by JD Hawkins
“Not when. Now.” He extends his arm to reveal his designer watch and checks it. “Knife’s been closed a couple of hours now. So we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves.”
I down my drink like I’m heading to war.
“You’re on,” I say, already sliding out of the booth. “Let’s go.”
But as I march confidently toward the exit, I can’t help wondering if this is the chance of a lifetime or the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
5
Cole
In the back of the cab I manage to pull my attention away from the golden skin of Willow’s legs just long enough to call ahead to the restaurant. It’s late enough that the dish washers should be just about done, but I need to make sure. When they answer, I tell them to take an early night, that I’m bringing private guests. It’s not an unusual request, so I know they’ll be gone soon.
Willow stares out of the window intently, tapping her fingers against her lush mouth. She’s probably thinking of what to cook. I don’t mind her silence, since it gives me a chance to gorge on the sight of her body, to drink her curves in, get drunk on them. By the time the car pulls up outside Knife I’m woozy with lust. Irrational, alcohol-infused imagination doing all kinds of things with that taut body beside me.
“You figured out what you’re gonna cook yet?” I tease, as the cab speeds away leaving empty air between us.
She gives only a tight, mystic smile as response. There’s too much solid determination about her now to entertain me. The laid back, graceful elegance she’s had up to this point now replaced by a directed poise, as much precise strength as it is focused determination. She turns and walks up to the restaurant with catwalk straightness, so fast that I almost have to quicken my gait to catch up to her.
“Are you going to be able to give me a hand?” she asks as I unlock the door.
I push it open for her.
“I’m not good at taking orders.”
“That’s ok,” Willow smiles as she steps through. “I’m good at giving them.”
Before I can even close the door behind me she’s making a beeline for the kitchen, tying an apron on around that tight dress and somehow still managing to look just as hot. I watch her pulling pans from the rack, firing up the stove, moving around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. She rushes past me at pace, ferrying a few bottles to the counter.
“Grab me a couple pounds of mince,” she calls out, her voice projected and sharp now, the kind of voice you develop working in a loud environment. “Red peppers—long enough to have some spice—and start chopping a sweet onion. Chopped, not diced.”
I get an adrenaline rush at her words, pulse racing at being ordered about by someone so purposeful, hot, and focused. It’s been too long since I actually cooked so hands-on, and even longer since someone told me what to do in a kitchen, or anyplace else.
I watch her, smiling a little as she chops a few cloves of garlic as fine as powder in a matter of seconds, only half-hearing. She stops a second to look at me sternly.
“If you’re not helping, you’re getting in my way.”
There she goes again with that mouth. You don’t spend your entire life fighting your way to the top, then fighting everybody who tries to knock you off, to be spoken to like that. But I somehow find myself grinning, wondering if this girl knows how hot she sounds, how badly I’d like to rip that apron off her and give her my own set of orders, orders that have nothing to do with food.
“Yes ma’am,” I drawl agreeably, pulling off my suit jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves to get to work.
For the next fifteen minutes she works the kitchen up into a storm of aromas. Grilling Mexican chorizo with the beef patties, baking rolls that smell as sweet as cake, flash-frying herbed potatoes. My mouth waters as plumes of spicy smoke rise and unfurl around us—so admittedly, she may have had a point about the tiny portion sizes. I tune into her working rhythm, watching her move from task to task amid a cacophony of sizzles, slammed oven doors, the rhythmic beat of knife on wood to the low rumbling of boiling water.
“Where is this chorizo from?” she asks, as she chops it carefully.
I stop mixing the minced meat with my hands—as per her instructions—to smile at her.
“A little place down in the Argentinian pampas. Beautiful place,” I say, then lean in to her and lower my voice. “You’d love it.”
She stops cutting for a second, looking up at me and noticing how close I am. For a second that professional demeanor breaks, a little smile, a slight blush, a little flick of the hair before she’s back to business again.
