Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  “I assume you and Pierre are…” he stops talking, steeples his fingers together and brings them to his mouth.

  “Are?” I feel my eyebrows shoot up as I straighten my back, daring him to become personal.

  “Together?” It sounds like his voice is holding hope that I’ll say no.

  “Seeing as he no longer works here, that has no bearing on my job,” I pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “In other words, it’s still none of your damned business, Angus.” I stand and smooth the pleats on the front of my dress slacks down. “Is there anything else?” I feel my lips tug up in a smile as I tug my jacket down.

  “I was just wondering if Pierre has found another job, because, well…” He’s stuttering over his words. “If he wants to come back...” He stops and looks at me, waiting for me to answer.

  “Then you’d best call him and offer his job back to him. I’m sorry, but I can’t speak for Pierre.”

  “Yeah, alright,” he mumbles as looks back down at a single sheet of paper on his desk.

  “Is there a meeting before service?”

  “No, not tonight.”

  “What’s the special of the day?”

  “There isn’t one. It’s normal menu.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll go check the bar.” I walk out smiling, Angus was an arse to Pierre, and Pierre quit. Pierre is incredibly difficult to work with, but he was an excellent head chef. Angus knows exactly how Pierre is, and he challenged him. I can’t imagine Pierre ever being able to get on with anyone without conflict. But in this instance, Angus is to blame.

  As I walk out to the front, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Taking it out, I swipe my finger and see Pierre has sent me a message: Quit and come home.

  Go away – I’m working. X

  I will take care of you, I want you home. Even in his text messages he’s incredibly proper in his vocabulary.

  I’m ignoring you. X

  You cannot ignore me. I want to ravish your body, come home now.

  Turning my phone off. X.

  I can feel your pretty plump pussy lips around my tongue. I can taste your delicious wet juices as they drip down my chin. I smile as I read his message. Deviant.

  Not talking to you. X

  Your legs hooked around my shoulders, your beautiful cries in my ears as I tongue your desperate, needy hole.

  You’re not helping. GO AWAY.

  My cock is desperate to fill you, my body craves the tremble of yours as I hold you and make love to you. Dear Lord, how hot is it in here? I feel my thighs clench as my body reacts to his words.

  Seriously, go away. Only message me if it’s an emergency, if Emma needs something.

  I need something. I need to be inside you, to eat you and consume you. I need to cover you with thick butterscotch syrup and carefully lick it out of every crevice of your body.

  That’s it – no sex for a week.

  Let me make love to you. Let me satisfy your gluttonous body. You lust for me just as much as I desire you. Come home, mon chéri, let our bodies join together.

  He went back to calling me ‘mon chéri’ when I told him I preferred it to ‘angel’. I love the way his tongue curls around the letters, like he’s tenderly caressing the word, making love it to it with his entire being.

  Come home to me soon, I have a surprise for you.

  And that’s the last message I hear from Pierre until I text him to tell him I’m leaving at the end of my shift.

  I’ll be home soon. X

  I look forward to it.

  When I leave Table One, I drive home. By ‘home’, I mean Pierre’s home. Emma and I have moved in with him, and have cleared out Bronwyn’s home and rented it out.

  Parking in the driveway, I can feel my blood spiking with anticipation as I get out of the car and go to the front door.

  Pierre is waiting for me, with the devil’s own glint in his eye.

  “Hi,” I say as I lean up to kiss him.

  “Shhh,” his mouth moves as he brings a finger up to it. “Take your shoes off,” he commands me in his dark, dangerous, languid voice. I slide my shoes off and Pierre once again kneels before me to put them in their proper resting spot. He stands silently, his deft fingers going to the zip of my dress pants, slowly lowering it.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as his eyes settle on mine, his vivid gaze never leaving mine. His grey eyes are incredibly ravenous, sparkling as his features intensify. “Emma?”

