He placed something similar on my other side. This time, as his hand moved past my face, I caught the scent of seafood. And then I knew. He was plating the sushi, arranging it artistically as we had before. Only this time, I was the platter. My body was the display case for our culinary creations.
The apron rolled back another inch or two. It was still covering my nipples, but just barely. Chef Bryant placed two more pieces of sushi along my breast bone. They were so light, I barely felt them.
I’d heard about this being done, but I’d always assumed that it was more urban legend than actual practice. Like maybe it’d been done in olden times. Or maybe it was still done in Japan or a few high-end hedonistic restaurants somewhere in the world. I wondered if Chef Bryant had ever done this before.
I swallowed carefully, trying not to dislodge the sushi resting on my chest. “Has anyone ever pointed out that you have a bit of an Asian fetish?” I asked, my voice steadier than I’d expected it to be.
“Once or twice,” he said, sounding amused. He placed two more pieces above my breasts near my arms. I tried to hold still, but I was tense. It didn’t feel like there was any more room for him to place more sushi without lowering the apron.
A moment later, he peeled the apron down further and a small gasp escaped my lips. I could tell by the cool air on my breasts that yet another part of my body was now exposed to him. I could practically feel his gaze on my chest, and I wondered if he liked what he saw.
He leaned over me as he placed a series of small rolls below my breasts. Then he balanced some kind of round roll directly on my left breast. It felt like he was trying to line up the creamy center of the roll with my hardened nipple. Then he did the same on the other side. His hands left me, and I fought to keep from squirming. Chef Bryant, the world-renown Chef Bryant, had just touched my breasts. Unbelievable.
“So what about you?”
His words made me start. He’d been so quiet, and with my sight restricted, I’d been completely focused on my sense of touch. “What do you mean?”
“You said I have an Asian fetish. What’s your fetish?”
Jeesh. How was I supposed to answer that?
“Or kinks. Tell me, love. What turns you on?”
I couldn’t help shifting nervously, and he instantly put his broad hand on my stomach, a warning to stay still. “I—just, you know, I like regular stuff.” My voice was so faint it was almost a whisper.
“Tell me,” he said, more firmly. “What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself at night? Bondage? Threesomes? Me?”
That last word made me jump in earnest, pushing against his strong palm. Then I froze, well aware that my reaction had given me away. He confirmed it with a low chuckle. “Good to know.”
Mortified, I held myself still as more small pieces were placed on my stomach. When that was full, Chef Bryant pulled the apron past my navel to my hips. Soon I could tell that there wasn’t anymore room on my abdomen.
“You’re doing a great job of holding still, love. It looks beautiful. You look beautiful. It’s going to be an absolutely stunning presentation. Just you wait and see.”
In spite of my embarrassment, I was thrilled with his words. He’d called me beautiful. Okay, maybe he meant his food on my body, but still …
“I’m going to remove the apron now,” he said, his hand settling on me again, and my body jolted as my mind swung back toward mortification. I felt a piece of sushi wobble and fall off my stomach. I couldn’t help but tense all over, but I tried to remain still, to not dislodge anything else.
Chef Bryant’s voice was authoritative but calm above me. “Do you want to stop, Shy Little Cheyenne? Time for some licorice and a trip back to mum and dad?”
I froze, debating. I wanted him touching me, I wanted to be near him. But it was also so intimidating. I’d had one boyfriend in high school, and the summer after graduation, we’d gone all the way a few times before he went off to college. Then I’d had another boyfriend for a little over a year when I was twenty-one.
But they’d been boys. Chef Bryant was a man. A strong, commanding, dominant man. I didn’t want this to end, but I also wasn’t sure I was brave enough to be completely naked, blindfolded, and spread out in front of him.
“I’m waiting, love. Use your safe word, or I’ll continue.”
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth—and said nothing. A moment later I closed it again.