“I’m sure I would, if I ever get the chance to go.”
I think about telling her I’d take her, half consider my schedule and wonder if I can drop everything right now to charter a plane there for both of us. But before my mind wanders too far off-course, Willow pulls me back into the cooking with another command.
She’s laser-focused on the food, switching between disciplines almost frantically, but always poised, always in control, oblivious to the way I’m eating her up with my eyes. An embodiment of my two favorite things: beautiful women and great food. The sight of her toned legs as she squats to check the oven, the red kick of grilled peppers in my sinuses, the arch of her back as she leans over to check the pot, the crackle of hot oil touching coriander seeds. A synesthesia of sensual gratification, stirring a heart-pounding hunger inside of me now, my blood hot as oil, muscles tensing in anticipation, this woman glorious enough to devour.
I’m so distracted by thoughts of what I’d do to her body on an impromptu vacation that I barely notice when she finishes, plating the food as I study the taut curve of her thighs.
We stand side-by-side at the counter, and she looks at me directly for the first time since we started, pulling off her apron and tossing it aside.
“It’s a rush job,” she says, suddenly looking a little nervous. “I would take a little longer with the buns—I know this great Eastern European way of making them super light. And if I really had time I might consider alubia beans—but I doubt it.”
I tear my gaze away from those soft eyes to look at the plate, gathering some sense of civility about my senses as I see what it is in its final form, coming back down to earth with a bump. I might be worked up enough to feel the electricity on my skin, but I didn’t get to where I am without putting rationality first, without putting food above even the kind of crazy thoughts she’s pulling from me.
“It’s…a burger,” I say, blank, firm, and disappointed.
“No!” Willow says, a note of panic in her voice. She points at it as if to direct my critical look back toward it. “I mean…yes. Sort of. But it’s a chorizo Kobe burger with garlic aioli, lime-zested mustard. It’s Basque-influenced, only a short walk from the snobby French-oriented stuff you serve.”
After a pause I take a deep breath and say, “Still, it’s a burger. You think that’s going to sit well on a menu next to beef bourguignon and bourride rapheloise?”
“You need something like this on the menu,” Willow says, temper flaring a little now. “Every main we have is so rich and full, but the textures are all similar. It’s all sauce-based. This has just as much richness of flavor with a somewhat drier texture. I can guarantee people would appreciate this.” I glare at her, unconvinced. “I’ve made a variation of this with Roquefort cheese, too—if you really think it’s not ‘Michelin star’ enough.”
I let out a long sigh.
“Do I have to say it again?”
“What’s wrong with it being a burger?” Willow snaps. “Everybody in this country eats burgers—from the poorest families to the overpaid actors you call your clientele. Even vegans make them.”
“Precisely,” I say calmly. “Everybody makes burgers. So why would we?”
“Oh I see,” Willow says, folding arms, fully offended now. “It’s not ‘pretentious’ enough for you, is it? Not ‘extravagant’ or ‘upmarket’ enough for your exalted customers?”
/> I glance at the burger again. It looks good, there’s no doubt about it. Ingredients prepared so well my mouth is watering even with everything else going on, even though I’ve already eaten. I look back at her.
“It’s upmarket,” I say, “for sure. Looks great, smells great. But it’s still a burger. Still just an elaborate version of something you can get for a dollar.” I push myself off the counter and start to turn, shrugging a little apologetically as I turn to leave. “It’s not for Knife. Sorry.”
I haven’t even taken a single step before Willow grabs my arm and yanks me back toward her, face twisted with outrage now.
“You’re not even going to taste it?!”
“I just told you. It’s not right—”
She picks the burger up and holds it in front of me, aiming it high like she’s about to smear my face with it.
“Just taste it. One bite.”
I laugh gently.
“Willow, we should—”
“Taste it,” she says, moving herself to squeeze me between the counter and her slim body, giving me no room to escape. So close I can see the glistening in her eyes, the way they’re flickering between mine, the burger poised to push into my mouth.
