Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  The Missus fidgeted. “Now, Tara, Cherry’s coming-out party is going to be bigger than anything we’ve done since you’ve come to us. We know what a burden it will be for you, so we are going to get you some help. Clara Sue, we’ve had her before. She has family members who will come special for that night.”

  Tara shrugged and nodded. Clara Sue would do. But that wasn’t what the Missus had called her in for. She fluttered her hands in the air under Tara’s silent gaze. “Cherry’s daddy wants this to be the biggest, best coming-out party ever. He’s hired a band and even a real bartender, though of course the children won’t be drinking anything hard. Mr. Beaumont went so far as to hire a man to come in for you. He’s a chef all the way from New Orleans.”

  Tara stiffened. She couldn’t be hearing this right.

  The rest of her employer’s words came out in a rush. “Mr. Beaumont says it’s good business to bring someone in from the outside, and Cherry wants something really fancy. And all the best families are fighting over this man. Studied in one of those fancy schools down in New Orleans. It will be really good for Cherry’s social standing to have him coming in to help you. I know it will be an adjustment, but it might be fun. Of course, we’ll be depending on you to make your best desserts. Mr. Beaumont says no one can touch Tara’s desserts.” Hearing the Missus say they had hired this man to come cook for the party hit Tara like a slap in the face. She had been working on the menu for Miss Cherry’s party for weeks—and all for nothing. After all she had given them! She stood up to her full height and glared down at the quivering woman.

  The Missus, apparently seeing the impact of her words, tried to take the sting out. “This way you don’t have to work so hard. He can bear the brunt of the work. See, he already sent a menu for you to look over. I think you’ll love it.”

  Tara didn’t speak. She simply took the menu and left to prepare lunch.

  In the weeks that followed, the family didn’t linger much in the depths of her kitchen, nor did they complain about the bland food they had to leave uneaten on their plates. Young Miss Cherry came in once to apologize. Tara just turned her bottomless eyes on the girl and waited until she ran crying from the room. They must have told that chef man about it too, because with each menu change he sent, a little token was included. Once, tissue-wrapped ginger candy, another time, dried rose hips. Finally, a jasmine-scented hankie edged with lace, and a written thank-you for allowing him to assist in her kitchen. She sniffed at each gift, tossed them on the windowsill, and refused to release the anger burning in her chest. That he’d chosen jasmine, her own scent, tormented her. How could he have known?

  She ordered and stored the food he requested, things she seldom used. She took care to shine her kitchen to its highest polish. Late at night she reviewed cookbooks for the parts of the menu she would carry, determined to prove that she didn’t need him.

  The week before the party, she got on her knees in the damp, dewy grass and prayed to the moon. “Help me, Grandmother. Someone is invading my life. I’m sure you have a purpose for this, but I don’t know what it could be. I’ve worked hard, Grandmother. Don’t let me lose it all.”

  Would the moon forsake her? No, not when Tara needed her support so much. The Beaumonts’ house had become her home in these last five years. She would hate to leave. Surely the moon would respond. It always had, ever since her grandmother had initiated her into the old rites. But she had been lax. It had been a long time since she had come to the moon like this.

  She got her answer when the moonlight filled her as her grandmother taught her it could, its power throbbing deep inside her. As always, she felt it pounding in her bones, in her heart, and in that sweet place deep between her sturdy legs. Confident that the big house was quiet, she stepped behind the jasmine bushes, stripped off her gown, and lay in the grass. The moon made love to her, kissed her breasts, stroked the wetness between her thighs, cradled her in its warmth. Moaning and writhing, grasping the moonlight as her lover, she climaxed, peaking once, then again.

  The prayer and the lovemaking completed, she lay in the lush velvet grass, confident for the first time in weeks that she would hold her own. Exhausted, she crawled to bed. She looked forward to a good night’s sleep—the first since she’d gotten the news about the invading chef.

  She waited for him, fear pounding in her chest. Trying to control it, she wiped furiously at the squeaky-clean counter. The maids assigned to help her ducked their heads and made up excuses to avoid her. Remembering last week’s foray into the moonlight, she shook her head, frightened by the power of what she had felt and done. The moon had never touched her so deeply. Would it show her the way to defeat this man?