“That’s a good girl,” he said, and he began stroking his fingers over my hipbones. “I think you do want this, but you really are shy. That’s okay. It’s refreshing, actually.” His fingers spread, slipping under the apron, rubbing my sensitive skin. Heat radiated from his touch.
“But you know what I think?” he continued. “I think there’s a bad girl in there somewhere. She’s the one who volunteered to put on the apron. She’s the one who chose the fuck-me heels. She’s the one who put an extra wiggle in her walk. I’m pretty sure I can get her to come out and play. But not just yet. Have to finish this first.”
When I felt the apron slide down off my thighs, I didn’t even gasp—I was still reeling from his wicked words about my supposed bad girl side. Still, I felt a sudden wave of panic. He could see me. All of me. He was looking at me right now. I drew a loud breath in and the sushi on my chest wobbled.
“I’m going to cover you up. For now,” he said, and I felt a something soft descend over my center—perhaps a small cloth or dishrag. I focused on calming my breathing so that the sushi wouldn’t fall off.
“I’m adding some of the flourishes we created before,” he said, and I felt him line the cloth with the leaves of seaweed that had adorned the sushi platters earlier. The leaves were so light that I couldn’t even feel them unless he brushed one against my sensitive skin.
Now that my core was covered, my fear receded. Excitement returned as his hands and fingers brushed against my pelvis. He was balancing sushi on my hips and my upper thighs. Slightly heavier pieces were put on the cloth where my torso met my legs.
He worked silently, and I could picture the look of concentration on his face. I’d seen that look hundreds of times all those years I’d watched him on TV. I’d watched every show, every behind-the-scenes feature. I’d studied the interviews he’d given about his restaurants. I’d even eaten in one when my friends and I spent a long weekend in NYC after high school graduation.
I’d thought I knew a lot about him, but once I’d arrived at the competition, I saw new sides of him. In the kitchen, he was a force of nature. He somehow combined the qualities of the most talented chef, a savvy businessman, and a general leading his troops into battle. The few times I’d seen him outside of the kitchen, such as the initial off-camera welcome dinner for all the contestants, I’d witnessed a few instances of his relaxed side. It made me like him even more.
But now I knew that none of that had been the real Callum Bryant. Maybe even now I hadn’t truly met the real man behind the media persona, but I’d certainly caught glimpses of him tonight. I’d seen him flirt. I’d seen him be compassionate. I’d heard him talk about his past. I’d felt him open up. Sure, he closed down again, retreated behind a cocky male arrogance that he had every right to project. But I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for this opportunity to get closer to a man I’d admired from afar my entire adult life.
And I wasn’t an idiot. I knew that this didn’t end with us riding off into the sunset together, much as I wanted it to. But I was going to enjoy it while it lasted. And if that meant experiencing some embarrassment, then so be it. Besides, Chef Bryant had a way of combining that embarrassment with delicious feelings of anticipation and excitement. It was clear that he was in complete control inside the kitchen and out of it. And damn, if that didn’t turn me on.
A few more minutes and he was done. He stepped back and gave a low whistle. “Now that is a stunning display. Just gorgeous. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
As he walked away, I tried to imagine what I looked li
ke. I now had sushi on both arms and legs as well as my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. I couldn’t picture myself as a human platter, but then again, what person could?
He returned, set something on the counter that made a thud. He cupped the back of my head. “Keep your eyes closed until I tell you open them.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, and he untied the blindfold and eased it off me. Even through my closed lids, I could sense the brightness of the overhead lights. It made me feel nervous. Not only was I naked, but there were lights on me, like I was in a display window.
Chef Bryant stroked my hair, smoothing the parts that had gotten out of place when the blindfold came off. “Open your eyes.”
I did so, cautiously, and the first thing I saw was his piercing hazel eyes staring down at me. He was smiling, an eager smile, clearly anticipating my reaction. He was holding a mirror angled over my chest so that I could see myself.