  He leans over and pulls my slacks off. “Emma is fast asleep but now you must shhh,” he says again. His tone is quiet, cool, and sexy.

  Ripples of lust hammer inside me, my entire body desperate for his touch as I long for his hunger.

  He takes off my jacket, and his hands slowly go to my shirt, with his eyes trained on mine as he carefully lifts them and unfastens the silver buttons. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers in his hungry voice.

  My breath catches as I struggle to draw air into my lungs. I can feel my pulse quicken, the heavy thump of my own heartbeat playing music to my ears. My eyes close automatically as I feel his fingers burning against the cool material.

  He glides his hands up my arms to inside my shirt, and pushes the cloth off of my shoulders.

  I’m left in only my panties and bra, standing inside the foyer of his –or should I say, our – home.

  Opening my eyes, I see the love in the silver flecks of Pierre’s eyes. “Come,” he says as his fingers twine with mine and he leads us outside.

  Out on the back lawn he’s spread a picnic blanket. On the four corners are glass jars containing colourful, flickering candles.

  “Pierre I’m almost nude, I can’t go out there. What if someone sees me?”

  “The sky is dark, and the fruit trees give us privacy.”

  I halt, but he continues to pull me outside toward the blanket.

  “Pierre,” I say again.

  “Tonight we watch the moon, and enjoy the air as our souls and bodies join to make one.” Pierre leads me to the blanket, and when my feet are on it, he stands tall in front of me. Slowly he removes my panties and bra, dropping them carelessly on the manicured green grass. As he appreciates me, I can feel the pull as a knot of elasticity stretches deep inside my tummy. “Take my clothes off, let us unite in love.”

  With the same precision and love he showed me inside, I remove his clothes and toss them haphazardly to the grass.

  Pierre sits on the blanket and reaches for my hand. “Straddle me, mon chéri, I need our bodies close and I want to feast my eyes on you.” I lower and take his already hard cock inside me. All the playful torment has made me sopping wet, and eager to take him deep within me.

  Pierre’s hands move to my back. They don’t stop tracing delicate patterns as he throws his head back and enjoys the feel of me on him. A low, feral moan rumbles from deep within his chest as he elongates his neck further while his head lolls to the side.

  “Pierre,” I say, my own hands exploring the planes of his torso then moving to lace into his hair as it casually flops over his eyes.

  “I love you.” Pierre looks up at me. His grey eyes, now look black with blissful desire. Pierre’s movements are slow and heavenly as his body moves with sensual joy.

  My breasts are pushing into his chest, and his hands are entwined in my loose hair, my own hands discovering the delicious sinew of his solid form.

  “Holly,” Pierre murmurs against my throat. His tongue licks the hollow valley at the base of my throat, between my clavicles.

  “Yes, Pierre,” I moan in my own wanton, selfish tone. I can feel the tightness beginning inside, the coil which is wound so tightly, waiting for the breaking point.

  “I want us to be a family.” He ducks his head and sucks on my nipple, pulling it between his teeth as his hands keep my starved frame steady to him.

  “Hmmm.” I love the feeling of our bodies joining, his intensity trumps every part of me.

  “Marry me and let me adopt Emma.” I
t’s not a question.

  It’s a command.

  Chef Pierre: Epilogue

  Pierre

  “Are we going to the Three Sisters?” Holly asks as I drive us up toward the Blue Mountains.

  “Dad, where are we going?” Nine-year-old Emma whines from the back seat.

  “We are going out for a family day.”

  Holly’s fingers link with mine as she rests them on my thigh while I drive.

  “Can you give us a hint?” she asks.

  “Non, no hints.” I flick my wrist at her.

  “Are we going to be home in time for dinner?”

  “Seeing as I am the one who cooks, it does not matter what time we are home.”

  “I need to pee,” Emma grumbles.

  “You should have gone before we left home. Play your iPod and you will forget about needing to pee,” I scold her. Holly chuckles and turns to look out the window.

