Crave Me: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Amy Brent

  All she could do was stare at him wordlessly. She remembered how that kiss he’d given her had awakened her, how it’d made her feel alive again. Did that mean nothing to him? “The kiss?” That was all she could bring herself to say. If he says it meant nothing to him, I swear, I’m leaving him.

  “You were in pain,” he said, slowly. “And I—”

  “It did mean something to you,” she burst out, the anger in her voice surprising even her. “Don’t deny it.”

  It was his turn to stare at her, but the look in his eyes was pain, now—something about the way she’d spoken had hurt him. No, no—she didn’t want to hurt him—she wanted him to realize how badly he was hurting her when he denied that the kiss and everything that followed in the kitchen had anything to do with why she was here, now. “I’m not asking you to love me or anything,” she said. “I just need to know that it meant as much to you as it did to me.”

  “It meant the world to me,” he said, standing up, now. “I’m sorry—I didn’t understand what you meant. I just—I’m not very good at understanding women,” he said, babbling now. “I mean—I did kiss you because you were in pain—but yes, what happened after—when you asked for your start date—I just thought you wanted this,” he said, indicating the space between them. “I thought you wanted to be my employee—and that was all I was looking for.”

  “Don’t you ever want anything more?” she asked, puzzled now.

  “I’ve learned better,” he said. There was a bitter edge to his voice that suggested some sordid story. She waited—and then she wondered what she was waiting for, it wasn’t as if he was going to tell her.

  He sat down again and took a deep breath. “Please, join me,” he said. “I would like your company for the evening. I only rarely have guests.”

  She frowned as she plated her own ceviche and chili-kissed sprouts and took a seat next to him—it was a much, much smaller portion, mostly because she’d been tasting along the way and because she hadn’t planned on joining him and so had only shopped for one person. “I thought you went out to eat all the time,” she said. “Your picture is always in New York Eats—”

  His lips twitched into a smile as he poured out a glass of wine for her. “Yes,” he said. “I have clients that I woo at the restaurants that I have stakes in, but that’s not the same as having a guest.”

  Damn, that’s a good wine, she thought, sipping it. She chose her wines for the evening carefully, but the quality of the bottles surpassed even her expectations. She watched him take a bite of the raw fish. He closed his eyes as he chewed, his jaw working slowly. “The chili is a revelation,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at her. “You really know how the flavors work together.”

  She smiled. “I did go to Billingsgate,” she reminded him. He smiled back at her—a real smile this time, one that seemed to suggest that he was happy. A question that had been on her mind for the past week popped into her head. “Do you like me?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to sit with me unless I did,” he said, as if it should have been obvious.

  “I know,” she said. “But you—one minute you’re all business, the next minute you’re kissing me like I’ve never been kissed, one minute I’m your personal chef, the next I’m invited along for a date—you can see why it’s a little confusing.”

  “Why is it confusing to like someone for doing a good job?” he asked. “Especially if you’re paying them the rates that I’m paying you?”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “I’m just not comfortable being both an employee and—well, maybe-possibly-kinda-sorta your girlfriend.”

  The look of bewilderment on his face kept him silent long enough for her to sear the steak (Argentinian beef, aged six months) and plate it and the salad of dark greens and a parsnip puree—classic, simple, but elegant. She brought the plates out to the table, as well as the bottle of cabernet sauvignon. He’d brought out the red wine glasses while she was searing the steak.

  “I’m sorry to have put you in that position,” he said, as he cut a slice of the steak, dipped it in the jus, and put it into his mouth. “Delicious,” he said.

  “I’d just like some more clarity as to what I am to you,” she said.

  He leaned back in his chair and paused for a moment. “What would you like to be?” he asked, passing the decision back to her.

  His eyes had gone cold again, but his throat was strangely tense, as he watched her eat. He was afraid—but of what? And it was fear, too—measured, contained, but fear nonetheless. He wasn’t hoping that she would choose one or the other—she could read hope; a man with hope in his heart did not hide behind eyes as cold as ice. “Tell me about her,” she said.

  “What?” The way he shouted it made her jump, even though she’d expected he’d do as much.

  “I know what you’re like as an employer,” she said, even as her stomach and body began to quiver. “I need to know what you’re like as a boyfriend, before I can make a decision.”

  “Well, I’ll make it easy for you, then,” he snapped. He pulled out his wallet and counted out another thousand dollars, and shoved them across the table. “Get out of my house,” he said.

  It took everything she had not to lose her composure as she pushed away from the table and took off the apron. I don’t need this shit anyway. She folded the apron and left it on the counter and headed up the stairs—and she made the mistake that undid her resolve: she looked at him.

  His face had gone a shade whiter, and at first she thought he was angry, which prompted her to hurry that much faster and grab her bag. She was heading down the stairs when he appeared at the foot of the stairs. He looked infuriated. She was about to protest that he’d told her to get out when he said, “Please, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I’m a fool.”

  You should leave. He wouldn’t stop her—she could see that now. The pain in his eyes was haunting to endure, and for a moment she felt bad for him, until she remembered how confusing he’d made everything. She steeled her resolve and continued to the door.