Oh my god, it really was stunning. The artfully arranged rolls adorning my body looked like something out of a magazine spread, though I wasn’t sure what magazine it was more likely to be in—Bon Appetit or Playboy.
He shifted the mirror slightly, and I could see my legs, the delicate bites of sushi resting on my thighs and shins. At my center, a large spicy California roll cut into nine pieces was elegantly arranged on the small white cloth covering me. And my breasts! The two round pieces balanced in the center of my breasts were tuna rolls. I’m sure it was no accident that those rolls had dark red middles making it look like I had huge, 3D nipples. But other than that wicked indulgence on his part, everything else was beautifully arranged.
At last he laid the mirror aside. “What do you think?”
“It’s a work of art,” I said, truthfully.
“You’re a work of art,” he corrected. “Too bad we can’t take a picture and put it on the show’s webpage.”
He reached under the counter and opened a drawer, pulling out two sets of wooden chopsticks. “Hungry?”
“Yes, Chef Bryant,” I said, a small chuckle escaping my lips. How often did one volunteer to eat the only “clothes” she was wearing? But I’d been dying to taste the sushi ever since we started making it. Everything he’d had a hand in making had been absolutely incredible so far. Plus, what else were we going to do with the sushi besides eat it? It’s not like he could slide me into the refrigerator and save it for another day.
With admirable chopstick skills, he plucked a piece of halibut off my stomach. He lowered it to my mouth and I took a small bite. It was a little awkward chewing while lying down, but it was tender, seasoned, and absolutely delicious. He popped the rest of the piece in his mouth, making a noise of appreciation.
Next was the marbled tuna, then the fresh water eel, then some calamari. “Delicious,” I breathed.
“I honestly think it tastes better this way,” he said with a smile. “Maybe you should be on our menu.”
I laughed, then opened my mouth as he fed me a scrumptious bite of Spanish mackerel on rice that he’d taken from my upper thigh. “Where’s the scallop? Can I try that?” He scanned my body for a moment and then plucked a piece off of my shin. “That’s my favorite one yet,” I said.
“Next one for me is the tekka maki,” he said.
Frowning, I tried to remember which one that was. My knowledge of sushi was not the greatest. But then it came to me. Tekka maki. That meant tuna roll. And that … that was on my breast.
I gasped, and he grinned when he saw I’d made the connection. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll give you the other one.”
My breath caught in my throat as his chopsticks closed around the small roll balanced on my left breast. He picked it up and popped the whole thing in his mouth. “Delicious,” he said. “So delicious it makes me want to lick the plate.” I couldn’t help but smile at that, even as I felt a blush steal over my face.
He captured the other tuna roll off my right breast and brought it to my lips. It took me a while to chew it. Eating while lying on my back was not the easiest thing ever—especially when he kept doing things to make blood rush to other parts of my body. I could see my nipples jutting upwards where the tuna rolls had been.
I sneaked a peak at him, but he wasn’t looking at my breasts. Instead, he was watching my expression with an amused smirk. He knew exactly the turmoil I was feeling—embarrassment, arousal, fear, excitement. He knew what I was feeling, and he was enjoying the play of emotions across my face.
To break the silence, I said, “You’re pretty handy with those chopsticks.”
“I taught myself how to use them when I was a kid,” he said. He took a piece of the Spanish mackerel and offered it to me, but I shook my head, watching him. His face was sober now, the way it had been when he mentioned feeling out of place during his time in Asia. He scooped up a section of the California roll, held it in the air for a moment, and then set it down without taking a bite.
After a long moment, he spoke again. “There weren’t any restaurants that served Asian food where I grew up. During my first trip to Sydney, we dined in a Chinese restaurant, and I loved it. When we got home, I carved two chopsticks out of twigs with my pocket knife. I held them wrong when I used them, but I still got them to work. ”
It was a strange image, thinking of him as a boy, longing for knowledge about the wider world he’d never seen. A kid in that position nowadays would be able to hop online and find out everything there was to know about using chopsticks and Asian cooking. He obviously hadn’t had that option. I’d never thought about that before.
