A good transition. Out with the old, in with the new.
She buckled on her collar and stripped naked, putting all her things in the closet. When she texted him that she’d done all that, he answered that she should pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge, start a fire if she was cold, and he’d be there soon.
A little surprised he hadn’t put her through any other paces, she padded up the stairs and found the wine. He had a flat-screen TV embedded in the wall next to the fireplace, but she decided on music instead, scrolling through the impressive collection of music on the iPod stationed inside a cherry wood cabinet, a shiny, modern tentacle beast attached to all manner of electronics.
In this way, Bobby Prejean was all typical boy.
She smiled to herself and put it on shuffle, just to see what turned up. Similarly, she prowled through his place, shamelessly snooping. The man had more cookbooks than she’d ever seen in her life, including some that had to be a hundred years old. He also had a Kindle, filled mainly with spy novels.
Curling up on the couch, the leather cool on her naked skin, she started reading one of them, amused to see that it was all about smugglers in the Louisiana bayou. Gary leaped up and sat next to her, purring. She petted him and he showed her the ear that wanted rubbing.
“I’m home, Danielle!” Prejean called it out from the front door, shutting it with a clatter and the rustle of paper bags. It seemed so homey, so normal. Except for the nakedness and collar thing, but even that already felt kind of like their ritual.
She met him at the top of the stairs and he set his bags down to kiss her, opening up his trench coat to bring her inside.
“You’re wet,” she said when he let her come up for air. He slid a testing finger into her pussy so she squirmed and laughed.
“So are you.” He pulled her back for another kiss, his hand still stroking her lightly. “What a lovely thing to come home to. And yes—it’s starting to rain, so we must hurry.”
“Hurry to do what?”
He pulled a can of lighter fluid out of the bag. “Special ceremony.”
“What—”
“You’ll see.” He handed her a bottle of the same French champagne she’d had at his restaurant. “Be a love and grab a couple of flutes from the cabinet next to the sink, would you? No—the left. Yes.”
He shrugged out of his trench coat and wrapped her in it. It fell to her ankles, warm from his body and smelling of his spicy chicory scent. “You’ll want to put on some shoes.”
It was easiest just to put on her stilettos from the day again. Prejean took one look at her in her red heels, black collar and his coat and groaned. “Give us a little peek.”
Obligingly, she untied the trench and flashed him. He licked his lips. “Now there’s a picture for you. Okay, take the champagne and glasses out to the courtyard. I’ll be right there.”
The rain fell softly, but with that heavy feeling that she’d learned meant it could start pouring at any time. Fireside frolics might have been nicer, but he’d yet to let her down. The copper fire pit had been pulled into an open area, away from the surrounding buildings and the grape arbor. Several cardboard boxes sat there, also growing damp.
Prejean followed her and set down the bag. With a near manic grin, the rain dampening his hair and wetting his silk shirt, he opened the champagne and poured them glasses, holding his up in a toast. She automatically clinked hers with his.
“To goodbyes, chère.”
Her heart clutched. Goodbye already?
But he handed her his flute and turned to the bag, pulling out the photo of the blonde from his desk at the restaurant. Chucked it into the fire pit. Gleefully he poured the lighter fluid over it, lit a match and tossed it in, whooping and jumping back.
The fire blazed, heating her cheeks. He stood over it, hands on hips. Then glanced at her, rain-wet hair falling into his eye. “Should I say a few words, do you think?”
She blinked at him, not sure how to handle this version of Bobby Prejean. “Sometimes actions speak louder.”
He nodded, crisply. “Very true.”
One by one, he pulled out Claire’s clothes from the boxes, burning them while the rain drizzled down. It got more difficult as the rain fell harder, requiring more lighter fluid, two boxes still full while the sodden charcoaled heap grew in the fire pit.
She sympathized with his frustration, but it finally became clear that this wouldn’t work anymore.
“Maybe,” she ventured, cautious of annoying him, “that’s enough for symbolism and the rest can go to Salvation Army.”
He scrubbed his hands on one of Claire’s soaked dresses, frowning at the unpromising heap. Then shook his head, like a dog spraying water. “Yeah. Why are you standing in the rain? Let’s get you inside and out of your clothes.” He seized her, kissing her hard and fast, then picked her up and spun her around. She squealed with laughter.
He set her down. “Thank you, Danielle.”
“For what?”
He gave a one-shouldered boyish shrug. “For showing me my heart isn’t broken after all.”
Then he grabbed the half-empty bottle and her hand, pulling her to the back door, shouting about the rain. He shucked her out of his trench in the foyer and stripped off his own sodden clothes, leaving them all in an uncharacteristic heap. She tried to hang up the coat, but he just looped it over the hook and chased her up the stairs.
The warmth definitely felt welcome and she stood in front of the fire while he toweled her dry, rubbing her skin into a rosy glow, showering her with kisses. She insisted on her turn, exploring his lean body while he sipped his champagne.