  “It’s beautiful up here. The trees are so green and lush. I’d love to move here one day.” Holly continues to stare out the window.

  One night, shortly after I proposed to Holly, I was reading Emma a bedtime story when she sat up and crossed her arms in front of her. She looked so serious, like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Pierre I need to ask you something,” she said with a deadly serious scowl.

  “Oui, ma belle petite. Ask away.”

  “I want to call you Dad. I asked Mummy if it was okay for me to call you that, and she told me I had to ask you.” The breath was knocked out of me, my lungs deflated and I found it difficult to breathe. Not because I did not want her calling me ‘Dad’, but because it was one of the proudest moments of my life.

  “I would love for you to call me ‘Dad’,” I said as I leaned in and kissed her forehead.

  “Okay, you can keep reading me the story, Dad.” From that moment on, she never again addressed me as ‘Pierre’. It was ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’, and I beamed with pride every time I took her to school and she waved and called me the most important name in the world.

  Angus called me, begging me to return to the restaurant. After a hefty wage negotiation, I decided I would return, but Holly would work fewer hours so we could share our parenting duties with Emma.

  I can feel my heart expanding as I think of the small civil ceremony Holly and I had. We went to the Births, Death and Marriage office with Emma, and three of us wed. We were a family before that date, but on the 1st December last year, it became official.

  As I drive toward our destination, Emma happily hums in the back, saying whatever words she wants to the music she’s listening to through her headphones. Just like her mother, she cannot sing. She cannot hold a tune, and she struggles to sound even somewhat decent when she sings.

  When we get to Katoomba, I park the car on a tree-lined street. The old branches hang low over the road, shading the asphalt in the most intimate of ways. They provide a barrier and a cocoon for the houses they are protecting.

  “We are here,” I say as I jump out of the car and jog around to open Holly’s, then Emma’s doors.

  “Where are we?” Holly asks as she looks up the road then back down.

  “I need to pee, really badly, Dad,” Emma whines again.

  It’s late spring, just before our first wedding anniversary, and the air is still crisp up here. Summer isn’t really hot in Katoomba. It barely gets warm enough for any type of air conditioning, though in the dead of winter, a blanket of snow sometimes graces the roads. It gently falls and the white envelops everything it touches, creating a magical wonderland of depth and peace.

  “Come, let’s have some lunch.” I lead my loves to a house that has a converted café at the front of it.

  When we go inside, Holly’s eyes are wide as Emma asks the way to the bathroom.

  “What are we doing here, Pierre?” Holly asks as she takes in the homely, country décor of the quiet café.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t bullshit me. You’re up to something!” she whisper-yells at me, trying not to draw too much attention to herself.

  “Pierre, this must be the beautiful Holly. Was that your daughter who ran to the bathroom?” Mrs. Martin, the proprietor, appears as she comes and kisses me on both cheeks.

  “Oui, Holly this is Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Martin this is my wife, Holly.” The ladies exchange pleasantries, though I can tell Holly is about to rip me a new one right here.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Martin says, as she eyes me then lets her gaze fall over Holly’s tight features. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”

  I shake my head, and wind my arm around Holly’s stressed shoulders. “Not yet,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Tell me what?” Holly says with a fake smile plastered on her face, but I can tell, she is pissed off.

  “I will leave you two to discuss…um the…well, you know.” She turns and I am pretty sure I see her stumble because she runs away so fast.

  “What the hell is going on?” Holly queries through clenched teeth as she turns on her heels to look at me.

  “Happy anniversary, mon chéri.”

  “Oh.” She takes an obviously calming breath. “You brought us here for our anniversary lunch. Phew, I thought you were going to spring something else on me.” She laughs a relieved chuckle.

  “Like what?” I ask and take a cautious step back.

  “You’re the most passionate person I know, Pierre. I was half expecting you to say you bought this place and you’re going to run it.” She laughs again and goes to step away.

  I remain quiet, and don’t follow her.

