“Let’s get started,” he said, his tone brisk but I could still hear the note of excitement he was trying to suppress. I knew he was turned on, too. Maybe what they say is true—your other senses do get stronger when one is taken away from you.
“Hands on the counter,” he said, and before I could ask where it was, he grasped me by the shoulders, turning me around. I reached out and found the countertop, holding onto the edge. Then Chef Bryant pulled my hips toward him until my back was flat, parallel to the floor. For a moment, I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold. I was very much aware that he could see all of my ass now. The skirt of the apron was hanging straight down, not covering anything.
He wasn’t done positioning me, yet. “Spread your legs.” I took a small step out to either side, but it evidently wasn't enough, because I felt the toe of his boot nudging my feet farther apart. “Arch your back … stick you butt out … perfect. Gotta tell you, love, this view right here is worth the trip.”
Oh god. How could I be so humiliated and so damn turned on at the same time? He had this way of making me feel both things at the same time. No wonder I couldn’t ever think straight around him. He was a master at mixing up my emotions.
His hand slid down my back, tracing my spine in long strokes. I felt like a cat being petted, and since my back was arched and my butt rising in the air, I probably looked like one, too. His hand settled on the middle of my ass, I felt him shift, getting into a good position for spanking, no doubt. It was exquisite torture to hold myself still, exposed to him, waiting for him to make my skin sting. But I also didn’t want to be anywhere else at this moment.
He removed his hand, and a second later it slapped down on me, making me yelp. “Shh,” he said, though we were alone in the building. “You can take this.” And I could—it was just hard. Hard to stay still. Hard to admit, even to myself, that I liked playing this way. But there was no doubt I did.
The second smack stung as much as the first one. This time, he also reached under my chest, sliding his free hand under the apron, and grasping my nipple and tugging on it. I moaned, the sound turning into a shriek as the third smack landed. Then he switched to my other nipple accompanied by another smack.
He cupped my breast, flattening it against my chest, and struck for the fifth time. This one was the hardest, and it made me cry out—but the sound I made was nothing compared to a moment later when he plunged two fingers inside my wet slit. I gasped and almost came on the spot. He pumped in and out five times, one for each spanking, and then his fingers were gone and I nearly collapsed on the floor. If he’d just done that for a few seconds longer, I would’ve come. As it was, I was panting as if I’d just run a mile. That’s how turned on he’d gotten me.
Chef Bryant let go of my breast, but I could still feel his warmth against my side. And then I heard a slight slurping sound. Blushing, I realized he was licking his fingers.
“I told you,” he said. “Like crème brûlée.”
A few minutes later, I was sitting on the countertop again, my bare ass resting on the stainless steel. I was still blindfolded, and I still had the apron on—for now. Chef Bryant was moving around the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what he was doing. “I’m not going to be able to look the health inspector in the eye the next time he comes in here.”
“That’s okay.” From the direction of his voice, I knew he was at a cooking station across the room. “You look cute when you blush.” His footsteps drew nearer, and then I felt the heat of his body in front of me again. “Take off your apron.”
A jolt of electricity shot through me, followed by panic. He was right there, right in front of me. Even though he’d just seen most of me, it was still a big step to shed this final piece of clothing. “Please … it’s hard. Can’t you just do it?” That would make it easier. That would take it out of my control.
“I did it last time, love. Peeled it off of you inch by inch. It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever done. But this time, I want you to do it. I want to get reacquainted with that bold, sexy woman who emerges when you forget that you’re Shy Little Cheyenne. So take it off.”
I gulped. “Can’t you take my blindfold off?” That way, I’d at least know what body part he was looking at.
“No,” he said simply. “Do it now.”
Oh god. It turned me on when he was this dominant, but that didn’t make it easy. I sat up straighter and moved my hands behind my back, untying the straps at my waist. Then I did the one at my neck, but the apron still clung to me. I knew it wouldn’t fall from this position. I’d have to take it off.
