He fisted my hair, fucking my mouth, the creamy dessert gurgling in and out with a slurping noise. The tip of his sex bumped the back of my throat, and I almost gagged but didn’t as he began to slow his jackhammering of my head onto his cock into tender thrusts of passion.
I responded only too willingly, even though I had never done anything like this in my life. Yanking me up off his erection, he glided my body up and over his own, with no friction whatsoever because of the yummy, creamy goo coating both our bodies. Reaching over to the sink countertop, he grabbed a condom, and I knew what was coming.
Oh shit, should I tell him I’m a virgin? I hadn’t realized it would happen so fast. But I didn’t want it to stop.
As our mouths met again, he filled me with his hard, stiff cock, and I gasped at the sensation of the coldness of the custard and the warmth of his dick and the sweetness of it all. He felt enormous inside of me. So deliciously arousing, I had never been so sexually hungry in my life. This gorgeous, sweet guy had licked and kissed every inch of my body and brought me to a precipice I’d never before stood upon.
“Stay still,” he whispered as he throbbed inside of me.
So fascinated by this sexual experience, the feeling of the cold sugariness, the sensation of his tongue lapping up the creamy goodness, the lustfulness of it all, that all of a sudden, I came in wave upon wave of pure bliss. Shuddering atop him as I rode his slippery cock, I was thrilled and exhilarated all at the same time. Alex quivered beneath me, and then the warm flood as he thrust and heaved a heavy load of himself inside me. The experience intoxicated me.
Alex smiled. “Delicious.”
I couldn’t agree more.
He had made me feel more wanted, more desired, more beautiful, and more sensual than I ever had before. He had made me dessert, just like he’d promised. How cool!
I submerged myself into the gooey mixture and lay beside him. He had been right about having fun—kooky, crazy, and wonderful fun all at the same time. This guy would make someone a great catch or at the very least, a great dessert!
When we got out of the tub, the telltale blood mixed with the yellow dessert, giving away my secret.
“You were a virgin?” He appeared shocked and concerned all at the same time.
I nodded, embarrassed. Could this be any more uncomfortable? Any more awkward? A virgin at twenty-one, yup, geeky old me.
“I don’t know what to say, Tonya. I hope I, well….”
“You were”—I blushed—“delicious.”
Episode Four
Early the following morning, I stretched out alongside Alex’s muscular body. He’d stayed with me at the hotel after he drove me back from his place. Such an ambrosial night. I trailed my finger along his broad back, catching sight of a nasty scar I hadn’t noticed while we’d both been covered in custard.
Alex reached behind his back and grabbed my hand, bringing it up to his lips and sucking each fingertip. “Good morning, Sweet Tart.”
“Sweet Tart?” I licked my lips, giggling, “Never been called Sweet Tart before.”
“Oh, but you are so very sweet, and a tiny bit of a tart, now wouldn’t you agree?” He smirked.
I nodded. Couldn’t disagree there. Not after my display last night.
“What’s this scar from?” I trailed my free hand along the deep line—the sole imperfection I had found on this perfect specimen of a man.
He pulled me on top of him and frowned—the first frown I’d seen darken his always-smiling face. His jaw tensed.
I worried perhaps I’d overstepped the mark a bit, asked about something he did not want to discuss.
“I got it in Afghanistan. It’s nothing. Some of my buddies lost their lives when the IED went off. I was lucky.” He appeared vulnerable, a faraway gaze in his charcoal-gray eyes.
“You…were in the war?” I couldn’t imagine Alex, the chef, in combat.
“Don’t like to talk about it too much,” he murmured, his mouth set in a grim line, “It’s a pretty traumatic time in my life, and not just being over there. When I got back stateside, I couldn’t believe how veterans were treated here, me included.” He gave me a sad smile.
I flushed. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.” Holy fuck! Yet another amazing piece to the puzzle that makes up this beautiful man.