For a few seconds I don’t say anything, lost in the feel of her body lightly pressing against mine, lost in the hypnotizingly slight rise and fall of her cleavage. She’s so close now I can almost see the trembling passion that lies just beneath that golden skin.
I release a little of the tension in my expression, put a hand over her wrist to hold it steady, and lean forward to take a bite of the burger, eyes never leaving hers. I release my grip and she heaves a breath before sighing a gentle, slightly victorious smile, taking a bite herself before laying it on the plate behind me.
It’s good. Really good. The meat juicy enough to roll and push the flavors in my mouth like waves. The dull thud of the garlic mayonnaise setting up the spiky kicks of zest and chili. Arugula and onion relish fighting to set a bed of peppery, warm sensuality on the tongue. Even the buns—obviously rushed and a little less risen than they should be, but cooked with spelt, absorbing the juices of the meat and sausage, the run of the relish, are worthy of a pastry chef’s respect. The balance and refinement of the textures, the revelation of broad, natural combinations, everything build up to something…exceptional. So good it ignites the passion within me, attunes me once again to raw sensuality, to the perfect form standing in front of me and the intense urges she’s teasing from some primal depth.
“This is…better than I expected,” I say, withholding further comment. Willow’s face is hungry, awaiting more. I like this expression, and I take a few moments to savor it.
Food can do a lot of things. It can ease the pain of a hungry stomach, or it can slam you into the past, a memory you’ve long forgotten. It can be filler for the empty space in your body, your heart, or your mind. Maybe I’ve spent too long eating food that was better appreciated in photographs, food so meticulous and contrived in its conception that it made you feel the presence of the chef. Some food makes a critic of you, and other food reminds you that you’re flesh and blood, beating heart and lusting tongue.
“Better than expected, yes,” Willow urges, gesturing at the plate, “but what else do you think?”
I let the words disappear, feeling too animal to talk now, too physical to think.
“I think it’s sensational,” I say, slowly. “You’re an incredible cook.”
She lets out a sigh of relief, but my cock hears something different in her gasping exhale. I bring my thumb slowly to a speck at the side of her mouth, fingers resting on the round perfection of her jawline. She stills under my touch and catches my gaze, time slowing with the deliberateness of my movements.
I brush the speck, but don’t pull away. Instead, I bring my thumb back across those ever-pouted lips, tracing their dip and fullness, letting her feel the texture of hands rough and scarred from a lifetime in kitchens, our eyes locked together in a moment of anticipation, emotions raging like an angry sea against the dam of the distance between us.
Her lips part slightly, I feel her shortening breath on my hand, and I push my thumb between those juicy, perfect lips, fingers pressing against the base of her ear. Her gentle gasp breaks the silence, before she closes those soft lips around my thumb, the sight of them pressing against my skin making my cock full against my pants. Her teeth gently squeezing my nail, tongue flickering as I push the finger inside the hot wetness of her mouth.
My other hand already on her waist, I pull her toward me, press her lithe body up against mine. Those magnificent hips swaying and rubbing against mine, her weight shifting onto me, breasts heaving, nipples so hard now I can feel them through that sweater dress.
“You’re fucking incredible,” I growl. Prelude to pulling her toward me, my finger in her mouth still, angling her head so I can taste the tenderness of her neck, run my sensitive tastebuds down the taut muscles, follow the path that leads me to the front of her chest. Quiet moans getting louder as I run my tongue down the softness of her cleavage, her dress my enemy now as I pull it down and bury my teeth in her breasts.
“Oh God…” she moans. “Cole…”
I pull away, pull my thumb from her mouth to leave it gasping, lips red and ripe. Wordlessly, I take her hand and lead her into the back office, before either of us can really think, and back up onto the desk, pulling her in front of me. I bury my hand into that hair and pull her face to mine, sucking down the succulence of her tongue with the hunger of a madman. Her tender throat stretched, swallowing gasps and purrs as I bite and pull on those soft lips, while her body undulates against mine. Her nipples still so hard I can feel them through our clothes, the tension of her ass under my smacking palm.