Apparently, he knew that, too. “Hand it to me.”
Slowly, I grasped the neckline, easing it away from my breasts … then my abdomen … then my thighs. I held it out, and a moment later, he took it. Before I could think what to do with my hands, he’d taken them in his, and his lips descended on mine, kissing the corner of my mouth, across my cheek, and then nibbling on my earlobe. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed into my ear.
It felt heavenly. It felt sinful. And it felt disappointing when he pulled away.
“Time for your second test,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
THIS ONE WOULD be about my sense of touch, he’d said. Another sense that was important to a chef.
“If it’s about the sense of touch, why are you tying my hands behind my back?” I inquired, feeling it was a reasonable question. But it was hard to let reason prevail when he was leaning over me, his body pressed against mine as he wrapped the flimsy apron around my wrists behind my back.
“Because your sense of touch is not just about your hands. You have nerve endings all over your body.” He demonstrated this by running his fingertips down my leg from the top of my thigh to bottom of my foot. It made me shiver.
“I’ve gathered ten items from around the kitchen. Again, you have to guess seven correctly.”
Wait a second. What exactly did he plan to do with those items? “Umm … you’re not …”
He laughed, apparently guessing my fear. “Don’t worry. The only thing going inside you tonight is me.”
Oh good, I thought, my shoulders slumping in relief. And oh my, I thought, moisture gathering between my legs.
“Hold still,” he said. “Here’s the first one. Just concentrate on the sensation.”
Something hard pressed against my inner thigh. Reflexively, I moved my legs apart before realizing that might not be a wise idea. But the object moved to the top of my thigh, and then higher, rubbing in circles around my hip. It was hard to tell, but it felt like plastic. But not a spoon. It seemed like there were several points of contact. It actually felt nice, dancing across my skin, almost like a backscratcher. And then I knew. “A spaghetti server.”
“Good.” He tossed it on the counter with a clanking sound. “How about this one?”
This time, he pressed something soft and flexible against my stomach. I squirmed as he moved it higher, running it between my breasts. Whatever it was, it was thin. And flexible. And, apparently, capable of tickling. “Rubber spatula?” I squeaked, trying not to giggle from its feather-light touch.
“Yes,” he said, and a moment later, he lightly tapped it against first one nipple, and then the other.
It didn’t hurt, but it made me jump anyway. “What was that for?” I was doing well, I didn’t need a punishment.
“Because I wanted to,” he said smugly. Seemed like a good enough reason to me.
I got the next two right, a wire whisk and a wooden spoon. Then I missed melon baller. I’d thought it was a measuring spoon. The next one was a funnel. He’d tugged on my hair to tilt my head back, then placed the narrow end in my mouth. I guessed what it was even before he poured a few drops of wine into it. That was five right.
The next one was a meat tenderizer, grazed lightly over the skin of my calf, and I got that one right, too. Only one more, and then I’d get a reward. A reward from Chef Bryant. That was something I really wanted to experience
.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Chef Bryant,” I breathed, hoping it would be an easy one. A moment later, there was a slight pinch at my nipple. Something small but solid was holding it firmly, tugging gently. A smile cross my lips even as I moaned from the way my clit responded to the soft pulling on my nipples.
“Chopsticks,” I said, and he let go of one nipple and moved to the other.
“For old time’s sake,” he said, skillfully capturing my other nipple. “And that’s seven correct, love. You’ve earned yourself a reward.”
* * *
“Anything I want for dessert?” I was standing next to him, still naked, but I was no longer blindfolded and my hands were untied.
“Anything in the entire world. You name it, I can prepare it for you.”
“Are you sure?”
He moved closer, looking in my eyes. “Are you doubting my cooking skills? Because that sounds like the perfect way to end up with an even redder ass.”
“No, not doubting,” I said quickly, trying to stifle a giggle. “Just making sure that you do really mean anything.”
