“Well, now I’m awake,” he countered, and then made a great show of flexing his fingers, and then sticking his head into the fridge, “Crepes? Omlettes? Waffles? “
“I don’t have time,” Bridget told him, glancing down at her watch. “Tad and I have to be at the airport at nine. Did you change your mind? Are you going to come?”
“Damn!” Paul hissed, finally remembering what day it was. Paul’s brother Drew and his wife, Dixie were taking their kids to Disney World for fall break. They had offered to take Tad as well. Bridget was accompanying him down to D.C. on a commuter flight, and coming back that afternoon. “I can’t,” he said, but sounded regretful. “We have a reviewer from the Times coming in tomorrow night. I’m not supposed to know, mind you…”
Bridget nodded and hid her disappointment. “I understand. I already told Tad that you couldn’t come. He will want to say goodbye though. He was sleepy, so I let him go back and lie down for a while after I got him dressed, but the taxi will be here soon. You should wake him up.”
Paul took the nanny’s advice, woke his son and spent a few minutes talking before they had to go. He walked them both down to the lobby, and felt surprisingly bereft when the taxi drove away. He knew that his family would be back soon, but their absence left an aching gap.
Paul buried the feeling in the same way he always did- by throwing himself in to work. The restaurant was even more frantic that morning. A friend of a friend had tipped him off that Barry Walker, food critic for the paper, was stopping by the following evening. Paul was treating dinner service as a rehearsal to ensure that everything was perfect the following night.
The sous-chef had bought the produce. Paul wasted at least an hour sorting through the rubbish and working out what was usable. He put some extra care into the menu. Then he had to deal with the lunchtime rush, and finally, dinner prep. First orders were just arriving when he received a very unwelcome surprise.
“Monsieur le chef?” Georges said, ever-formal. “Your investors are in the dining room. They would like a moment of your time.”
“I’m in the middle of service!” Paul snarled back, punctuating his reply with some swearing, but Georges was unflappable.
“They are waiting for you at table thirteen.”
“How fitting…” Paul muttered under his breath as he marched out into the dining room. A meeting with his despised partners was certainly a sign of bad luck. He couldn’t even force a smile as he slid in beside them at the banquette.
It seemed that the owners had also been tipped off about the Times reporter and wanted to make sure that he had things right. Paul was insulted. Then, when they tried to sort out his menu for the following morning, he became enraged.
“Prawns in chocolate sauce?” he bellowed, heedless of the diners around him, “Are you insane? What kind of an idiot would pair prawns with chocolate?”
“Paul…” one of the men said, with a familiarity that made his blood boil, “Please stay calm.”
“Calm?” he growled, “Why should I be calm? You know nothing about cooking. The only thing you know about the restaurant business is how to write a check. I have never gotten anything less than a perfect five-star review in the New York Times and you come in here and-!”
“Chef Devoe, I think you want to watch your mouth,” one of the men said in a tone that was so oily and superior that Paul’s hackles rose.
“It’s my restaurant!” he spat.
“No, it’s our restaurant,” the man countered, “Paid for with our money. Here you have been hired to cook.”
“I have a quarter stake.”
“We have the other seventy-five percent interest.”
Paul saw red.
“Fine!” he said, standing up from the table so angrily that he banged the table. Wine sloshed over the rims of glasses, dripping onto the cloth. “It’s your restaurant? You can run it yourselves!”
Paul didn’t even walk back into the kitchen. He stormed out directly through the front doors: past the other diners, past the patrons waiting in the bar and past his gawping maitre’d.
Paul continued down the street. At first, he didn’t have a destination, but when his feet cut through the park on their own accord, he recognized that he was going home.
Home.
The notion soothed him a little. Tad wouldn’t be there to welcome him, but Bridget would be. For the first time in their relationship, they were going to be alone. Paul smiled to himself as he realized the opportunity he had to significantly improve his mood!