  Then the Missus came in to introduce him. “Tara,” she said, her hands fluttering. “This is Mr. Charles.”

  Tara stared at the small, compact black man. He winked at her. His brash laugh filled the kitchen, filled her ears. She reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to like him. When his gaze traveled up and down her body and he gave her a brilliant appreciative smile, heat rose in her cheeks. She was appalled; the heat threatened to spill over into her heart. Something loosened inside her.

  He swept his eyes across her kitchen and whistled through his teeth. “I don’t see many kitchens this well kept,” he said to the Missus. “I don’t know why you hired me. You’ve got your own chef right here.” He turned back to Tara, again giving her that brazen appraising look. “I’ll learn a lot from you, Miss Tara. I’ve heard of you clean down to New Orleans. They say your stew is the sweetest-tasting thing you could ever get your mouth around. It’ll be like getting paid to train under one of the greats.”

  She tried to push away his flattery, the look, the little emphasis he had put on the word under, but her heart thumped, and her mouth puckered from sudden dryness. Licking her lips, she chose not to respond. Instead she watched him closely, relieved when he shifted his attention back to the Missus. He obviously knew how to handle women. Teasing the Missus gently, he soon had her blushing like a youngster and giggling behind her hand. Finally, she allowed herself to be ushered out of the kitchen.

  Mr. Charles turned back to Tara. He wore a crisp white jacket and black pants that hugged his narrow waist and caressed the roundness of his backside. His shoulders were broad on his small frame. She guessed at a well-muscled chest and arms under the jacket. His hair was cut sleekly against his head, a good choice for hot kitchens. He had oiled it shiny. She licked her lips again then shook her head, trying to rekindle her anger at this invader.

  He watched her watching him. She saw a gentle hunger in his laughing eyes. Not a predatory all-consuming hunger, but the hunger when your appetite has just been whetted, when the saliva flows watery in your mouth and you can barely wait to be satiated. A lazy smile spread from his eyes to his mouth, exposing gleaming teeth, dazzling in the dark planes that made up his face. She squinted at him, trying to block out the glare of his smile. He beamed up at her like the rays of the hot sun searing the jasmine bushes.

  For a minute he simply radiated heat and desire. Then he eased back and began talking, soft and gentle, as if to a skittish colt. “Now I know I’m interfering here in your territory, but you know these rich folks, even when they got the best already, they find it hard to appreciate what they got.” His gaze fondled her body again. “And I can see they got a lot here to appreciate.” He took a step closer. “If I thought I would be a threat to you in any way, I would walk out that door. But Missus Beaumont there has got her heart set on that menu she had me send. And it would be a shame to waste all that food.”

  Casting his eyes to the floor, he stroked the gleaming countertop, making small circles on the tile with his thumb. “I sure would like to work with you, Miss Tara,” he said softly. “Nothing makes me happier than cooking with a beautiful woman who’s an artist in the kitchen.” He kept his head down but moved his eyes up to watch her. “And from what I hear, you’re known all over these parts as an artist. Mmmhhhmmm, what I hear you
can do with food.” He raised his head and looked at her full on. “And when I think about what we could do together, why it just makes my mouth water. Nothing like dancing the food to life with another artist, Miss Tara.” He bowed genteelly from the waist and reached for her hand. “Will you dance with me?”

  She tried to put him off with a scowl. But he just smiled. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a small box tied with a lavender ribbon. He presented it to her, holding out his hand flat and steady, waiting patiently, giving her time to come to him. Glowering, she hesitated before reaching out to take the present. Did he really think he could buy her off so easily? Resolving to give it back, whatever it was, she pulled on the bow and removed the lid. A beautiful little stone winked up at her. She reached out a finger and stroked it, the fire of a cat’s eye dancing in the light.

  “It’s a moonstone, Miss Tara. Now I know it’s a bit on the extravagant side, but my last big party was for a jeweler and he let me have a choice of a few things as a bonus. This one was small, but when I saw it, well, I don’t know why, but I just thought of you, Miss Tara. Let me help you put it on.”