And come to think of it, I’d never heard that story before, either. It seemed like a great anecdote—how the rich, powerful chef had come from nothing and reached such great heights. The media usually ate that kind of stuff up. But that story had never been included in any of the interviews or magazine articles I’d seen about him. Was I the first person he’d ever told it to?
He was looking off in the distance, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Sometimes I’d use them at the dinner table. My family all thought I was daft. All my older brothers were ranch hands. They couldn’t understand why I wanted to help my mum in the kitchen. And she couldn’t understand why I wanted to try new ways of cooking instead of the same meat and potatoes every night.”
My parents had been nothing but supportive of my dreams of culinary greatness. I wanted to reach out and hug him, but that was impossible for several reasons, not the least of which was that I was still covered in sushi, I was naked, and he was Bryant the Tyrant, world-famous celebrity chef.
He must have seen my look of sympathy, because he broke into a wicked grin, which seemed to be his attempt to facially change the subject. “So yeah, I am pretty good with these things,” he said. He snapped them several times in the air then zeroed in on my left nipple, capturing it deftly between the tips of the chopsticks.
I let out a surprised shriek and then another one when he gave a little tug. Then he released that nipple and seized the other one. And just like that, I was back to panting and breathing heavily, very aware of my nearly naked body next to his fully-clothed one.
“Want anything else to eat?” he said, and I shook my head, careful not to dislodge any of the remaining pieces. “The nipple rolls look fabulous tonight,” he teased.
“I’m good,” I said, my voice a bit breathless. I wondered what would happen next.
“I’ll clear the table then,” he said with a wink. “Hold still for a bit longer.”
He quickly gathered up the remaining sushi, stacking it back on the platters we’d used earlier. When he was done, I felt exposed again, but more comfortable this time. Strangely enough, I was getting used to it—and eagerly anticipating our next lesson.
Chef Bryant put the sushi in the fridge and came back to my side. His eyes met mine, but I couldn’t read what I saw there. “So…” I said hesitantly. “What now?”
“Now?” he said, his eyebrows drawing together. “Now nothing. That was it. The last lesson.”
&nbs
p; “What?” I said, shocked. Surely it wasn’t going to end like this? “But you could show me … there are so many things I still need to learn.”
“And you will learn them, love. Over a lifetime of cooking. Not over the course of one evening.”
“But … but … I still need to learn how to—”
“You need to have confidence in yourself,” he interrupted. “That’s what you lack most. And that doesn’t come from cooking lessons. You’re done with those. You’ve graduated.”
I couldn’t believe this. After all we’d done tonight, that was it? I suddenly felt exposed in a bad way and moved one arm up to cover my chest. “Graduated?” I repeated, weakly.
“Yes, you’ve graduated,” he said holding my gaze for a long, slow minute in which time seemed to stop. And then his mouth curved up into his trademark crooked grin. “Care to celebrate?”
Chapter Seven
LAUGHING AT THE surprise that must have shown on my face, Chef Bryant grabbed the arm I’d just covered my breasts with and pulled me toward him. His other hand dipped under my shoulders, lifting them. At last, our lips met.
The heat from his mouth melted away my shock, and I plunged my hand into his dark, glossy hair. Finally. Finally I was in his arms.
He kissed the corner of my mouth and worked his way toward my ear. “As if I’d let my fantasy China doll go that easily,” he growled. His lips traveled down my throat, tickling, teasing, tasting. I kept my arms wrapped around his head, stroking his thick hair.
His skillful mouth moved to the top of my breast and then captured my nipple, much like he had with the chopsticks before. I moaned, deep in my throat. My back arched and I pushed up against his sinfully delicious lips. He kissed his way over to my other nipple and swirled his tongue around it, sucking lightly. At last, he pulled away, tugging at my nipple gently until it popped out of his mouth.
Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance Page 5