Ruefully, she ran her fingers over the scratches she’d scored on his chest the night before. “Sorry about this.”
“Don’t be. What was it you said? I like having it show on the outside. Hungry?”
She eyed his half-mast cock with a raised eyebrow.
“Later, you insatiable wench.” He cheerfully pulled her into the brightly lit kitchen, the lights shining on the rack of pots and pans, the plantation shutters closed for privacy.
He laid a kitchen towel on the counter next to the stove and, picking her up by the waist, set her on it, her bare feet dangling. “Tie your hair back.” He handed her an elastic band and then slipped on his white chef’s apron, giving her a saucy wink.
Pulling a length of rope out of a drawer, he tied her wrists together, then raised them to the rack above her head, securing them there. The position was loose enough to give her some bend at the elbows, but it still raised her shoulders and breasts. He bent to kiss her peaked nipples and she squirmed.
“Let’s start things simmering, yes?” He drew a silver saucepan down from over her head. “Let the lesson begin. Pay attention, chère, there may be a quiz later.
“The secret to a good sauce is patience. Low heat, careful attention, letting it progress at its own speed. Can you be patient?”
“I usually end up burning stuff because I turn it up to high and then get distracted.”
He shook his head. “That will never do. Good thing you have me, to make you be patient, yes? I won’t let you hurry a thing. Not in my kitchen.” He showed her a dish of butter. “Always start with room-temperature ingredients.” Swirling his finger in the butter, he held it out for her to taste. Sweet, salty cream flooded her mouth and she moaned a little at the deep flavor and as he dabbed some on each of her upright nipples, like spots of icing, then he scooped some
with a spatula into the pan, letting it melt.
“Let’s see how that butter tastes.” One by one, he drew each nipple into his mouth, sucking them and swirling his tongue around. “Not bad. Spread your legs.”
He dipped his fingers into the butter and into her pussy then knelt down, dark head between her thighs, and licked at her. She wriggled and moaned. He glanced up. “Is the butter melted yet?”
She looked. Sighed. “No such luck.”
“Let me know when.” He continued to lick at her, gentle, driving her crazy. She stared at the butter, willing it to melt. Finally, she gasped out the good news and he nodded, as if they’d been passing the time chatting. He washed his hands and showed her the minced garlic, explaining how fine it should be, then placed a small piece on each nipple, telling her not to let them fall off.
Stirring the simmering mixture, he showed her how to release the maximum flavor, the scent of garlic, onions, mushrooms filling the kitchen. With each one, he placed a little on her tongue, coaxing her to savor the flavor, the texture, to understand the role it played.
He coated her breasts with honey, letting it drip down her body, while he explained, in painstaking detail, when honey could be substituted for sugar and how the moisture content of the recipe must be adjusted. Then he licked it all off again, thoroughly, as they had all kinds of time while the balsamic mixture reduced to the correct consistency.
Adding champagne to the butter sauce, he sprinkled her with some, smiling when she squealed at the icy drops on her skin, then fed her some, drinking it back from her lips.
As always seemed to happen with him, she fell into a sensual haze, enjoying the flex of his naked ass when he turned to get an ingredient from the pantry, the sight of his sac when he bent into the fridge. He showered her with kisses, caresses and extraordinary tastes, finally wringing an admission from her that the truffles were to mushrooms what unpasteurized brie was to American.
Not that he’d ever have the latter in his kitchen.
By the time he fed her his impromptu surf and turf—slices of rare beef in the balsamic reduction, sprinkled with blue cheese and seared scallops in the champagne butter sauce—she could no longer separate the erotic sensations from the culinary ones. He offered her bites of the exquisite food, standing between her spread thighs, then savoring some for himself.
He fed them both more champagne from the same flute, kissing her while she swallowed. Seducing her more thoroughly than she’d ever imagined possible.
When they’d finished the last bite, he drizzled the last of the sauce over her breasts, licking it off again while she let her head fall back, fully cooked herself.
“Delicious.” He licked his lips and set the dishes in the sink. “Now for dessert.”
“No. I cannot possibly have dessert. I can’t take any more. Please no dessert.”
He laughed, low and dark. “You know the rules. My way. You’ll have dessert and you’ll love every moment of it.”
Leaving her hanging there, he covered the dining room table they had yet to use with plastic wrap. He led her to it and helped her stretch out. It was one of those sturdy tables with heavy pedestal legs that looked like it had grown out of the floor. He tied her to it, spread-eagled, with soft ropes. Not tight like he usually did, but giving her slack to stretch and move a little.
He set up a chafing dish, the blue flame flickering, melted a brandy and chocolate mixture in it and brought out an array of dippables. He arranged them on her body, drizzling the warm chocolate over her, hot enough to sting a little, rapidly cooling so that the decorations stayed in place. Strawberries, blackberries, delicate pirouette cookies, tart mandarin slices.