Alex lifted his forefinger to my lips—the universal hush symbol—to stop me from continuing. “Hey, I’m fine, Tonya. No need to be sorry. I fought for a worthy cause, and, when I returned, my own country shunned me and all my buddies. I’m fortunate to have come into some money with my television shows and cookbooks. You know? So I try to give back to the veterans as much as I can. I started Elysian Fields Soup Kitchens around the country to do my bit to support the vets. Not a sob story, just reality.” He tweaked my nose with a lighthearted laugh. “And you hate reality, at least reality TV, so let’s stop talking about it, okay?”
I nodded, even more enamored with this wonderful and talented guy. I lay beside him in complete awe of him. When I’d seen Alex at the Elysian Fields Soup Kitchen, I’d had no idea he’d founded the organization. I’d just thought he volunteered there. Wow, such a nice guy and a soldier, too. A soldier and a gentleman. There’s so much to Alex Stanley, it’s getting hard to keep up with the many pieces to him.
Slapping me on the bottom, he almost sang the words, “Let’s go, Sweet Tart! We’ve got a reality show to win!”
“Bring it!” I cheered, jumping on the bed in my best cheerleading pose.
“So, Miss Summers, are you ready to make some kick-ass Jell-O shots today?”
“As ever!”
“I hear it’s a lot of fun to splosh in as well.” He smiled and raised an eyebrow.
“Are you making me dessert tonight, too?” My face heated.
“That depends.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Only if we win today. Deal?”
I bit my lip as sexily as I could muster, “Deal! Let’s crush the competition!”
“Now you’re becoming a team player, Sweet Tart. Let’s flambé their asses!”
With a new sense of ambition and desire, I left for the studio with Alex. We were going to win this damned competition come hell or high water. He needed the money for the vets he served at the Elysian Fields Soup Kitchens, and I needed it to graduate, continue with my skating, and help my family if I could.
More amped up than I usually am even for the X-games, oozing with drive and determination, we stomped onto the studio grounds like warriors, determined to win. Win it all.
“So, what kind of Jell-O shots are we gonna win with today?” I waited, curious and expectant.
“Bacon-and-Eggs Jell-O Shots.”
“What the what?” I laughed, questioning his sanity.
“Don’t knock ’em till you try ’em!”
I nodded, doubtful but hopeful. His chocolate bacon cupcakes had won. “I don’t know, Alex.”
“Clean sweep, every week, Sweet Tart. You watch and be amazed. A bacon recipe to rock their world every single week and keep ’em coming back, begging for more.”
Bacon, bacon, and more bacon. This guy has a serious bacon fetish. “Why do you love bacon so much anyway?”
“Long, looong story, Sweet Tart.” He winked then leaned over and planted a discreet kiss on my cheek. “In a nut shell, I grew up in the Bronx. Bacon’s all my family could afford for meat, so I kind of got creative. Wanna know my nickname growing up?” He didn’t wait for a reply, “Da Bacon Bronx Boy. Kinda stuck.” He laughed at me. “And anyways, who doesn’t love bacon?”
“Me.”
“What’sa matter wit you?” he joked, putting on a heavy New York accent.
“I’m pretty much a vegetarian who loves junk food. You’re making me a carnivore!” I giggled.
“I might have some meat for you later you might like, Sweet Tart.” He grabbed his crotch, old-school style. My, this guy’s a whole lot of kinky isn’t, he?
Alex put one arm behind my
back as we walked onto the set, not quite touching me—as we both had agreed earlier it would be best to keep what we did in private, private.
Waving to everyone demurely as I came on set, I knew right away, from the unhappy frown on the director’s face, we were the last ones to arrive again. We walked in silence to makeup.
It was as if everyone knew what we’d been up to the night before—Olive most of all. Like a moth to the flame where Alex was concerned, she hovered over him all day long.
Episode Five
“What are you laughing at?” I snapped at him, so angry, I couldn’t contain my disgust at him and at Olive and at the sexual innuendos being cast on each episode. She was the real tart on the show.