  Stunned, she allowed him to pick up the necklace and step behind her, draping it around her throat. Tara could feel his breath on the back of her neck and smell the sweetness of his cologne. Her heart began to pound.

  “Come on, Miss Tara. Let’s step out into the light and see it.’Sides, I think you promised me a dance.” Charles whispered the words into her ear, and Tara felt the heat of his presence behind her. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She stepped toward the door, more to cool off in the breeze than to accede to his endearments. Dizzily she tried to make sense of it all. He’d brought her a gift from the moon! How could he have known? Could the Missus have told him? But the Missus didn’t know about that part of her life. No, this must be the answer to what she had prayed for. But was it what she wanted? Reluctantly she allowed him to pull her into a twirl. He held her close, his feet swift and sure. Then he was waltzing her around the kitchen and out the door. They danced in the sweet clover grass where just days ago she had lain with her legs spread, an offering to the moon. She closed her eyes and let him lead, faster and faster.

  She floated in his arms, becoming weightless and small, her body molding to his rhythm. The sun beat down on her, radiating from him as intensely as it did from the sky. And then somehow he was behind her. Holding her close with his arms around her, hugging her, he hummed a tune as he rocked her back and forth in the morning breeze. A trickle of sweat rolled down her neck toward her cleavage, caressing the pendant. He smelled spicy and musky, a little peppery. She inhaled deeply. His body fit behind her solidly even though she stood inches taller than he and forty pounds heavier. She leaned into his swaying, allowing herself to relax a bit, to surrender to the sun, and the heat, and the man. Sighing, she relinquished her anger and chose to follow the path the moon had offered her.

  “You sure are a great dancer, Miss Tara,” he murmured. “We’re a team now, and if you’ll let me join you, together we’ll create a feast like nobody’s ever seen.”

  She settled more deeply into him, not worrying that her bulk would overpower him. A soft moan escaped her. For a small man he had great strength and agility. She felt his balance shifting slightly with her, letting her know he was in control, that he was confident in his ability to lead this dance.

  “Miss Tara,” he whispered again, his spicy breath tickling her neck. “The Missus thinks I came here to cook for her party, and I can do that. But I would rather make this dance with you, this whole night a joy to behold, like it must have been for the good Lord when He was creating the world. Only there’ll be two of us, so we’ll get more gladness out of it. Why, I expect He’ll see us and be downright jealous at the way we’ll dance together.” He ran the tip of his tongue lightly along the edge of her ear and the last of her resistance drifted away with a shiver. He planted a kiss in the hollow where her neck and shoulder met. “Let’s make this food a part of our dance, Miss Tara.”

  I’ll pay for this, she thought. But the moon glowed high in the sky and she could feel it tickling the jewel. Earlier she had noticed how the moon and the sun were both shining on her through the window. Together they had raised her temperature even before Mr. Charles had danced his way into her kitchen. The heat had forced her to open the top button on her uniform this morning. And now it encouraged sweat to run down the crevice between her breasts.

  The dual light of moon and sun joined the female and male together. It caressed her face as his hands began to caress her body. She drank in the light. She closed her eyes as his hands stroked her arms, her waist, and then her breasts. She made up her mind to let the moon guide her. They said that the moon was the force behind the tides down at Toledo beach. She could let it be her force. He would be her sun. The gleam of his smile and the heat of his personality mingling with her dark yellow glow, all this would warm the night.

  Finally, when she thought she could stand this ecstasy no longer, she pulled away. But she turned back quickly to take his hand. “We got work to do,” she said. Once she’d made up her mind, it was easy. The power of the moon remained with her, pulsing in the stone, making her movements liquid as she scrubbed and peeled vegetables. He seared the meat and broiled the canapés. She liked watching his quick, efficient movements. His hands deftly turned radishes into beautiful little roses to decorate the plates. The carrots became swirls of orange cascading around trays of succulent pineapple, honeydew, and mango. His strokes with the paring knife as he slit the fruit open were sure and sweet. She admired how each dish got its due—a pat here, a caress there. He kept up a running banter throughout, not seeming to care whether she responded.

