Holly
Pierre kisses me on the mouth. Nothing deep or passionate, just a soft chaste, caring kiss. He then turns and calls for Emma as he leaves me to follow.
“Now, where is Emma?”
“I’m here, Pierre. Can I have something to eat please? I’m hungry.”
I track toward the happiness in the kitchen.
“Oui, you may. What would you like to eat?”
“Chocolate,” she says quickly, although she knows she’s not allowed junk straight after school.
“Non, that will not do. I will not give you chocolat.” How am I going to survive listening to him speak in that delectable French accent?
“It’s chocolate, not chocolat, like you say,” Emma says, though it comes out quite rudely.
“Emma,” I say sternly, warning her to watch how she speaks.
“But it is,” she whines as she turns to look at me.
“That’s the way the French say it, and your tone was rude.”
Emma’s face erupts into bright red embarrassment. Her eyes fall to the floor and she hunches her shoulders. “Sorry, Pierre, I didn’t mean for it to sound rude.”
“It is fine. Let’s make a fruit and cheese platter, come, you can help me.” Emma jumps down from the breakfast bar stool and goes around to the fridge to see what’s in there. “Ma petite, it appears you have forgotten to do something. Number one rule in the kitchen is?” Pierre tilts his head to the side and lifts his eyebrows waiting for Emma’s answer.
“Um.” She stares up at the ceiling. “Oh.” She turns and goes to the sink to wash her hands.
“Very good. Now you may help me make a snack, but after the snack we have your homework to do.” I sit on the bar stool and watch the dynamic between the two.
It doesn’t cease to surprise me how easily they interact with each other.
Pierre has seamlessly stepped into a strong male figure for her, and she’s accepted him doing this. Emma looks up to Pierre, and Pierre speaks with Emma not at her.
“I have a surprise for you after you have finished your homework,” Pierre says as he hands Emma a green apple.
“A surprise? What is it?” she cries happily.
“I cannot tell you or it will not be a surprise.” Pierre chuckles as he gets a heavy wooden chopping board out from his cupboard. “Here, you can cut the apple. Do you know how?”
“I’m not really allowed to use knives.”
They both look at me. Emma with a ‘isn’t that right, mummy’ look, and Pierre with a ‘are you serious’ look.
“She does not know how to use a knife?” he asks me, but I can tell he’s not particularly impressed by it.
“She uses a butter knife, not a sharp one.”
“We will fix the problem. Here.” He takes the knife and places it in her hand, stands behind her and begins giving her instructions. “Keep your fingers tucked under, so if the knife slips you do not chop one off.” Emma giggles. “When you cut, you do not hack. One smooth line from top to bottom. Like this.” He grabs her hand, which is holding the knife and shows her how to cut correctly.
“I can do this,” she says, enthusiastically.
“You are my little apprentice chef. You must learn what I teach you.”
“I’m an apprepep…an apprep…” She tries saying it again, which makes me snort with laughter. “Mummy, did you hear I’m an apprepapes.” Emma’s smile is huge, though she has no idea what an apprentice is. “Wait, that’s a good thing right, Pierre?”
He lets go over her hand and steps back chuckling. “Oui, it is very good. You are my apprentice.”
“Appre…what?”
“A.P.P.R.E.N.T.I.C.E,” he spells slowly as she watches his mouth and squints her eyes in concentration.
“Apprentice,” she repeats.
“That’s it, Peanut. You got it,” I say and clap my hands together.
“What’s an apprentice?” she asks me and turns back to slice the apple.
“You are my apprentice chef, which means I will teach you to cook. So I am your teacher and you are my student.”
“Oh.” Emma slumps her shoulder and looks uninterested.
“What is the problem, ma patite?”
“I don’t want you to be my teacher. I don’t want any more homework.”
Pierre and I laugh as Emma continues chopping the apple.
“I will not give you homework. You will watch and learn how to cook from me.”
“Oh that’s cool, as long as there’s no homework.”
“Not until you are eight.”
“But that’s next year,” Emma wails.
“I know,” Pierre teases.
The two finish making the fruit and cheese platter and we all go out to the patio to eat it.
Pierre asks Emma about school and Emma animatedly tells him all about her best friends. I’ve been fairly quiet the entire time we’ve been here, but it’s nice to see them and the connection they’re forming.
Once the platter has been consumed, Pierre turns to Emma. “Go and wash your hands, and get your homework out so we can do it.”
“Okay, Pierre.” Emma merrily skips to do what he’s asked.
“Stay here, I will make you a café and bring it out. Do you have a book you can read, perhaps on your phone? Or you can pick something of Eva’s.”
“You don’t want me to come in?”
“It is not necessary, but if you want to, then of course you can. We will be at the kitchen island, you can turn and watch us or you can come in, but I want you to relax.”
“I am relaxed. But I think I’ll have a look at Eva’s books and see if there’s something of interest.”
He leads us inside, and leaves me to peruse Eva’s bookcase. “I hope you don’t mind,” I whisper to the empty room. I find a book with the interesting title of Yes, Master, and when I look at the blurb the first line grips me. The blurb starts off with “My uncle abused me”. I mean, wow, what an opener. The synopsis for the book has ripped my heart out, so the book itself must be incredibly intense.