To my dismay, Easy Olive, the thirty-year-old Olympic gold medal track-star-turned-porn star had decided to start coming onto my guy hot and heavy, well maybe not my guy, but my partner on the show. Alex, the man I’d allowed to smear me from head to toe with custard, bathe with me in Jell-O, and drizzle me in chocolate sauce. Every episode we would win—and we’d won the first four so far—we’d celebrated with an outrageous, sensual sploshing session, which would knock the socks off anyone with a food fetish, including Alex and, to my surprise, me.
Sexy, creamy-sweet sessions—amazing! Ever since Alex and my first night together, Olive hadn’t just flirted, she’d laid it all out for him and for everyone else in TV land to see.
“What do you think happened today?” he snapped, no longer laughing at me but pissed off by my jealous behavior.
But gawd! Olive? Ugh, the woman drove me nuts with her hyper-focused attention on Alex, and her partner, the French douche bag’s focus on me! “Ooh la la,” he would always say with a wicked grin as he passed me, while his partner, the trollop with the long legs and badly bleached-blonde hair, would be swooning all over Alex.
“All I know is the kooky porn star is all over you like a wet noodle, and you are doing nothing to stop her,” I snarled back, daring him to tell me I was wrong. This crazy love triangle playing out on TV wasn’t what I’d signed up for. “Is this a setup?” I glowered. “Like some staged freak show for the world to see?”
His eyes flared. “What? No! It’s not like….”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what it is like, then,” I challenged.
Resting his forehead in the palm of both his hands, he shook his head. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“The beginning is always a good place, I’ve found.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.
Turning his back on me, he left the room, returning with a document of some sort. It seemed to be a contract, like the one I’d signed agreeing to be on the show.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Go ahead. Read it,” he demanded. “The show teamed me up with Olive before filming started this season.”
“What?” I gasped. “Then why did you ask me to be your partner?”
“The producers wanted Olive and me to be the love interest on the show, you know for ratings.” He stared at the ground, his brow scrunched, appearing guilty.
I scowled at him in silence, biting my lip, holding back all the awful things I wanted to say. Why hadn’t he told me? Why had he asked me to be his partner then? What kind of twisted setup had they come up with for ratings?
“Then, after a few days with her, I knew we didn’t click. You know what I mean?”
“No, enlighten me,” I snarled.
“All I know is I told the producers I couldn’t do the show with Olive as my partner and they agreed to let me find my own, and I wanted it to be you. I’d seen you at the soup kitchen. You were so sweet, and you were a celebrity of sorts, like they wanted. You fit, and I wanted it to be you. You don’t have to believe me, but I hope you do.”
“So, I ended up doing the show with you because you didn’t want to work with her?”
“Yup. Easy cheesy. There’s the original contract with her as my partner. Thing is, they decided to keep her on the show anyway and found Frenchie, my cooking nemesis, to be her partner to really spice things up.”
All of a sudden, I softened. Everything made sense. “You’re not going to do a damn thing about her behavior toward you, are you? I mean, jeez, she pretty much flashes you every episode.”
“So? She does nothing for me, Sweet Tart. You’re my sweet addiction now. And it’s good for ratings. The public loves a love triangle.”
I knew he spoke the truth. He’d ignored her like he avoided all other unpleasantness on the show and focused on our cooking. And we’d won every week.
“Can we just let it go? Get over it? And keep winning like we have been?” He gazed at me, hopeful. “I’d like to be able to give all the money to the soup kitchen for the vets.”
Controlling my anger, I growled, “Let’s. Beat. The. Bitch.”
Pinching my cheek like a ball of dough, Alex laughed. “Now, there’s my Sweet Tart!”
The next day on the set, Olive wasn’t her usual easy self—not gushing all over Alex, batting her eyelashes in his direction, and holding out her goodies for him to lick off from her fingers or even her chest! Maybe Alex had mentioned something to her after all. Despite my disgust for her, I decided the best thing to do with an enemy was to keep them close.
“Hi, Olive.” I attempted to sound as upbeat and perky as I could muster, trying to ignore how uncomfortable her name felt on my lips.