  She found herself smiling at the way it all seemed to be choreographed. Each of them twirled around the other, working, moving closer and then farther apart. Brushing past the other casually, raising the heat each time. The friction created a spark so hot the kitchen seemed to swell in an effort to contain it. He watched her knead the bread dough, swirling it around in her fingers, working it to the peak of perfection. She allowed it to rise, and rise again. It was the only time that he was quiet. The moon surged within her and she knew they were equals; each had gifts to bring to the other.

  She listened while he explained the exotic foods as he worked, turning each lecture into a love song. When he talked about the artichokes he stuffed, he warned her about the outside bristles, how they could prick the skin. “But if you’re patient, you get to savor the sweet meat on each leaf and deep in the core.” He showed her how to gently scrape off the flesh with her teeth.

  She was dripping by the time the meal was served by the silent maids in their black-and-white uniforms. Every pore of her body was open to him, ached for him. It was late. Now the moon poured in through the darkness that had settled over the landscape outside, shining on her dark skin and singing through the stone on her breast. He had faded a bit too. His once-clean white jacket was mussed and stained. The top button lay open and his skin glistened with sweat.

  He pulled the dessert from the oven and motioned for her to bring over the chocolate sauce. Islands of meringue swam in the depths of black cherry richness, bubbling temptingly around the edges. Carefully he placed a serving in each dish. Then she drizzled the chocolate in lazy, seductive swirls. Each pass with the spoon was an invitation, each turn of the dish an answer. When the last one was done they stood silently, poised on the edge of the moment, swaying slightly with exhaustion, the soaring heat of the kitchen, and their desire.

  She took charge now, dispatching orders to the maids about serving the drinks and cleaning up. Then she reached for him. She took him to her cabin through the moonlight that graced the stone path. The moon encouraged her, pushed her, pulsed in time with her heart.

  She left the door open and drew back the curtains. She wanted to see him in all his glory. And glorious he was. She sat on the bed and watched as he slowly unbuttoned his jacket, undid his shoes, and took
off his socks, tucking them neatly inside the splattered black footwear. Then he removed and folded his pants, hanging them over the foot of her bed. She liked how neat he was, his body as tidy as his actions. His underwear and his smile gleamed white in the reflected moonlight and then only his smile remained. He spun in the light of the moon, humming that same tune he’d sung when he’d asked her to dance.

  She stood to remove her clothing, but he stopped her. Kissing her slowly, his mouth moist with sweat and desire, he took over. He blew on her neck; it was cool and hot at the same time. He stepped behind her, unzipping her damp uniform and pushing the dress down over her shoulders. He nuzzled each shoulder before dropping the dress to the floor. It had been too hot to wear a slip and she was conscious of being exposed. She worried suddenly about her size as his hands roamed over the front of her while his mouth and tongue roamed her back. His thumbs circled her nipples through the cloth of her bra and she arched abruptly, caught by the depth of her arousal. He unhooked the cloth and allowed her breasts to swing free. He moaned a little, kneading her breasts as she had kneaded the bread dough.

  Stepping back, he broke the connection to unpin her hair. With his skilled hands he began brushing it, using long gentle strokes with her grandmother’s brush. Then he brought a cool cloth and ran it across her body, rinsing away the sweat. She shuddered slightly. No one had tended her like this in a long time. Finishing, he washed his own body. Then he took her hand and turned her around, appraising her in that way he had. Then, in the same singsong voice he’d used to tell her about the artichokes, he described her body, comparing her breasts to the sweetest honeydew melons he could imagine, dark, heavy, rich. He inhaled the smell of them and his tongue traced her nipples. Finally, he popped one into his mouth and sucked, his tongue searching and probing.

  “Just like our cherry dessert,” he said, and switched to the other dark mound. His hands were on her panties; he slid them down her thighs and allowed them to pool around her feet. “Come, Miss Tara. Dance with me.” He pulled her out the open door into the moonlight, and in the shadow of the blooming jasmine they swayed on their feet for a while, drinking in the light of the moon and the kiss of the gentle breeze. The gleam of his smile and the jewel on her breast sparkled. Then, as if planned, they danced into the bedroom. His lips met hers again. She returned his passion, sucking on his tongue, biting his lips. They hungered. They wanted to devour each other.