Monday night’s menu: pan-seared duck breast with a citrus glaze, buttery mashed potatoes, and roasted baby carrots fresh from my garden, served with a fruity California zinfandel, and followed by lime sorbet. I made it to Ian’s condo shortly after six o’clock, despite another drenching rain that did little to slow the heavy highway traffic, and began prepping my ingredients, beginning with rainbow carrots in vibrant shades of purple, red, and orange. The slender little veggies were so tender they didn’t need to be peeled, only seasoned and arranged on a sheet pan for a quick roast.
Moving on, I cubed some potatoes and placed them in a pan of cold, salted water over a stovetop burner. I planned to cook the duck after Ian got home.
A pint of sorbet was chilling in the freezer. Yesterday, I made a quart of the tangy dessert and devoured half of it while watching Fox Tales on Netflix. The movie’s plot revolved around a colony of foxes whose ancestral forest home was threatened by a pack of wolves, led by the evil Felix. While I was far from objective, I thought Ian did a great job of bringing his animated character to life, managing to make the grinning wolf sympathetic.
I had the table set, potatoes boiling on the stove, and the carrots and duck breast ready to cook, so while I enjoyed a few extra minutes, I headed into the half-bath to freshen up. On a whim, I yanked the scrunchie from my usual ponytail, applied a dollop of anti-frizz serum, and let my hair fall long and loose. It was something I never would have done while cooking at the restaurant, where I always had it pulled back or covered for hygienic reasons. This kitchen wasn’t a restaurant, I rationalized, and I knew beyond a doubt that Ian admired my hair.
Digging through my bag, I retrieved a lipstick and applied a subtle mauve color, pausing to check myself out in the bathroom mirror. My skin fairly glowed due to the persistent humidity, and I didn’t appear quite as gaunt as I did a couple of weeks ago, probably due to the high-calorie ice cream and other treats I was enjoying.
After washing my hands, I returned to the kitchen, fished in my bag for a set of ear buds, and searched through the music on my phone for another favorite jazz classic, Monk’s Dream. Thelonious Monk was an acknowledged genius who played with many of the great jazz musicians of his day, and I particularly liked the quartet on this album, especially Charlie Rouse’s earthy tenor sax. I had listened to Monk so much over the years that I could identify one of his songs within the first three or four notes. His quirky style and unusual piano harmonics always put me in a better mood.
I was grooving to the upbeat tempo of Bye-Ya when my client and potential lover strode into the kitchen. I took out my ear buds and we assessed each other for a long moment. Why did he have to look so mouth-wateringly fine, standing there in faded jeans and a t-shirt that hugged his torso, which didn’t look the least bit fat to me. This entire situation was stacked in his favor.
My potatoes boiled away on the stove top, sending clouds of steam into the already moist, refrigerated air. Around us, the heat rose.
How was I supposed to resist that face, the picture of masculine perfection? Did he have any idea of the effect he had on me?
Probably. A man like Ian had no doubt received far more than his share of female adoration.
“We need to take care of some unfinished business,” he announced in his commanding lord-of-the-manor voice, sending a delicious shiver of anticipation down my spine.
Before I could respond, he hurried across the kitchen, swept me up, and placed his lips on mine. Oh, my God. This wasn’t some friendly little peck, either, but rather a long, lingering kiss that stirred something deep inside, pushing up all the longing and loneliness I’d tried to bury. As his tongue slipped inside my mouth, my hands reached out to grip his shoulders before they worked their way through his hair, pulling him closer. His insistent kiss probed the recesses of my mouth, demanding more. The man was hungry, and not only for a duck dinner.
My legs were paralyzed. I realized if he let go of me, I would collapse faster than a poorly made soufflé. After a few moments I steadied myself and pulled away to press my cheek to his chest, while my heart continued to pound at a dizzying pace.
“That was…intense,” I managed to stammer, my breath still ragged. “You gave ‘kiss the cook’ a whole new meaning.”
He placed both hands on my shoulders, turned me toward him, and fastened those uncommon eyes on mine.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for some time,” he said, drawing me to him again in a bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve inspired some lovely dreams lately.”