  “Her name was Talia,” he said, suddenly. “She was amazing in all the right ways. I proposed to her. We rented St. Patrick’s for the ceremony. Everything was going well—and then the priest says the bit about ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ and someone actually stood up.

  “He said he was her husband, that her name was actually Rowena, that they’d been trying to con me into giving them God-knows how much money—and I had given her a fair sum—but then the checks stopped coming. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it was true. Since then, as I said, I’ve learned better.”

  She dropped her bag on the stairs, exasperated. She didn’t question that he was telling the truth, but she was frustrated with his push-em-pull-you way of dealing with whatever this was between them. (Could it really be a relationship if she wasn’t sure she wanted to be in one with him?) He sighed a breath of relief. “Thank you,” he said, swallowing. “I know I shouldn’t have pushed you away if I didn’t really mean it—”

  “Then why did you?” she demanded.

  He shrugged helplessly, holding his head in his hands. “Instinct,” he said, finally. “You don’t get to be where I am unless you can drive a hard bargain.”

  “I am not a company to flip or an asset to gain,” she snarled. “I don’t need you—”

  “Don’t you?”

  She remembered those weeks of numbness, when the mere act of getting a glass seemed like too much of a hassle. He kissed her, now, softly, gently. I’m sorry. “It’s been a long time,” he murmured. “I have some bad habits—I know I do, but I can make you happy if you let me.”

  “So what do you want from me, then?” she asked, the heat from his body nearly taking her breath away. “Do you want me to be your chef, or your girlfriend?”

  “Why can’t you be both?” he asked, pressing her against the wall, one hand firm on her breast, the other pulling her arm behind her back, while he laid a trail of soft kisses down he
r throat. “You get me in a way that no other woman could. Let’s just keep it at that, can we?”

  We could, she thought, feeling the twitchy, throbbing staff of his cock pressing against her thighs, reminding her of the pleasure it could bring, what it felt like to be awakened for the first time in a long time. He’s right, she realized. If he hadn’t come to her she’d still be slaving away in the kitchens of the Aviary, insensate and dead to the world. But is it enough?

  He seemed to have read her thoughts, because he whispered, “Yes.” She ran her fingers down his rippling back, feeling the stern quiver of his muscles as he pressed his body against hers, hot with desire and need. God, how she wanted to believe it. If you didn’t you’d be gone already. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be here, like this, with every fiber of your body begging him to touch you. Suddenly she was able to place that gnawing ache that had been playing at the back of her mind all day—she craved the feeling of his energy against her skin. Her hands began working at his trousers and shirt as he began to work her dress off over her shoulders—and where their skin touched it was as if their bodies fused together.

  More.

  “I need you,” he said, hoarsely, his lips pressing warm kisses to her breasts, his tongue drawing a path over her body, warm and cold. A shudder began somewhere deep inside her, and as he eased her to the floor she felt his fingers teasing the folds of her pussy, and she could feel something inside her making her move like that, her body twisting and undulating against his in time to a secret primal rhythm, scenting her lust with a wildness that brought out an urgency that she didn’t know she was capable of.

  He lowered her onto the stairs and she could feel his cheeks against the inside of her thighs, and hear him breathing in her scent, savoring it, making her wait, giving her imagination time to toy with the anticipation of his tongue against the flesh of her pussy, flicking against the nub of her clit, so that when he finally touched her all it took was the gentlest of caresses, slow and delicate, to send a rush of pleasure through her body.

  The surrender was complete—she felt her body spread itself wide, allowing the world to flood in and see her, and her mind seemed to spread, rising on waves of joy, each one higher than the one before, so that when he finally took her she felt weightless, just a being of air and light, pure joy. Somewhere in her mind she was faintly aware that he was inside her, that the tightness was its own source of pleasure, but it all seemed tangential to the feeling of letting it all go in one crescendoing cry.

  It wouldn’t last, of course, but as they lay against each other, their bodies fitting together perfectly, it didn’t matter at all. As long as they were together—the purity was something she didn’t quite understand, but she knew that she wanted more. As she felt his heart beat with her palm on his chest, slow and strong, she wondered that it’d taken her so long to accept this.

  She heard Zachary say, “I have a present for you.”

  It’d better be a fucking diamond, she thought. She looked up from piping the chestnut foam on top of the sixty spoonfuls of whitefish tartar, and arranging the tiny sliver of chive on top of everything. Three hours to go before the party, and she still had to clarify the consommé, bake the tuiles, flavor the foie gras, temper the chocolate, and make the red wine reduction. She’d planned everything out, and everything was going according to schedule, but right now was hardly the time to spring surprises on her. That was one of the misconceptions that people had about cooking and being a chef: it was fine to be surprising in the conception of new dishes, but the grind involved in getting dishes out in time didn’t allow for any surprises. It was all about following the damn recipe and doing everything by the book. Surprises were for amateurs.

  “Come on in,” said Zach. “Don’t worry, she’s nicer than Chris.”