Maybe tonight will be the night…
The notion had barely formed in his mind when his nerves began to tingle. A thousand passionate scenarios scrolled through his mind, but he didn’t let his imagination run too far. Although the ending he desired was not in doubt, Paul intended to get there with a bit of flair.
A glance at his wristwatch showed that it was only a quarter to eight. Bridget’s plane didn’t return until 6:00 p.m.. She probably hadn’t left the airport until seven, and then she had to take a taxi ride. If he hurried, he could beat her home!
Paul quickened his steps. He made a pit stop at a gourmet grocery and then continued home where he was relieved to find the apartment empty. He needed time to set up Bridget’s surprise. It was time to put his plan in action.
Bridget’s stomach was rumbling, and she was in something of a quandary over what to do about it. She knew what she would normally do in this case: stuff herself silly on junk food and sweets the second she got home.
After a few honest little chats with Paul, she felt even more guilty than usual about her intentions. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook something for herself from scratch, it was just that cooking took time. She was hungry now.
What was she going to do about dinner? She didn’t have an answer. Maybe she could order takeout if she was extra careful about what she picked? Maybe she should just skip dinner and see if Paul would cook her breakfast the following morning?
Paul.
Bridget’s lips formed a dreamy smile. They would be home alone tonight. There was no Tad to act as chaperone. This fact hadn’t escaped Bridget’s notice. She felt as though she ought to seize the opportunity in some way. Paul wouldn’t be home until the early hours of the morning. Bridget fantasized about lying in wait for him, perhaps planting herself naked on his bed, although she knew that she would never dare to do it.
The thought of Paul seeing her naked filled Bridget with dread. There was no way that he could continue deluding himself into thinking that she was beautiful when he encountered the evidence to the contrary. He had been married to Phoebe the stick insect for three years. When Phoebe was pregnant she had been less than half the size of Bridget!
Paul divorced Phoebe though.
Bridget’s smile returned tentatively when she considered that happy fact. If a woman like Phoebe hadn’t been able to touch Paul’s heart then maybe a woman like herself could?
Bridget considered this tantalizing possibility for a moment, but when the cab arrived outside her building she paid her fare and shook her head. She was hopeless. Paul might be attracted to her, for some truly unfathomable reason, but that was as much as she let herself hope for. It was already more than she deserved.
Bridget made her way up to Paul’s apartment and let herself inside. She paused with her hand on the door handle and sniffed the air. Her mouth started to water. She couldn’t quite distinguish the individual aromas in the air; all she knew was that it smelled like heaven. There was only one person she knew who could infuse a house with such delectable smells.
“Paul?” Bridget called out, as she ventured towards the kitchen. She wondered what he was doing at home.
Bridget shrugged off her coat and put her purse down on the occasional table- the one that she remembered Paul falling into the first night that she’d thought he was going to kiss her. She smiled to herself, newly confident; he probably had been thinking about kissing her. He had certainly kissed her enough times since then!
A warm happy glow grew inside her heart.
“Paul?” she called his name a second time. He hadn’t answered her first shout, but Bridget was well aware of how absorbed he became in cooking.
She walked into the kitchen and found Paul leaning over the stove, tasting something that was bubbling in a large saucepan.
She watched him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. He was so handsome, so perfectly built-too perfectly built for a woman like her, Bridget thought with a little pang of sadness. She wondered how long she would be able to enjoy him before he realized it? She didn’t want to think about that now.
“Paul?”
He finally heard her. He turned and smiled when he saw her standing in the doorway.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” He left the stove and crossed the room to dab a sweet, but far too fleeting, kiss against Bridget’s lips. “I’ve made us dinner.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant cooking dinner for other people?” Bridget asked. She didn’t notice the way Paul grimaced.
“I don’t want to think about the restaurant tonight,” he said firmly. “I want to think about you.” Bridget’s stomach did a flip. Paul took her hand and led her over to the table. “We’re going to have a little lesson.”
“A lesson?” she echoed.
