive her hips into me and let me taste her delicious, mouth-watering pussy. Imagining her sating her cravings with me, knowing I will be the one to fulfill her sexual desires.

  My name being called snaps me out of my intoxicating visualizations of a bare and perfect Holly riding me, satisfying her urges while stimulating my own salacious hunger.

  “Oui,” I answer before I know what I have agreed to.

  Holly’s delicate skin is alight with a red glow, and her eyes are wide as her mouth has popped open. She looks at me, and follows the line of my body down toward my raging hard-on.

  “Pierre,” she softly murmurs, horrified.

  It is then I notice my hand is trying to find a comfortable position for my cock, which means they have all seen this very public display. “Excusez-moi,” I roughly say, getting out of there in a hurry.

  How humiliating to be caught in my filthy fantasies of what my body wants to do to Holly.

  After washing my ha
nds in the bathroom and ripping off my filthy apron, I enter my code to the back door. I fling it open with all my pent-up anger. The door makes a huge pounding sound against the wall as the handle hits the concrete of the building.

  “Merde!” I shout to no one as I search for something to punch. There’s nothing but the hard walls of buildings, and Holly’s car parked in the spot at the back. “Merde!” I yell again.

  Anger pours out of me. My hands are in fists and I can feel my forearms vibrating with sheer violence.

  What the hell has gotten into me?

  Since Eva came to me in my dream, all I have wanted to do is claim Holly. To take her, and join our bodies, kiss her, worship her, and belong to her.

  Holly is nothing like Eva, no resemblance at all. Eva was soft, and warm. She smiled and the sun shone around her. She never incited my temper; she always let me be me.

  Holly though, she’s so different. Chestnut brown hair and the eyes the color of the darkest of bitter chocolate. Her curvier body draws me, captures my attention and holds me in thrall to her. Her mind is agile and tenacious, withstanding my words. She’s stubborn and strong, and she stands on her own two feet, fighting for what she believes is right, never backing down.

  She’s the opposite of Eva.

  But there’s no sense in comparing them.

  I am doing both women an injustice to liken one with the other.

  Both incredibly different, yet both the same.

  A passion has been ignited now, and a longing for more. An obsession to live.

  Eva gave me that gift once many years ago, which I thought I’d buried with her when she passed.

  But Holly has ripped it out from where it was hidden. She’s rekindled the fire, thrown fuel on the embers, giving me the will to let the fire burn higher.

  With my hands linked together and resting on my head, I pace the alleyway trying to clear the clutter in my mind.

  “Pierre,” I hear Holly’s stunning, soft voice calling.

  “Oui,” I answer, as I round the back of building.

  Standing outside, tempting me with her big, brown eyes and her innocent looks I take her in. She is perfectly stunning. A wave of yearning hits me. I want her.

  I want her for more than a fuck. I want to try and make this happen, to have a relationship with her.

  “Pierre, why are you looking at me like that?”

  I stalk her, I feel myself immensely drawn to her. Her eyes brighten and I see her chest quickly rising. Her shoulders softly shake and a shudder passes through her.

  “Pierre,” she says again, her voice husky, though quiet.

  “Do not talk,” I say as I clasp her face in my hands and bring our lips together.

  Her mouth is warm as I trace her plump lower lip with my tongue.

  Letting go of her face, I gently move my hands to feel her shoulders. She’s shaking but her mouth is enjoying the attention I give her. She gifts me with the priceless reward of a soft moan, as I bring her body to mine.

  “Pierre,” she whispers as she pulls away from my mouth. Instantly, I miss her warmth. “What’s happening between us?” she asks and she leans her forehead against my cheek.

  “Mon chéri, I ask myself the same question.”

  “And what have you come up with?” She doesn’t raise her head, but her arms have found their way around my back as she clamps them tightly, securing me to her. I like the close feeling it creates.

  “I am passionate, oui.” I pause to gather what else it is I must say to her. “I am finding it increasingly hard to not fall into whatever we have. I think I need for us to try, to descend so deep we are unable to see the light without the other. You have made me want to live my life, not just exist by breathing.” I kiss her forehead and hold her closer to me. Trying to leave not an inch of space between us.

  “This is crazy,” she says as she looks up at me.

  “Oui, it is fast and could turn hideous. But I think we owe it to ourselves to try.”

  Holly angles her neck further, giving me room to sweep down and once again take her mouth. Allowing my fingertips to trace the delicate, naked skin of her neck, I’m again honoured with the most delicious and rousing sounds. My tongue explores her mouth, curling it around hers as we both enjoy our slow and intoxicating kiss.

  Holly pulls away first, though I could spend hours appreciating the contours and the depth of her succulent mouth. But I’m sure she has stopped because she has more to say.