He dreamed about me?
I wound my arms around his neck, momentarily mesmerized by his photogenic features. It would have been so easy to get swept away by his attention, caught up in some misplaced fantasy, when I knew better.
What came out of my mouth next surprised us both.
“Were we naked?”
He eased his grip on me, threw back his head, and let out a robust laugh.
“I’m not sure I want to tell you. Let’s say the overall effect was quite…stimulating.”
The thought of me gave him an erection.
Keep your panties on, Shelby, and get yourself under control. Yes, he’s charming, handsome, and probably wealthy by your standards, but who is the real Ian, apart from the characters he portrays?
“Let’s talk about this,” I mumbled, instantly ruining the mood.
“I assumed that’s what we were doing.” He eyed me with a confused expression.
I steered him to the kitchen table and sat across from him.
“This is crazy, Ian. What’s going on here?”
“I believe we were kissing,” He shot me a grin that made my stomach flip. “And you seemed to enjoy it.”
I did. But am I willing to take this further, knowing our attraction is mutual? What do I really know about him? How many other women has he seduced with only his smile? Am I setting myself up for a massive emotional letdown?
“I need to finish cooking dinner.”
Sliding my chair back, I started to get up from the table when he took my hand in his.
“Wait a minute.”
When he squeezed my fingers, I got light-headed. Obviously, being the recipient of his passionate kiss had impaired my judgment. A few days ago, I would’ve sworn my attraction to Ian was based strictly on his appearance, but as I had discovered, there was more to him than good looks. Admittedly, though, what met the eye was mighty fine.
“Shelby,” he continued, holding my gaze. His crisp, masterful voice sent another shiver down my back, inspiring yet another erotic fantasy, one in which I was naked and kneeling at his feet. What would be your pleasure tonight, sir?
“Be honest with me. If I flashed you in the darkness, would you flash back?”
My stomach dropped, releasing an unsettling mix of terror and pure lust. I couldn’t evade his question or pretend any longer than I didn’t feel something for him. After a moment, I gulped, looked him in the eyes, and said, “I would.”
“Brilliant!” His smile beamed. He took hold of my hand under the table, squeezed it, and said, “Now that it’s settled, might I have a cocktail before dinner? Another of your mean gin and tonics?”
***
After dinner, we sat on the couch and talked for a while until he started to doze off. He’d been awake since 4:30 a.m. and put in a long day on the set, so I wasn’t offended. In fact, I was relieved. I wanted our first time together to be memorable, and after hearing him talk about his sexual fantasies, the seed of a wicked idea had taken root in my brain. If I intended to go through with this, maybe I should give him exactly what he dreamed about. I’d flash him back, all right.
Once, when Danielle was still a teenager, she was spending the weekend at a friend’s house when her father and I agreed to meet at The George (as in Washington), our favorite downtown hotel, for a little adult fun. I wore a mini dress and a short, dark wig. Sitting alone at the bar, I pretended not to know Jean-Pierre when he walked in, slid into the stool beside me, and began
to whisper a variety of filthy suggestions in French, which he knew would be a huge turn-on.
“Je bande pour toi,” he informed me. “Je suix ammanchee comme un tareau.”
After he’d succeeded in ‘picking me up,” we took the elevator upstairs to a room he’d reserved and went at each other like two sex-starved prisoners released from solitary confinement. Later, J-P claimed it was one of the most satisfying encounters we’d ever shared. Now that he was gone, I wish we had done it more often.
While I was fairly certain that Ian didn’t speak much French, I was equally sure that tongue of his could send me straight to heaven.
***
The next morning, I planned the evening menu. I intended to go full-on southern with shrimp and grits, one of the most popular entrees at Faith, served with a garnish of fried okra and a choice of ale or unoaked Chardonnay.
It was mid-afternoon when I climbed the stairs to my bedroom to get in a quick power nap before I had to start dinner prep. I couldn’t seem to doze off, though, and as I lay alone in the big bed, not quite asleep, the thought occurred that if I was serious about going through with this sexual encounter, I would make Ian’s fantasy come true. The more I ruminated on it, the more empowered I became.
