by Kris Bryant
*
Dinner is a buffet style gathering with all of the guests. Surprisingly, I find myself having a great time with our table companions even though the clock is ticking. Taryn is very charming and I don’t want to take this away from her. Once they find out she is a renowned chef, they have tons of questions for her on how to cook certain foods. We aren’t prepared when people ask about our relationship. I’m like a deer in headlights and after a few seconds of fumbling, she replies that we are cooking mates and came up here to unwind and have others cook for us instead. Everybody laughs and nobody questions us further about our relationship. I can’t tell if I’m sad by her explanation of our relationship, or relieved.
We are served chicken fried chicken, rice with broccoli, a corn bake dish, homemade biscuits, corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes. Taryn and I are the thinnest ones at the table. I know she isn’t going to eat a lot, but I dig in. The food is good, under-seasoned, but that’s to be expected when cooking for a large audience. I reach for salt and pepper, wishing I could get my hands on some other spices. I’ve learned to not be a snob when eating other people’s food though. I find out that peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream is the dessert tonight. Nobody can screw up peach cobbler.
“Is this too rustic of a meal to cook for a final?” I ask her. She looks at me in surprise. I know she isn’t supposed to help me and I’m really not looking for help, just her advice. I give her a few moments to gather her thoughts before I try explaining myself.
“I can’t imagine you would want to take your three years of experience at the academy to cook fried chicken. Yes, your chicken is amazing, but will it win you the scholarship? Picture yourself a judge and ask what would impress you on the panel?”
I guess that answers that question. Don’t make fried chicken. After thinking about it, I nod. I smile at her. I now have a plan if she allows us to cook whatever we want.
“I take it you have something else in mind?” she says.
“Does it have to be from this semester?” I ask.
“No. The final for the scholarship will be using any skill you’ve learned during your education at the academy. I might make it easy for the rest of the students and tell them to make me something they’ve learned during my lessons.”
“Do you seriously not know what our final will be? Not that I want to know but it is coming up.”
“I have a meeting with the culinary board Tuesday and will present my ideas. We’ll come up with a plan and I’m sure once it’s finalized, the plan will be shared with the three of you. I will make it a stipulation that you cannot bring a recipe to class. It has to be from memory.” That doesn’t surprise me. I like it better that way. Most chefs do not have recipes hanging on the walls to help them unless it’s Grandma’s old recipe, or one that isn’t used a lot. I already know that Scott will cook something from his parents’ restaurant. He really should cook his wood fire brisket. The best I’ve tasted anywhere, but I’m not about to tell him that. I want to win this scholarship. Or do I? I find that losing isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. I would have to get a job somewhere besides Bud’s Diner and I would see Taryn all the time. Two things that sound like pretty good consolation prizes. We would have to talk about whatever this relationship is and figure out how far we want to take it. She seems to still be in the casual stages of the relationship, but sometimes I catch her staring at me with such intensity that my knees threaten to buckle. Something squeezes inside of me and I have to take a deep breath just to move past that look.
“We can go back up to the room, if you want.” Dinner is over and even though they are ready to serve dessert, I automatically stand before I answer her. “I guess that’s a yes.” She excuses us and we head upstairs.
I can’t wait to touch her again. I’ve waited all day to feel her in my arms, dive into her warm and welcoming body. I steal tiny touches, gentle strokes all the way to the room. I want her explosive by the time we reach the door. I grab her by the elbow and twirl her back to me, her lips only inches from mine. I don’t kiss her though. I look at her. Her pupils dilate and her breathing becomes heavier. I lick my lips in anticipation of her taste again. Her lips will be soft and sweet against mine, her skin slightly salty and tingly. I release her elbow and run my hand down the curve of her waist and over her hip before pulling her against me. I hear her exhaled breath right before my lips claim hers, aggressively and fully. She lifts her hands up to the back of my head and holds me in place and we duel for control of the kiss. I’m ready to drop to my knees and bury myself in her right there in the hallway, but we’re suddenly interrupted by the ding of the elevator down the hall and break apart.
“Let’s get back to the room,” I say.
She nods and grabs my hand. We only have about twenty feet, but the door seems so far away. The couple who got off of the elevator go into their room so it’s just us again in the hallway. She keeps a firm grip on my hand. It’s as if she knows that if she lets go, I will fuck her right here in the open, up against the wall or somebody’s door and that probably wouldn’t be good for her reputation. As aggressive as she is, I think tonight she might not win. I have too much energy that has been building up all day and I’m done waiting. She unlocks the door and keeps walking straight to the bed. I’m one step behind her. I put my arms around her the second she reaches the bed and pull her hard against me. She moans and presses into me, her ass grinding against me. I reach down, my fingers finding her pussy and massage her through her dress, through her panties. I feel her legs give out and grab her waist to hold her up before I flip her to face me and push her onto the bed. I’m on her in an instant. She’s trying to get my shirt off and I’m trying to get my hands on her bare thighs. Eventually, she submits and I’m able to slow down. Our kiss is deep and she arches into me when she thinks I’m pulling away.