“In tasting.”
Bridget laughed harshly. “I don’t think I-!”
“I’m going to show you how to savor every bite of food you take,” Paul whispered into her ear, causing the hair on the back of Bridget’s neck to prickle in anticipation.
“But Paul-” she stammered. She felt a flare of heat in the pit of her stomach.
“I know,” he said quickly. “You’re still learning to feel comfortable eating in front of me, so, I’ve come up with an ingenious solution.” Bridget raised an eyebrow, and laughed when Paul whipped out a blindfold.
“What’s that for? You’re going to blindfold yourself so you can’t see me?”
“No, sweetheart,” Paul purred. “You’re the one who’s going to be wearing the blindfold. I’m going to feed you.”
Bridget gasped. She didn’t know if she could play this game. But Paul was looking at her with such passion and hunger. No one had ever looked at her like that.
“Okay,” she whispered, submitting to Paul’s deft fingers as he gently fixed the blindfold into place.
“Good girl,” Paul grinned. “I thought we’d start off with something simple to warm up your palette.”
“Okay.”
He left her for just a moment. He picked a plate up off the countertop and checked the pot on top of the stove, before returning to take the chair by Bridget’s side. Paul used a knife that he had laid out earlier to cut up a small portion of the starter, but he opted on using his fingers instead of the fork to carry a morsel to Bridget’s mouth.
“Open up,” he commanded, watching the nervous flick of Bridget’s tongue as she moistened her lips. He felt a strong stab of longing and realized that it was going to be very difficult to make it through three courses. “A little wider,” he coaxed, slipping the food past Bridget’s teeth. “Now chew slowly.”
Bridget did as she was told and mewed in pleasure at the flavors that exploded on her tongue.
“What can you taste?”
“It’s sort of… juicy?” she said hesitantly.
“Good,” Paul smiled. “Anything else? What about the flavors?”
“Sweet?” Bridget guessed.
“Why don’t you try another bite?” Paul cut up another piece and popped it into Bridget’s mouth, allowing his thumb to stroke her bottom lip as he did so. He enjoyed the soft hitch in her breath.
She ate again. Her forehead furrowed in concentration as she tried to work out what she was eating. She looked so adorably puzzled.
“Why don’t I have a taste and tell you what I can taste?”
“Okay,” Bridget smiled innocently, but Paul had no intention of sampling the food when something far more delectable was on offer. He reached for Bridget, slipping his tongue into her mouth, kissing her slowly and deeply, as she tensed and then relaxed into his arms.
“Do you know what I can taste?” Paul whispered huskily, forcing himself to draw away from her before he forgot about the food completely.
“Taste?” Bridget whispered, as though she too had totally forgotten about the meal and Paul’s little game.
“Mmmhmm, I can taste sweet, juicy melon.” He guided Bridget’s hand to the plate and helped her fingers find a succulent piece of fruit. “And then I get the slightly salty tang of thin Parma ham and just a hint of pepper.” He could also taste her, Bridget, but that wasn’t part of the lesson.
Bridget popped the food into her mouth and chewed, lips smiling, head nodding, as though he had just turned on a light. Paul grinned, and lifted her hand to his own mouth. Her fingers were wet and sticky with the juice from the melon. He methodically drew each one into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean.
“Paul!” Bridget gasped, but Paul didn’t answer her until he had finished.
“Do you want another bite?” he asked, relishing in the flush that lit her cheeks, and the breathless timbre of her voice.
“Of what?” she croaked.
“Your appetizer,” Paul said innocently. “Or do you want to move along to the main course?”
Bridget hesitated, before whispering. “Dessert?”
The edge of Paul’s lips quirked up in a smile. Even though she couldn’t see it, he shook his head. “Patience.” He pressed a kiss on her lips, and then he returned to the stove.
“Now this is something very special,” he informed her, pulling up a chair again. Bridget tilted her head, trying to work out a clue of what she was about to eat from the gentle clink of china and silver. “You’re not really allergic to seafood- right?”