I walk out to the sunny yard and sit in the chair I was sitting in earlier and begin to inhale the story. “Your café, mademoiselle.” Pierre places the coffee in front of me, and bends to kiss my cheek. “Hmmm,” he says as he looks at the book I have in my hand. “I seem to remember this book.” He grins. “Very well.” He kisses me on the lips.
“How?” Now I’m intrigued.
“It is a very good story. Eva loved it, and I loved that she loved it.” He bends and nips me on the ear, “It’s also very sexy in some parts,” he whispers.
I gulp.
Maybe I shouldn’t read it.
I put Yes, Master down for a moment. Man, that’s one intense story if I’ve ever read one! I need a breather, a few moments to gather my thoughts and step away from the painful life the main character lives.
“Ma patite, you are very talented,” I hear, coming from the kitchen. “Maybe you will be a chef when you are older.”
“I want to be a chef, just like you, Pierre.”
It’s then I catch Pierre’s face. A smile so broad I can see the pride bursting from him. His chest swells, his shoulders flex back and he lifts his chin with excitement that Emma said such a sweet and innocent thing to him.
“And I will teach you everything I know,” he answers, though his voice is strained and gravelly. He turns his head and I notice he swipes at his eye before he gets a bottle of water from the fridge and downs the entire thing in one go.
“Hey, Peanut. How’s it going?” I ask as I step through and cuddle Emma from behind.
“Look what Pierre bought me!” she exclaims, showing off her mini apron and mini chef’s hat. On the front of the apron is embroidered ‘World’s Best Apprentice’ with ‘Emma’ above it. The hat has ‘Mini Chef’ across the front in bright purple lettering.
“Pierre, you didn’t have to do that,” I say as my throat tightens. Damn it, now it’s my turn to cry.
“Emma i
s my official apprentice, therefore she needs proper attire. Next week I will be buying her a knife set.”
“Knife set?” I ask, nervously.
Pierre chuckles and rounds the kitchen island, he wraps his arm around my waist and brings me into his side. “Oui, a child’s knife set. I will keep it here and supervise. Trust me, mon chéri.” He leans in to whisper, “I am a very thorough teacher.” He kisses me on the neck.
Emma giggles and keeps kneading the dough. “Why are you giggling?” I ask Emma as I cuddle into Pierre.
“Because Pierre kissed you.”
“Is that okay with you?” Pierre asks Emma.
She looks at me, looks at Pierre and smiles. “Oui, it’s okay with me; you can kiss Mummy.”
My little seven-year-old girl is cheeky.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 27
Holly
“Mummy,” Emma asks from the back seat on the return trip home.
“Yeah.” I silence the radio and wait for her question.
“There’s lots of pictures of Pierre and a woman on his walls. In some of them he’s kissing her.”
I take a deep breath, and silently wait for any more questions.
“Has Pierre got a girlfriend?”
Technically, yes, me. But I’ll have to simplify it for Emma so she understands. “Pierre was married a long time ago.”
“He isn’t married anymore?”
“Sort of.”
“Some of the kids at school have to spend their weekends with their mum or their dad. Some of them don’t live together. Is that like Pierre?”
“No, it’s a bit different. You know how daddy died in a car accident?”
“Yeah.”
“Pierre’s wife died too.”
“Was she in the same car accident?”
“No, she was really sick.”
“Aw,” her voice drops and she sounds sad. “Did she have a cold?”
“Nothing like that, she had something else called cancer.”
“I’ve heard of that, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a disease which spreads in the body, and sometime people die from it but sometimes people can survive.”
“Why didn’t she live?”
“Because her cancer was aggressive.”
“What does that mean?”
Man, what a difficult conversation to have with a seven year old. “It means the cancer grew really quickly and overtook her body.”
“That’s really sad, Mummy.” Emma goes quiet, not saying anything for a few seconds. She must be thinking about it. “I bet Pierre misses her.”
“Of course he does.”
“Do you miss Daddy?”
“Every single day.” Damn it.
“Mummy.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I should make Pierre a card to say thank you for teaching me how to cook?” How easily her young mind shifts from one conversation to another.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea and I bet you anything he’ll love it.”
“Okay, tomorrow after school I’ll make him a card. He told me he was going to show me how to make French toast.” She starts laughing, “Get it, Mum? French toast.” She continues laughing. “French toast.” Her laugh is so infectious and bubbly and I can’t help but laugh along with her.
It’s closing in on nine at night. The moon is still fairly low, but the stars are shining bright in the sky. Emma is usually in bed by this time, but tonight was an exception to the rules.
“When we get home, it’s a shower then bed.”
I hear nothing in return.
“Emma,” I say in a gentler voice.
Again, nothing.
The rest of the drive home is spent in complete silence. The only noise is the whir of the car engine and the sound of the tyres relentlessly beating on the road. Images of Pierre and Emma in the kitchen, the obvious and pronounced bond they have, forcefully play over and over again in my head. Dare I say it? He’s stepped into being her male role model, like a father to a daughter. And she’s accepted him so easily into her life, like a daughter craving her daddy’s kind and loving words.