“I want our clothes off,” I say.
She relaxes against me again as I slide her panties down her legs. I spread her and lie between her legs, slowly pressing myself into her. She bends her knees up to gather more friction from my deliberately slow thrusts. She helps me unbutton my shirt and I’m very well aware of her hand resting on my heart while I shrug out of my clothes. She swallows hard and closes her eyes when my fingertips finally find her wet opening. Her pearly stickiness coats my fingers as I move two in and out of her. I watch her breath catch every time I push deep into her and feel her exhale on my cheek when I pull out. She’s beautiful. As much as I enjoy listening to her soft and sensual moans, I enjoy kissing her more. I lean down and capture her lips in a fierce kiss. I can feel her desperation to come. She’s just on the edge of orgasm. Encouraged, I move faster, deeper, harder. She breaks the kiss and cries out, bucking against my hand. I’m amazed at how fast and hard she climaxes. I place tiny kisses on the side of her neck until I feel her body settle. She shakes periodically, but I know it’s not because she’s cold.
“I love sex with you.” She pushes the hair out of my face. “You know exactly how to touch me.”
My response is a soft kiss on her bruised lips. I can’t open my heart up to her yet, if ever. It’s not fair to either one of us. The only thing I can do is show her how I feel without saying the words. I stand and carefully strip off our remaining clothes. I take my time touching her, knowing we have all night, and we won’t be bothered until check out time tomorrow. She rests her hand on top of mine as I touch her everywhere. She’s not guiding me, just staying with me, a deeper connection as I continue my seduction. I kiss my way down to the junction of her thighs and gently run my tongue up and down the soft, sensitive skin where her thighs meet her pussy. I’m slowly building her up again, only this time with more emotion. I don’t know how to touch her without it now. Her fingers are wound in my hair, massaging me as I bring her to another orgasm. This one is different. I can just tell. She’s holding me tighter, longer. I’m afraid to look at her so I crawl up and pull her into my arms. She doesn’t fight me, but nestles deeper into the cro
ok of my arm.
“Your heart is beating fast,” she says. I nod. There’s no need to say anything. Her fingers flutter over my body, soft touches across my stomach and breasts. I watch as she touches my nipple, pinching it into a hard pebble and easing the throbbing ache with her cool tongue. She’s in no hurry this time and I let her take over. She does not disappoint. For probably the first time, I relax and give myself to her. I hang onto my orgasm until it crashes over me and even then I fight it. I want to feel this closeness, this sharing of bodies, and profound passion. I know that she has to feel something for me even if it’s not love. Extreme fondness maybe, but nobody connects like we do without deeper emotions happening. Every time she’s brought me to orgasm, she smiled at me after. She’s not smiling this time. I don’t question her, but I snuggle up to her and she holds me. The room smells like sex. I could use another shower, but there is something so decadent about smelling like your lover, that I’m able to easily fall asleep.
*
I wince at the sunlight spilling into the room. Taryn is still fast asleep beside me, her hair piled up on the pillow. I’m not used to sleeping with a woman with long hair so it’s going to take some getting used to. It’s six in the morning. Check out isn’t for another five hours. I slip from the bed and quietly take another shower and brush my teeth. Taryn is still asleep when I get back. I really don’t want to wake her. She looks so peaceful and I know she doesn’t get the opportunity to sleep in. I watch her sleep, falling in love with her even more with every breath I take. I’m so torn right now. I want to tell her, but I can’t. We need to keep this casual until after the final or when I get back from Italy. She stirs a bit and snuggles closer to me. I think my wet hair wakes her up. She blinks at me and looks around. She smiles.
“Good morning.” She stretches, the sheet exposing her breasts. She doesn’t do a thing to cover up. I watch her and try not to get turned on, but fail miserably. She leans over and kisses me quickly. “I’ll be right back.” She slides off the bed and stumbles to the bathroom, not very gracefully.
I hear the shower and realize she won’t be back for several minutes. I take the time to check messages and emails on my phone. Jessie doesn’t even know where I am this weekend. I told her I was going to visit my mom, but she didn’t call out my bullshit. She knows I can only take my mom for small periods of time. A weekend would probably be the death of me. I notice the time and try to plan out the rest of our time together. We can have breakfast in twenty minutes with everybody else, or we can stay in the room until check out and grab lunch somewhere on the way back home. Taryn wants to be home by five. Surprisingly, Olivia didn’t call last night so Taryn had to call her to say good night. I kept quiet because I know she wants to keep the relationship private from Olivia. At least for now. I don’t think Olivia will have a problem with us. She was around a ton of lesbians at the concert so she knows that sometimes women date. And plus she likes me. This might change if she ever finds out that her mom and I are dating. I know children don’t like to share sometimes, especially a parent’s attention. And since she only has Taryn, it might be difficult for her to make the transition.
“What would you like to do for breakfast?” Taryn asks. She’s dressed in only a towel and is drying her long hair, completely oblivious to how sexy she is.