“No,” Bridget admitted, flushing to think back to the day that she had refused Paul’s shark. This time, she opened her mouth obediently.
“Not yet,” Paul said. He tapped his finger on the edge of her nose in a teasing, chiding gesture, and then scooted closer in his chair. “I want you to smell it first…”
Bridget did as she was instructed. “Okay…”
“Well?”
“It smells…delicious?”
“You can do better than that!” Paul assured her. “Come on, sweetheart…what is it? Try again.”
She inhaled.
“It’s…butter?”
“Good!” Paul exclaimed, pleased, “That’s one of the things that’s in it…What else?”
“Uhm…lemon, maybe? Something…peppery?”
“Getting close,” he encouraged, his voice louder as he leaned forward again. “One more try.”
“It’s…” This time Bridget couldn’t finish the sentence. Even though she couldn’t see him, she could sense Paul sitting next to her. She could feel the heat off of his body and, more significantly, was surrounded by the captivating scent of his cologne. “Spice…” she puffed a little breathlessly, “Heat…”
“Bridget?” There was an odd tone in Paul’s voice, but she barely noticed it as, instinctively, she pressed forward toward his body. Her guess was correct. He was only inches away. The fork that he’d been holding clattered to the plate as she easily pressed her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply of his scent. “Bridge…” he repeated in a shuddering breath. He made to push her away- but his hands couldn’t stay still. They were stroking over her cheeks and rooting on her hair. “Bridget!”
“I…I’m not so hungry anymore…” she puffed.
Paul groaned, “Bridget?”
“Please?” she asked, finding a tiny crumb of courage. Paul had been tempting her with his tender kisses for weeks. She had to press him. She wanted to know where this would lead.
“Not yet…” he begged, slightly desperate. “There’s one last thing…open.”
Bridget didn’t obey until Paul rubbed something cool and wet against her lips.
When she finally opened her mouth, she instantly placed the taste.
“Strawberries…” she rasped, “and chocolate.”
Paul fed her another bite, this time warm melted chocolate dribbled down her chin- but it only stayed there for a second, as he bent toward her, covering the rich drops with his mouth and then licking the candy away.
Every lap of his tongue was like a tiny electric shock. Bridget couldn’t remember the last time that she had felt so tense- or felt so alive!
“Paul?”
“Shhhhhhh….” His hands stroked over her cheeks and lips, and finally cupped under her chin. “Shhhh…I know…”
“I…” she couldn’t begin to tell him what she wanted, but her hands- which had found their way onto his shoulders, were clenching restlessly in the fabric of his shirt.
“I know, sweetheart…I know…”
She heard him put the strawberry down. Then his fingers were behind her head, unknotting the blindfold. Bridget blinked for a moment into the bright light of the kitchen, and then she found Paul’s face.
She couldn’t have imagined, in a million years, that the stormy look in his eyes was meant for her- but she couldn’t doubt it now. It was hungry, and potent and…intent.
Bridget shivered when Paul reached for her face again. He gently cradled her cheek and forced her to meet his gaze.
“Bridget…” he rasped.
She nodded her head, her eyes full of questions that she didn’t dare to ask- but which Paul answered when he spoke again.
“I want to take you to bed.”
Her breath hitched. She was shocked by the bald statement- but also, undeniably aroused. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and she noticed, for the first time, the wetness that was pooling between her legs.
“Paul…”
He didn’t release his hold on her face.
“Tell me you want it…” he asked, continuing to stroke her cheek. “Please…”
“I do,” she whispered back.
Paul smiled warmly, and then dabbed a kiss on her lips. She met his gaze again. His dark eyes were practically glowing, reminding her of two smoldering coals. Her body was like flash paper against their heat. There was a hot pulse of warmth in her womb that dripped through her entire body as he took her hand and led her down the hall.
Hungry for More (2012) Page 9