She turned toward me. “Tonya?” she asked as if we hadn’t seen each other in years even though we’d spent the past several weeks together. “Why are you all of a sudden speaking with me? You haven’t spoken one word to me since the show started.”
“I’m sorry.” I tried to sound sincere. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just not outgoing. If you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t spoken to many people on the set.”
“Except for Alex,” she flashed, through pursed lips.
“Well, yeah, but he’s my partner. We kind of have to talk about recipes and stuff.”
She laughed. “Stuff. I bet you like his stuffing!”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Tonya, it’s better if we are not friends, on the show or off. You aren’t my type.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“Oh, I will,” she purred then laughed at me as if she’d just dismissed me.
I stalked off but could hear her snickering with Frenchie behind my back and realized the cameras had caught it all on tape. One thing about being on the set, the cameras were pretty much always rolling.
“Regret going there?” Alex asked as I came back to our station on the set.
“Yup.” I rolled my eyes.
Two teams remained—Alex and me, and Olive and Frenchie. Alex and I had made a c won every single baking competition, as well as a few head-chef challenges. We were unstoppable, and the final episode would be shot tomorrow before the grand finale in December.
Episode Six
Already close to 2:00 p.m., and I couldn’t stop thinking about the final shoot at the studio the next day. My stomach twisted in knots. Half-a-million dollars rode on our cooking abilities. I’d made it all the way to the final two teams on Happy Endings, and, somehow, all I could think about was Alex Stanley, my bacon boy from the Bronx.
We’d been together for only a few weeks, but it had been fun—a lot of fun—and I’d miss seeing him every day when the season ended. I hadn’t realized it throughout the weeks we’d been filming, but as our last night together approached, it dawned on me—I’m in love with him. Who would’ve known a nice guy could be so great in…well, in everything, especially the sex. In bed, he was glorious like a god or something, and, in the kitchen, he was a boss. I would never have believed it if anyone had told me four short weeks ago I would fall head over heels, madly in love with him. My M.O. had always been wake and skate, no time for guys. But Alex Stanley? Hmmm, he was something altogether different.
He was simply delectable, and my a
ppetite for him insatiable.
We would make ice cream for the final show, and so, of course it’d be bacon flavored with a maple syrup sauce and bacon-flavored rock-candy swizzle sticks for an accoutrement. Strange, but I’d kind of gotten into getting down and dirty with bacon-flavored food. We always celebrated each victory with an incredible sploshing sesh where we got wet and messy as we had wild passionate sex while splashing around in a gastronomic smorgasbord of creamy sweets like ice cream or custard. Some people might have called it food porn, but it wasn’t. It was something else altogether, like erotica with food, sensually sensational.
Tonight, we’d agreed to experiment with the maple-crunch bacon ice cream, as making ice cream can be tough—or so Alex had told me. The mixture had to be just the right temperature and consistency or it could be a complete and utter disaster. He’d planned to make me dessert again afterward—a banana split! Couldn’t wait, and, after I spent a few hours skating this afternoon, we’d meet in his kitchen.
“I always have fun with you, Alex,” I’d told him—like I’d turn him down when he’d invited me over.
The coldness of the bacon ice cream tingled in my palms as I lay naked across his large, wooden butcher-block table. He tied my wrists and ankles to the four legs to ensure I wouldn’t move while he made me a culinary delight. He squeezed out fresh whipped cream in a circular pattern, around and around my breasts, taking care with setting a perfect maraschino cherry atop each of my nipples. When he’d finished, he placed a dollop of whipped cream on the tip of my nose and a third maraschino cherry on top of that. From the glint in his eyes, I could tell he found this wickedly amusing.
“Are you trying to be funny?” As I spoke, the cherry bobbed atop my nose.
“Nope,” Alex replied. “Be very still. Just trying to have some fun with you, Sweet Tart.” He took ripened bananas and split them then layered them all along my sides.
How Six Chefs Got It On Page 4