“Hmm. You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”
She crawls on the mattress toward me. “I believe we have time for whatever you want.”
I grab the towel and yank her on top of me. We have plenty of alone time left before we have to leave.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Can I please see my scholarship contenders?” Taryn asks. The three of us stop what we’re doing and head over to her. I’m so excited, I have to stop from skipping. We’re going to find out our assignment. “The final will be the same for everybody except you three.” We all look at each other in surprise. “I talked to the members of the board and they want you to incorporate what you have learned this semester along with what you’ve learned the entire time you’ve been here and make a three course meal. You will be plating five plates. I’ll be judging you by what you cook with the techniques I’ve taught you this semester and the rest of the judging will be on taste and previously taught methods. Dr. Wright, Ms. Dotson, Mr. Stewart, and J.D. will be the other judges. Are there any questions or concerns?”
“Is that fair since they haven’t been with us this entire semester?” Scott asks. Typical Scott.
“Just be spot on with taste and technique and it really shouldn’t matter who is judging. These instructors have known you since the beginning and they talk. They’re well aware of your progresses and accomplishments,” Taryn says. They all know what Scott did at Murphy’s. I’m going into this with an edge. Scott purses his lips and wisely keeps quiet.
“Do we get to practice this week at all?” I ask. Since I know to avoid fried chicken, I think of other dishes that explode with taste and are technically challenging. I need to focus on a complete meal that the judges will appreciate.
“Definitely. For three days, the entire class will work on whatever they want and I’ll be around to help. You can focus on what you want as long as they fall in the guidelines I’ve just outlined.” I nod. This is good news. “And if you want my opinion on anything, I’m here for you.”
I’m already thinking about my menu. Last year, I tried chicken mole using a chili powder instead of cutting up several types of chilies and slow cooking the sauce. The chicken was great, but the sauce really lacked that spicy, authentic punch of chilies and chocolate. I’m seriously considering making it again, but the right way. I will make a dessert soufflé, either lemon or vanilla for Taryn to show her that I do pay attention in class. I haven’t decided on the third plate. I have the best champagne dressing recipe so I’m leaning toward a salad. It’s crisp, refreshing and since the chicken mole and soufflé are filling, I need something light.
“Will you review our menus for us, if we want?” Mary asks. I know she’s nervous, but she’s really improved this semester.
“Definitely. I’m still your instructor through all of this. Don’t be afraid to come to me for help.” She looks at me and I smile. “If you have something in mind, lay it on me. I’ll tell you what I think, but know that you are free to do whatever you want.”
Mary pulls her aside to discuss her menu, so Scott and I head back to our stations. I grab a piece of paper and start my menu. The salad will be a poached pear with blue cheese chunks and cilantro. Adding cilantro to my champagne dressing will get the judges’ palates ready for the Mexican entrée. I opt for white rice for the chicken mole and a vegetable medley of peppers, zucchini, squash, onions, and tomatoes. I’ll end the meal with a Mexican vanilla soufflé. I’m not sure why I’m going with a Mexican theme, but all of the dishes complement one another well. When Taryn gets to me, I look up and have to stop myself from reaching out to her and pulling her close.
“Chef, how’s it going?” she asks.
I show her my menu and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or not. It’s a great opportunity to openly watch her without having to worry about getting caught. Her hair is down today and I remember wrapping my hands in it yesterday. I notice a slight mark on her neck and I’m tempted to tease her about it. I smile at the memory of making it.
“So why chicken with mole sauce?” she asks. I don’t really have an answer so I think for a bit.
“When I tried this last year, I didn’t use fresh ingredients and it fell flat for me. With five hours’ cooking time, I know I can do it. What do you think?”
“Are you comfortable serving such a spicy dish to your judges?” she asks.
“This is a cooking class and mastering spices is part of it. They should know they will have to eat spicy food at some point. I know you don’t mind it and I know J.D. likes spicy. Dr. Wright will focus more on my technique. I think if I slowly bring taste into the salad and end it with the mildness of the soufflé, my mole
dish can have heat. I’ll be careful so that it’s not overpowering.” She nods and recommends that I add lime to the salad dressing to help bring the flavors together. I smile at her. Great idea. “I think this is a good menu.”
She moves on to Scott. Suddenly, I want to know what the others are cooking. Mary will almost certainly win the dessert category, but I plan on practicing my soufflé today. I’ll work on my mole sauce tomorrow so that by Wednesday I can work on the salad dressing and relax until the final on Thursday. Everybody else will be done by Wednesday. Thursday, just the three of us will have the kitchen. I check the supply of Mexican vanilla and am happy there is some left. I head to the refrigerator for the rest of the ingredients. I have soufflés ready to pop into the oven in no time. My recipe makes four so Thursday I will double it and have eight just in case one or more crashes and implodes. I have thirty minutes to kill so I head over to Mary to check out her menu.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. She shows me her menu. Lamb chops with ginger potatoes and her famous strawberry shortcake.