Is it too early for this?
Has Emma fallen hopelessly in love with Pierre? Is Pierre ready for Emma? For the time she wakes in the middle of the night with a nightmare, and she cries out to be held by her daddy. To wipe a wet cloth across her forehead when she has a high fever and wants to curl into the strength of her father? Is he ready to hold her hand when she crosses the road, to kiss her goodbye at school? To know when the time is right to be gentle with her, when her heart is broken for the first time? Or when to be strict with her because we’ve caught her sneaking out of our home? Is he ready? Is that what he wants?
Damn it.
I sniffle as I feel the tears falling.
I hope he wants all of it. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with him, and I want him to be immersed in our lives. I want us to be a family.
When we get home, I struggle to get Emma inside and into bed. I can allow her to forego a shower tonight; she can have one in the morning.
I tuck her in and give her a soft kiss to the forehead. Emma stirs slightly, “Night, Mummy, night, Pierre,” she says without opening her eyes. She turns on her side, cuddles into her teddy and resumes sleeping.
I hear my phone ringing and when I reach it, I see Pierre’s name flashing at me.
“Hey,” I answer once I’ve swiped my finger across the screen.
“I am just checking you got home okay.”
“I do know where I live,” I chuckle. I go to my bedroom and lie on the bed.
“Oui, but I do not. I have not been there yet.”
“Hmm, really?” I fake surprise.
“I think you are just toying with me now. I may need to punish you,” his voice turns velvety smooth and dark.
“And how would you do that?” Please, please, please, be naughty Pierre.
“Perhaps I may need to lay you down on my bed…” Yes. “And rip your clothes off you…” Starting to hyperventilate. “And lick every part of your body.”
“I like the sound of you licking me.”
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Do you have a vibrator?”
“Um.” Awkward. “Hmm.”
“Those are not answers. Either oui or non.”
My face flames as I bring my free hand over my eyes to cover myself in embarrassment.
“Yeah,” I squeak out in the tiniest voice.
“Good, get it now. I want to hear you whimpering as your body recognises me and seeks the pleasure it knows I will give you.”
“Oh my God, I don’t think I can do this.”
“I have licked your pussy, I have pleasured your breasts and thrust my cock inside you, and you are shy? I have so many more things I want to do with you and to you, so please do not be ashamed. You have a beautiful body, and I adore hearing your delicious sounds when you come. It’s almost as good as your wet, greedy pussy wrapping itself around my rock-hard cock while you ride me. Your tits bouncing and swaying were so sexy to watch, and your moaning was music to my ears. And now you are all the way over there, and I am all the way over here and I need to hear you breathing heavy before you call my name as you come. So please, take your vibrator out of wherever you hide it, get naked and talk to me.”
Gulp. How can I refuse that request?
“Wait a minute.” I quickly strip and get my vibrator, “I’m back.”
“Good. Tell me, what type of vibrator is it?”
“It’s a Lelo.”
“Does it have rabbit ears to stimulate your pink, juicy clit?”
“Oh God, Pierre. Yeah it’s like that.”
“Spread your luscious, long legs for me.”
I sit on the bed and open my legs. “Okay.”
“You will listen to me and do what I tell you to do.”
My throat’s parched, but the fire in my belly is ravenous and w
ants more of him before it is quenched.
“Spread your lips, and place the tip on your clit. Do not turn it on, slowly drag it up and down. Let the moisture of your pussy coat the toy.”
“Okay.” The heat in the room intensifies, the blaze inside my body bursts with ferocity.
“I am enjoying the way your breath is changing. Now slide the toy inside you but keep it turned off.”
I do and clench my thighs together, trying to get the intensity I would get if I turned it on. I begin moaning as I close my eyes and start moving the vibrator slowly in then out.
“Imagine my tongue licking your pussy. My mouth would close over your clit, and I would suck on it then flick it with my tongue. My fingers inside you, your wetness coating them, getting ready to clamp down when your cunt has been fully stimulated by my tongue.”
I start rocking my hips against the vibrator, desperate for Pierre to be here instead of the fake phallus.
“Yes, mon chéri. I like hearing your moans. Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do to you,” his voice is strained and heavy with desire.
“I want you to fuck me, Pierre.”
“I want to tie your wrists to my headboard, to tie your ankles to the posts at the foot of my bed and play with your body. Will you let me do that?”
“Yes, please.”
“Turn the toy on, Holly.” I turn it on. The ears are relentless in their stimulation. “Get up on your knees, Holly.”
Holy shit.
I position myself as he’s asked. “I am, Pierre, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to lower yourself on your Lelo, and ride it. Drive your hips and thrust hard, pretend you are sitting on my face. Grind your hips onto my face. Let me drink your sweetness.”
My hips are doing what he’s telling me to do. They have a life of their own.
“Pull one of your sweet nipples, pinch it and roll it between your fingers.”
“Oh Christ.”
“Now I want you to move your hand and slide your fingers inside your pussy. Take them out and taste yourself. Tell me, how do you taste?”
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