  “You can hurt me,” she says in a low voice.

  “Never.”

  “I have to put Emma first. If you hurt us, we can’t survive losing you too.” Holly’s eyes well with salt water, and at this moment she looks captivatingly vulnerable.

  “You are magnifique and I will never hurt you.” She leans her head against me and her arms tighten like a vice around my body as I hold her and try to convince her.

  A long period of silence passes us.

  We can hear a cruise ship sound its horn, indicating that it is leaving the port. The happy sound of people talking drowns out the silence. We are comfortable, as we stay entwined.

  “Would you like to come on a picnic with Emma and me?” Holly finally says.

  “Oui, I will prepare a basket, for there is a little girl I must impress.”

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 20

  Holly

  “Where are we going?” Emma asks as we drive toward Pierre’s home.

  We both managed to get Sunday off from work. Angus wasn’t too pleased when I asked him. He looked me up and then down and asked if it had anything to do with Pierre demanding Sunday off. He said Pierre waltzed into his office and told him he wasn’t going to be working because he had an important appointment to keep. Angus said he didn’t give him the option to say no. He simply said, “I will not be here Sunday, now Eric is back from the hospital, with his finger intact he will take Sunday’s service.”

  Angus said he tried to pull rank, but Pierre shook his head dismissively and said, “I have not taken a vacation day in two years. Too bad if you do not like it.” And left his office with Angus stumped for words.

  “We’re going to Pierre’s house and then Hyde Park. Pierre insisted on making us a picnic lunch.”

  “Will there be swings at this park?” Holly asks as she looks out her window from the back seat of the car.

  “Yep, there are swings.”

  “Is there a pool there, too?”

  “No pools.” I chuckle.

  “How about the beach?”

  “No, no beach either.”

  “Can we go to the beach?”

  “Did you bring your bathers?”

  “No.”

  “How about a towel?”

  “No.”

  “How do you expect us to go to the beach, then?”

  “We can go home and get them.”

  “No, we can’t because we’re almost at Pierre’s house.”

  She huffs from the back seat, and when I look in my rear-view mirror she’s crossed her arms defiantly in front of her chest and is doing her best ‘tantrum’ impersonation.

  “I want to go to the beach.”

  “If I turn this car around, we’re going home and staying home,” I say, my tone holding a warning. “Do you prefer that to going to the park?”

  She mumbles something inaudible.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I ask her.

  “I said ‘no, Mum’,” she huffs again.

  “Alright, we’re almost at Pierre’s, and then we can go to the park.”

  “Yes, Mummy,” she says though her voice is dampened by unhappiness.

  We get to Pierre’s and Emma has unbuckled her seatbelt and is out the door in the time it’s taken me to pull the key out of the ignition.

  “Come on, Mummy. Pierre’s waiting for us.” Her mood has certainly perked up. She waits impatiently for me to get out of the car.

  She grabs my hand and confidently walks beside me to the front door.

 
“I wanna press the doorbell,” she says as she reaches up and depresses the soft grey button.

  The door flings open, and I’m momentarily taken aback by Pierre in dark jeans, a blue t-shirt, and sneakers. The t-shirt showcases his arms, more importantly, his sculptured bicep muscles. And it clings quite nicely to his chest, illustrating his pectorals before falling loosely to his hips.

  “Holly,” he says as he opens the screen security door and steps to the side, allowing us in.

  “Pierre.” He leans in to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  “Hi, Pierre,” Emma says happily as she steps inside, letting go of my hand.

  Pierre kneels on the floor just inside his door so he’s on Emma’s eye level.

  “I think I shall properly introduce myself, ma petite. My name is Pierre and I look very forward to pushing you on the swing as high as you will allow me.”

  Emma’s giggling, and I can feel the giant smile on my face.

  “Why did you call me Pete?” Emma asks.

  “Non, I did not call you Pete. I said ‘ma petite’. It means ‘my little one’.”

  “You really do talk funny. But I like it, because that’s how people talk from where you come from.”

  “Oui, it is true. We do talk differently to Australians. Do you know something else?”

  “No, what?” She takes a step closer to Pierre, and my heart just about breaks with pride that Emma is comfortable around him already.

  “We French do not have this vegemite in Paris. It is not something I have been able to enjoy, ever.”

  Emma laughs again, cocks a hip and rests her hand on it. “I like vegemite with cheese on a sandwich. You should do yourself a favour and try it.”

  I run my hand over my eyes at how Emma’s talking to Pierre.

  “Non, I will not ‘do myself a favour and try it’. I already know I do not like it.”

  “What type of cook are you then?” she asks. Her cheeky side is coming through forcefully.