Discarding the apron and crawling over her, he nipped the pieces in his teeth and pressed them into her mouth. Her head swirled with the brandy, the chocolate and him. She was lost to this...this utter indulgence. His body, smeared with chocolate too from sliding against her, tempted her tongue.
“Untie me, please,” she begged and, with a strange urgency, he did, rolling onto his back and letting her climb over him. Professor Longhair crooned in the background about spending his whole life loving his pretty baby. Crazily, she wondered if that were possible. At that moment, it seemed it could be.
She rode her pirate, undulating her hips in slow sweeps while he filled his hands with her breasts. The climax took them together, a rolling wave unlike the extremes he usually pushed her to, no less intense for that.
In some ways, it shook her more, their gazes locked and their bodies moving in a deep, heartfelt tandem. She collapsed on him and fell asleep with his heart pounding under her cheek and his hand stroking her back in long caresses.
* * *
They awoke later, stiff, cold and sticky. Prejean packed them both into the hot shower, helping her wash the chocolate out of her hair, then crawling into bed while she dried it, saying he’d keep it warm for her.
He left the bedside lamp on, her side of the bed invitingly turned down and an arm stretched out. But he slept, deep and hard. Even with his pirate’s beard and that gold hoop in his ear, he looked sweet, even vulnerable. Another side of him. Ironic that he’d called her Ruby Tuesday when he was the one who changed with every new day.
She turned off the lamp and slid under the covers, lifting his arm to drape it over her. Snuffling a little, but not waking, he pulled her close into the curve of his body. She lay there for a while, waiting for sleep to come and thought about how much had happened these past few days. About hiraeth.
About him.
And for some reason, about her dad.
Love is for suckers, Dani. And there’s a sucker born every minute. Don’t be one.
Chapter Fourteen
An unholy mess greeted them in the morning.
Instead of Prejean’s usual immaculate kitchen, dirty pans sat on the stove. The plastic-wrapped table was smeared with congealed chocolate, cookie fragments and crushed berries. A caked mass sat in the cold chafing dish. Gary was on the counter, licking butter off a plate.
“Get down, you!” Prejean chased him off and Gary galloped away, tail high like a flag. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “I hope he didn’t eat anything he shouldn’t have.”
She observed the mess ruefully. “I guess I’m a bad influence.”
He snagged her by the hips and pulled her close with a soft kiss. “Maybe I do need to make you be my kitchen slave.”
“No, no, no.” She pulled away, laughing. “I have important work stuff to check on. But I’ll help clean.”
“Nah, you go ahead. I’m starting the coffee first anyway.”
She went ahead and stripped the table of the plastic wrap, surreptitiously tucking a crumb of the chocolate fondue in her mouth. Practically an orgasm right there. The stuff was diabolically addictive. Like everything about Prejean. She untied the ropes from the table legs, coiled them neatly with a little smile, and carried the remaining dishes to the sink, where Prejean handed her his magic coffee and gave her an absent kiss on the cheek.
Humming “Thank You Pretty Baby,” Dani set up her laptop on the dining table. Gary jumped up beside it with a cheerful mew and she scooted him off before Prejean saw. The man was crazy about clean. Guess it went with the whole chef territory.
She sipped the coffee while her laptop booted up, wondering how she’d ever lived without it. How she’d lived without all Prejean had brought into her life this week.
He would always be New Orleans to her now, by turns sensual and lazy, then mischievous, more than a little dangerous. One more night and she’d be alone again, one of those people searching the world for what he already had.
And had shared with her.
She felt blue thinking about it, and with the melancholy came irritation with herself. There’s a sucker born every minute. She should be excited about Paris and the new job, not dragging her feet over leaving.
Her email finally loaded and the high priority flagged email from Cassidy caught her eye immediately. Sent at 10 p.m. last night. And another at 2 a.m. And shit—another at 7 that morning.
Her heartbeat spiked and her stomach clenched. This had to be bad. Clamping down on the urge to flee, she opened the first email, skimmed it. Read the next. And the last from this morning.
Worse than bad.
Prejean laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped. “You all right, chère?”
She tried to smile at him and found, to her utter horror, that it was wobbly, and she was this close to bursting into tears. “Well, the good news is, she can’t fire me.”
“She didn’t like the new concept?”
“That would be a no.” The words from the email flashed through her brain. Perversion. Sick. Disgusting. Depraved. Readers dropping subscriptions in droves. Lost advertising revenue. A new e-mail popped up in her in box. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Just...just give me a minute.” The sender was her new boss at Vogue Paris. The subject line Re: Reorganizing. “Shit!” She stabbed the Open button and read the message in a frenzy. Then, in disbelief, went back to the beginning. “That conniving evil bitch. I cannot believe this!”
With an exasperated sound, Prejean turned the laptop so he could read the screen. Dani clutched her coffee cup, sorely tempted to hurl it through his pretty French doors.
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