He rolled his eyes. “I do. So tell me what you want for dessert.”
“It’s really easy to prepare…” I began, a mischievous smile on my face.
“If you say something like a pre-made brownie mix, I’ll be on the next plane out of here.”
“Nope, it’s not that,” I said, moving toward him. “It’s something you’ve prepared for me several times.” At that, he cocked his head sideways, one eyebrow raised. “In fact, I think you’ve already got it ready for me.” Looking him in the eyes, I reached a finger out and traced the outline of the bulge in his jeans, feeling the hard heat under the denim.
His face registered surprise, and I hooked my free hand around his neck, pulling his head down. His mouth descended onto mine, and I closed my eyes, burrowing into his side. My naked body pressed into his fully clothed one, and it was hot as hell. But I wasn’t going to let him stay fully clothed for long.
As we kissed, I undid the button of his jeans and eased his zipper down. He groaned against my mouth as I slid my hand inside his jeans, feeling the heat of his hard cock. He was the only man I’d ever known who shaved down there—I think it was a Hollywood thing. For six months I’d regretted that I’d never gotten to take his cock into my mouth. No way was I missing out again.
A last he broke the kiss with one last tug on my lower lip. “That wasn’t on the dessert menu, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”
“Good,” I said, and I let go of his cock and put my hands on his chest, pushing him back against the counter.
“So forceful,” he teased.
“My kitchen, my way,” I said with a wink. It was fun to use one of his favorite catch phrases to turn the tables on him.
“Should I be worried? Maybe you should give me a safe word,” he said, his world-famous crooked smile very much in evidence.
“Maybe you should just take your shirt off.”
“Yes, Chef Cheyenne,” he said, and I laughed. He could tease, but him being submissive was about as likely as him serving hot dogs and potato chips at one of his restaurants. And I was glad. I liked the way he was. I liked the way I was when I was with him.
His shirt was off, and I had to take a moment to admire the great expanse of hard muscles on his chest. God, I could stare at him all night. But I was a woman on a mission.
Standing in front of him, I eased his jeans and boxers down his hips. He leaned away from the counter just enough for me to slide his clothes down his firm backside. Stretching the fabric around his straining cock was a different challenge altogether, but it was one I was thrilled to engage in.
Once his jeans and boxers got to his thighs, I bent down, but it was harder going. Harder because it was pretty much impossible to tear my eyes away from the huge cock bobbing in my face. It was easily the biggest cock I’d ever seen, and the fact that he shaved made it look even larger. My gaze never left it as I crouched on the ground, hastily removing one boot at a time.
Finally I got his boots and jeans off. Now we were both naked. Thankfully.
My hands clumsy with anticipation, I folded up his jeans and placed them between his spread legs. I kneeled on top of them, the rough denim only providing a little cushion from the hard concrete floor, but it was enough. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I were kneeling on sandpaper.
I placed my hands on his thighs and looked up to find his hazel eyes staring down at me. “I was wrong before,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “This is the view that made the trip worthwhile.”
Still looking him in the eye, I licked my lips, moving my head closer to the engorged tip of his cock. My mouth was inches away. Then closer. Then closer still. And when I licked my lips again, I touched the very tip of his cock, and I pushed my tongue against the little slit at the end. He let out a gasp the second I touched him, and I was pleased to know I’d caused that sound.
I slipped my lips over the head, letting the soft inside of my mouth caress his taut skin. Turning my head, I made a tight circle around the wide bulb, my tongue flicking from side to side. Applying suction, I drank him in a little further, still swirling with my tongue.
His hips thrust forward an inch or two, and I knew he wanted me to take more of him in my mouth. But he’d certainly teased me, made me wait before. Now it was his turn to wait. But I did move another half inch down his shaft, circling with my tongue, slurping with my lips.
Keeping one hand on his thigh for balance, I teased my other hand up and down his thigh, getting closer and closer to his heavy balls. Even those appeared to be shaved, and I briefly wondered what man in his right mind would let a razor get near such a sensitive body part.