Willow pulls away for a second, breathlessly, then works my pants open with the same deft hands she used to work up the meal, and I grab the condom I always carry in my wallet.
She gasps when she sees my cock, hard and thick with the whole evening’s worth of desire. She stares at it with almost fearful admiration, bringing those graceful fingers to trace its length softly and driving me so wild I almost howl.
“Should we be doing this?” she says, almost to herself, still stroking my cock with the gentleness of a lover.
“Shoulda thought about that when you decided to wear that dress,” I say, holding out the condom. “What do you want to do?”
She smiles at me as she snaps the condom out of my hands, tears it open and slides it over my cock. I pull her lips to mine, taste them softly like a chardonnay, swirling tongues in each other’s mouths. The gentlest of touches, plenty of time to taste, to appreciate, to let the ache for more really build up. I bring my hand under her dress, between her thighs, peeling the lace panties aside to tease the fruit of her pussy, squeeze the juices from her, make her ripe with desire as she turns my cock even harder with longing.
Her tight body turns to liquid, so that she melts against me. I’m leaning back on the desk now, the weight of her body against me. Our bodies acting as one, clambering and shuffling to find space, knocking things off the desk in our desperation for each other. I fall back onto the hard surface and pull her on top of me, her thighs straddling me, knees on the wood, her breasts exposed, the sweater dress just a thin strip of cloth around her waist now.
She stops for a second, a faint note of hesitation appearing in those eyes.
“You still think we’re gonna regret this?” I ask.
“Only if we stop now,” she says, voice slurred with desire.
I pull her body on top of mine, breasts against my chest.
“Then we’d better keep going,” I growl into her ear.
We tumble together through the sensations of the evening. The smell of grilled peppers and soft bread, hard cock against soft pussy, garlic and lime aftertaste, rough hands against smooth breasts that press against the fine fabric of my shirt as our mouths feast on each other, her teasing pussy rolling over the head of my cock li
ke an ecstatic torture, a perfect appetizer that can’t satisfy.
I pull on her ass, smack it and draw nails up the arch of her back, urging her to let me in. She bites my lip and laughs, fighting me for pleasure, making me growl even harder with lust for the kind of woman who can do that. Until she can bear it no more herself, throwing her head back, taking all of me inside of her as she grinds her hips, riding me.
“Yes…” she purrs, eyes drowsy with sensation. “Oh my God, yes.”
She’s mine now, fixed upon my hardness, hips swaying, her breasts magnificently naked. She clutches at her hair as she rocks on top of me, eyes rolling back, mouth fixed open as she moans loudly, as if letting the surge of pleasure inside of her escape before it makes her explode. I watch her sway and throb above me, waves of electric pleasure flowing upward from our connected bodies, up through that tight stomach and those bouncing breasts, up through that pulsating throat and ecstatic face. A monument to beauty, one I worship with roving hands and panting grunts, until she’s too full of bliss, too full for even the screams to temper it, full enough to burst.
She puts a hand over mine, the one I’ve been pinching and rolling her nipple with, pulls it to the center of her chest, clutches it as if for steadiness as she lets the desire overflow.
“That’s it. Come for me, Willow. I wanna see you come, right here on top of this desk, right fucking now.” I tighten my grip on her ass and thrust into her harder, deeper, my voice coming out harsh as I command her to let go.
A final, high-pitched wail gets tossed up at the ceiling, Willow moaning as she falls down the rollercoaster. The sight of her losing control makes it easy for me to join her, to slam myself inside her one last time, to push both of us out from madness and into light.
“Fuck,” she says on desperate breath, as heat leaves her body and she slumps over me. “Cooking is a hell of an aphrodisiac.”
I look down between her damp locks of hair splayed across my chest, her face sleepy now as she rests against it.