  “Pierre,” she says as she turns and sees me standing very still. “Pierre,” she says again, her tone deadly low, her eyes fierce with anger.

  “Oui,” I say and take another protective step back.

  “Oui what?” She takes a counter step toward me.

  I swallow hard, take an almighty – and possibly my last – deep breath. “Oui, I bought this place and want to make it into a bed and breakfast,” I say as fast as I can. It sounds like each word melts into the other.

  Holly rolls her eyes shut, and sighs. “I really should’ve expected this.”

  I smile, that’s a good thing…right?

  Chef Pierre: Epilogue

  Emma

  Ten years later

  “You don’t understand. Dad will be pissed off.”

  “You don’t know that. He’s a chef; he knows you want to be a chef too.”

  I huff into the phone and twirl my hair around my finger. “Have you met my father?” I ask sarcastically.

  Salvatore chuckles. “He’ll be fine. Just tell him.”

  “Why don’t you get your butt over here and we’ll tell him together?”

  “Hell no, he’ll kill me. And at some stage I think you may want to start a family, and that won’t happen if he chops me into little pieces.”

  “You’re a pussy. Dad wouldn’t do that.”

  “Emma, the man is overprotective. Do you remember when we were thirteen and I came to your house for the first time? I didn’t even like you then, and he took his meat cleaver out and started hacking into that side of lamb. He scared the crap out of me then, especially how he kept looking at me as he was swinging the meat clever around.”

  I can’t help but laugh, because that was the year Salvatore and I had to do a project together for high school. He came over so we could start it and Dad went all crazy on him. He was talking French at him, and telling Salvatore, “If you lay one finger on her, your digits will go in tonight’s pie.” Of course Salvatore is Italian, and he has no idea what Dad was saying. I laughed, gave Dad a kiss and told him we were only doing a project for school together.

  “Thanks for the back-up,” I say into the phone.

  Salvatore takes a huge breath, “Fine, I’ll be there soon. But if he kills you or me, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.” We both hang up, and I go to the bathroom and get ready
for the onslaught.

  “I’m setting the table inside tonight because it’s a bit cool outside,” I tell Dad as I get the cutlery ready. What I neglect to tell him is I’m setting the table inside because hopefully, the walls will muffle the yelling when Salvatore and I spring our news on him.

  “Is Salvatore coming for dinner, too?” he asks as he stirs the pot on the stove.

  “Yeah.”

  Salvatore spends a lot of his time here. Mum and Dad know we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend for a long time now, and they’re fine with it. Dad still scares Salvatore, but that’s just Dad being Dad.

  As I set the table I look over to the wall of family photos. A photo of Nanna smiling with me curled up asleep on her lap. There’s one of Mum, Dad and me when they got married. Next to it, almost as large, there’s one of Dad and Eva, then on the other side there’s one of Mum, my biological Dad and me.

  Mum never let me forget my real Dad, and throughout the year we go visit him at his grave. Sometimes just Mum and I go, but most times Dad comes with us. I also learned Dad’s first wife, Eva, died from ovarian cancer. Dad taught me about her, and we go visit her grave too. At first, some of my friends didn’t understand why we visited her as a family, but soon they accepted it.

  She’s as much my Mum as my biological father is my Dad. I may never have met her, but it’s like I know her deep down inside of me.

  “Hey,” Mum says as she comes in with four glasses and a pitcher of water.

  “Hey, how busy has it been?”

  “If your father has another bright idea to buy anything else, I’m going to throttle him.”

  I chuckle at Mum. Two years ago Dad decided he wanted to expand from the bed and breakfast, so he bought a small hotel. Mum was so pissed off at him, first for not discussing it with her, but second for convincing her it’ll be great for them. Since then, they bought a second hotel, and a third.

  Dad runs the kitchens, and thinks he runs the family, but Mum is pretty stubborn and doesn’t put up with much of his bossiness.