  It took her a moment to recall that Zach had backed Christopher Temporino of Wrapped, one of the most faddish restaurants, even by New York City standards: exotic ingredients, served on slabs of shale or tree trunks, flavored smokes, improbable foams. It was at least as much a chemistry lab as it was a restaurant, but the word on the street was that Chris was burning through personnel. Part of it was that he used so many strange techniques to create his food, techniques that most culinary institutes hadn’t even heard of (where the hell did you buy liquid nitrogen?), but most of it was his ceaseless drive for perfection.

  And now, she, a culinary school graduate who had only worked as a line cook in a second-rate restaurant in Small Town USA, was getting his sous. Nicole recognized the man right away—his cheerful demeanor, his trademark round glasses and short spikey hair that sported frosted tips, reminding her of a geeky version of Everclear’s lead singer. “Gandry Blossom?” she gasped, as he stepped into the kitchen behind Zach.

  “I told you she’d know who you were,” Zach said.

  “I just put in my notice earlier this week,” said Gandry.

  “But—you’re one of the best in the business—” Nicole sputtered.

  Gandry shrugged. “I’ve got another gig lined up at Aioli,” he said. “But I owe Zach about two-thousand bucks for poker, and he said he was willing to make it two-hundred if I did this. So, what do you need me to do?”

  Nicole found herself looking back and forth between Gandry and Zach, still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she got to order a world-class chef around. “Pinch me,” she said to Zach.

  Zach leaned over and kissed her. “You’ll do great,” he said.

  Gandry had found another apron by now, and he was rolling up his sleeves—there were the tattoos of the lion and the unicorn that he’d spent many an interview expounding upon. “Damn,” he said, turning to Zach. “I might have to poach her if she pulled out all this from a home kitchen.”

  Zach gave her a See, I told you so look.

  “Right,” she said. “Can you start the tuiles? The forms are next to the sink. They need to be baked at three-fifty for five minutes and then shaped against the ladle.”

  ***

  The party goers were all investors in Zach’s company; some of them had contributed seed money, some of them had given him money to expand his operations. All of them had gotten their money, plus interest, and now they were clients of Zach’s MasterClass experience. “So it’s more like a ‘thanks for your money’ party and less of a fun party,” Zach had murmured, as she put the finishing touches on the hors d’ouevres: foie gras pureed into a light and airy mouse, grounded by a bitter coffee-and-chocolate wafer, topped with a dot of creme fraiche; the cucumber slices that she’d been working on earlier; a consommé so clear and light she served in champagne glasses; cubes of beef covered in spiced bread crumbs floating on a red wine reduction so thick it was more like a cream, hiding the little dot of mushroom cream that held it together in the little amuse glass. And that was just the beginning.

  Each hors d’ouevres had its own wine to go with it, and with the champagne, and the truffles that she was shaving into the dessert, even Zach had paled a bit when she passed him the receipts. But as she watched the faces that milled around the living room and patio she decided it was worth it. Zach certainly seemed to have forgotten about the sticker shock. He was in his element, glad-handing people without a trace of the frostiness he was known for, something that several people remarked on. “What can I say?” he said, in response. “I finally got a cook worth a damn.”

  More than one person popped into the kitchen when they heard that, wondering who the cook was. When they saw Gandry they invariably assumed that he was the cook—and she knew she should be annoyed but for some reason the anonymity was more reassuring. It meant that they took her to be on the same level as a world-class chef, a fact that was not lost on Gandry, who started pointing out that she was the cook, and he was just her assistant. “But you’re Gandry Blossom,” said more than one confused party-goer. “I know,” he said, winking. “Even I had to start somewhere.”

  That fixed her in the minds of all of the party goers—who was this young upstar
t who was bossing around a great like Gandry Blossom? She smiled and kept her head down, pleased with the attention her food was getting but also a little alarmed, as more than one person invited her to come work for them. She was hearing salaries that she’d assumed that only people like Gordon Ramsey made—salaries big enough for her to afford an honest-to-God apartment in Manhattan—and it was hard for her to believe that this could all be true. By the end of the evening she’d amassed a small stash of business cards from people who were all eager that she call them. “We’ll work out terms,” they promised her.

  The last of the guests had gone, and she was still thinking about them. A life as a private chef was a pretty sweet gig—a food budget every week that was equal to what she spent in a month, and some of them had invited her to places like St. Tropez, “so I can let show my kids what real food is”. It would be so easy to call the number and agree to come with them. And yet, for all that Zach was a hard nut to crack, she found herself reluctant to make the call.

  All of the lights were off; the penthouse was being lit solely by the glow of New York City at night, and though she could have turned on the lights the darkness suited her thoughtful mood. She was loading the last load of dishes into the dishwasher when Zach came in and said, “Well, that’s how Zachary Spencer does parties.” He held out a glass to her. In the darkness the wine looked like blood. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I got at least six offers,” she said.

  “I’ll meet them.”

  She looked at him—if there was anybody who understood that money wasn’t what drove her it was him, so what was he doing offering her money? “You’re free to go, you know that?” he asked, his voice sounding strangled. He was standing with his back to the window, so she couldn’t see his eyes.