Sometime later, I got up to rummage through my dresser drawers, looking for a tiny, black lace thong (“Crotch floss,” J-P used to call it), that I hadn’t seen in more than a dozen years.
After stripping off my shorts and panties, I slipped into the thong, then used a hand mirror to view my mostly bare ass in front of the dresser, breathing a small sigh of relief to see that my backside was as rounded and firm as it had been in my thirties. Probably from all my stair climbing and kneeling in the garden, I theorized.
Next, I took off my t-shirt and bra before slipping on the whisk print apron. It didn’t cover much in front and I was displaying a lot of side boob. When I was younger, I used to complain about my undersized breasts, but at age fifty-four, I was happy they weren’t sagging to my knees. I added a pair of black stilettos, which I didn’t recall seeing in my closet until now, before stepping back to assess the overall picture. My self-esteem soared. Not too bad for a woman my age, especially if I dimmed the lights, although I also wondered how I would compare to the young, tiny actresses that inhabited Ian’s world.
After I re-dressed, I went downstairs and began the familiar ritual of preparing dinner. I shelled and de-veined the shrimp before placing them in a plastic container for transport, along with the other ingredients for tonight’s meal. I was trying to stay busy so I wouldn’t be overcome with nervousness. At the same time, I was strangely exhilarated by the thought of Ian’s hands exploring my body, despite being wracked by guilt over what I was about to do. Was I being disloyal to Jean-Pierre’s memory, or simply moving on with what was left of my life?
Once I arrived at the condo, I unpacked and set the table before slicing the okra into thin rounds. Later, I would bread and fry them into little morsels of crispy deliciousness. The remainder of the meal would come together after Ian got home.
At about 6:30 I sent him a text.
Shelby: Are you on time tonight?
Ian: On my way now and might get home a little early. What’s on the menu?
Shelby: Shrimp and grits served with a special appetizer.
Ian: Want to tell me more?
Shelby: No. Just get here.
That should’ve piqued his interest. Now, I’d have to hustle to be ready. Moving into the half-bath, I unzipped my dress and hung it on the back of the door, shed my bra, and donned the chef’s apron, tying it at my waist. I stepped into the stilettos before applying lipstick and a touch of smoky eyeliner. I left my hair loose again, letting it fall past my shoulder blades.
You look fabulous, I told my reflection.
Next, I dimmed the lights and synced my phone to the remote speaker I brought from home, letting Billie Holiday set a romantic mood. Her rich, gravelly tone conveyed so much sorrow and pain in such a beautiful, satisfying way. Like any great singer, she made you believe every word.
They Can’t Take That Away from Me, Billie crooned, recounting her memories of a lost lover. The bittersweet irony of my song choice was not lost on me. While I waited, a twinge of self-doubt invaded my thoughts. Again, I wondered if I was about to make a fool of myself, so I downed half a glass of white wine, which did little to calm my anxiety and slow my pounding heart.
What if he’s been putting me on, playing me for a desperate widow? No, I determined, that kiss was real, no doubt about it.
In a few more minutes, I heard the back door open, so I stationed myself between the island and the stovetop, where Ian could get a good, long look at me. If I had to die of embarrassment, better to get it over now. At that moment, he strolled into the kitchen, looking mighty fine indeed in his period riding habit. I was tempted to ask why he wore his costume home from work, but instead I announced, a little too loudly, “Bienvenue à la maison, Ian.”
While I tried to sound nonchalant, I noticed that my hands were trembling.
Ian’s mouth gaped open, then closed, while his eyes swept over my scantily-clad form.
“I am gobsmacked,” I heard him whisper.
What does that mean? My heart leapt into my throat and I was on the verge of panic.
Is gobsmacked a good thing…or bad?
He rushed toward me, exactly like I saw him approach his on-screen wife in a touching flashback scene on Sutherland’s Ghosts.
“Are you my starter course?” he asked while nibbling at my neck.
“Uh-huh,” I managed to mutter, gasping at the softness of his lips on my shoulder. “And it should be served hot.”