Chef Bryant’s hand landed in my hair, and I moaned against his cock as he fisted a handful of my dark strands. Taking the hint, I bobbed my head up and down a little faster, relaxing my throat, taking more of him in. I was cupping his balls now, lightly lifting them, teasing them gently with my fingertips.
“God, yes, that’s it, love. Just like that,” he said, gripping my hair tighter.
Encouraged, I brought my other hand up and wrapped it around the base of his shaft. He was so long that my mouth and my hand together couldn’t cover him all. But I did the best I could with my lips, tongue, and fingers all working in unison, and judging from his deep and rumbly groans he was making, he didn’t have any complaints.
Faster and faster I went, tasting the evidence of his arousal, loving how much I was turning him on. He kept thrusting against me, but not too far. Not enough to make me gag. It was hot the way it felt so urgent as I sucked and licked and stroked with my hand. He groaned and his fist tightened in my hair.
Suddenly, he pulled out of my mouth. Now it was my turn to groan, this time in disappointment, but then he had his hands under my arms and was lifting me to my feet. He switched our positions, pushing me toward the counter, my back to him. A moment later, his jeans landed on the countertop, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him fish a condom out of the pocket.
With a blur of motion, he grabbed me by the hips and lifted, pushing my breasts and stomach onto the expanse of stainless steel. My hips and legs dangled off the edge of the counter, my feet not touching the ground, but then strong hands descended around my thighs, spreading them.
Something tickled my slit and I knew he was there, poised to push into me. “Please,” I said breathlessly. “Please take me.”
It was all the invitation he needed. I cried out with pleasure when the biggest cock I’d ever encountered thrust into me for the second time in my life. My shriek melted into a voiceless gasp as he filled me so deeply. That first thrust felt unbelievably good. He pulled back and I braced myself, and then he slammed into me again. God, it was incredible. I wanted more. I needed more. I needed him to make me scream, and I wasn’t too proud to ask for it.
“Please … take me. Ride me. Hard.”
“Your kitchen,
your way,” he said, grunting with effort as he pushed inside me.
“Our way,” I panted, barely able to form the syllables.
“Works for me,” he said, never letting up.
Each long, powerful stroke went deep inside me, deeper than anyone had been except him. Each stroke filled me. Completed me. We fit together so well. We were from opposite worlds, and opposite ends of the country, but here, we worked. In the kitchen, we made sense. And when he was inside me, our differences disappeared.
He altered his strokes now, some shallow and fast, some harder and deep, but with a gradual build up that was driving me wild. My breasts were sliding across the counter, but I barely noticed. I squeezed my legs around his, and he let go of one of my thighs, his hand plunging into my hair.
Now he was tugging on a fistful of hair as he rode me, and it pushed me so close. “Please,” I gasped as he pounded into me even harder. “Please ….please, I need to come. Oh god …”
“Wait,” he ordered. His breathing was ragged, too, but he was still in control. Really, it was my kitchen, his way. I’d known that all along, but I wasn’t about to argue it right now. “Almost there …”
But I felt the orgasm building inside me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He knew I was close, and he thrust even deeper, even faster, and then I exploded into bliss, barely away that I was screaming my head off as my body thrashed around on the countertop. Tremors radiated through me from head to toe as I shouted how good it felt. As I shouted his name.
With one final thrust, his cock spasmed deep inside me, as he held me tight, his grip on my hair painful but I barely noticed. If he hadn’t been holding me down, I probably would have fallen off the counter by now.
Still riding the delicious waves of pleasure, I repeated his name like a mantra as he pulsed deep inside me. It wasn’t until he finally collapsed on top of me, his chest pressed against my back, both of us breathing heavily, that I realized I’d been using his first name.
The name I’d called out as I’d had the most powerful orgasm of my life had been Callum.
Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance Page 9