“Well, in that case…”
Ian took a step back before placing one hand on my bare back and steering me down the hall into his bedroom. While I perched on the edge of the bed, he closed the drapery panels, leaving the room in semi-darkness. My body trembled with anticipation, although I also detected a touch of cold fear. My lord-of-the-manor fantasy was about to become reality.
Dropping my hand, he moved closer before his arms encircled me. His lips brushed my forehead before finding my mouth, and I returned his kiss with an intensity that made my heart jump again. His teeth tugged gently at my bottom lip, as a shuddering swell of desire took over. I was long past the point of re-thinking my hasty decision. I wanted him, and I would deal with the emotional fallout later.
Ian released me, stood up, and kept his eyes on my face while he began to undress. Slowly, he unbuttoned his long frock coat and slipped out of it before he untied the cravat and flung it on the floor.
The single-breasted vest, which hugged his chest to perfection, came off next, buttons popping in his haste to shed his clothes. He didn’t bother to fully unbutton the linen shirt, either, opting to pull it over his head.
Ian stood so near that I swore I could hear his heart pounding. For a moment I thought my own heart might stop at the sight of his broad shoulders, bare chest, and the contours of his abs, offering a hard canvas for my hands and lips to explore.
He seated himself beside me on the bed and pulled off the riding boots before standing again, unbuttoning his trousers and stepping out of them. He wore nothing but a surprisingly modern pair of briefs. My eyes took in every inch of him, following the angles of his body down to hard-muscled thighs before returning to focus on those briefs, which were sporting a noticeable bulge. He placed both of his thumbs under the elastic waistband and yanked them off, causing his cock to spring forth in its fully erect glory.
“Stand up,” he murmured, “and let’s get you out of that apron.”
I rose from the bed on unsteady legs and turned my back to him, so he could untie the sash. Ian removed the apron, pulling it over my head and tossing it on the floor. He lifted my hair to kiss the back of my neck, sending another tremor of desire down my spine, before he pulled the black lace thong down to my ankles. One hand reached around to grip my waist while the other slippe
d between my legs. I groaned out loud.
We crashed onto the bed in a passionate embrace. I flung my arms around him, surprising myself with my own recklessness. It had been far too long since a man held me like this. I couldn’t get enough of his lips and his sculpted, hard body.
Ian hovered over me, his gorgeous face only inches from mine.
“My beautiful chef,” he whispered, before moving my legs apart. His cock pushed inside me, tentatively at first. As his thrusts became harder, I raised my hips to meet them and wrapped my legs around his body, urging him deeper. My moans became more guttural as I reached the point of no return, ending in a mind-blowing orgasm unlike anything in my recent sexual experience.
Ian wasn’t finished, so I held on for the sweet ride as he plunged into me again and again. I felt his body stiffen before he came, moaning my name. He stayed inside me for a few more moments while our hearts pounded together. I was lost in the moment, astonished by own physical response and unnerved by his passion.
Ian kept his voice low and his lips near my ear. “I believe that was the best appetizer I’ve ever been served,” he said. “The perfect combination of hot and spicy.”
***
I’d closed my eyes for what seemed a few seconds, and when I re-opened them, sunlight shifted through the open blinds. I was back in my bedroom, blinking and bewildered. It had to have been a dream, or else I was losing my mind, like my mother. My heart raced, flooding me with anxiety.
In any case, I couldn’t allow myself to waste more time re-living my imaginary sexual encounter. Who was I kidding? I was a middle-aged woman with cellulite, stretch marks, and less-than-perky breasts. I’d never offer myself, half-naked, to a man I wasn’t sure I could trust. Especially not tonight, when I had dinner to make.
Chapter Twelve
Ian
For as far back as I could remember, I have enjoyed the company of women. I believe my fascination with mature females began when I was a boy in England, an often-lonely only child who loved being around his beloved mum, especially when her friends would visit. They were products of the 1970s with long, straight hair, colorful clothing, and liberated attitudes. When their men weren’t along, the women seemed more relaxed, talking freely among themselves in a secret society marked by laughter, exotic cocktails, and the occasional marijuana joint, which they didn’t think I knew about.
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