Then he straightened up with a curse. “You’re too bloody short. All the good parts are out of reach.”
I smirked to myself. Served him right for making me keep my legs spread, which made me even lower to the ground. Of course, it also made it harder for me to reach the counter and stovetops, which was probably slowing me down.
He moved away from me, and returned a moment later as I flipped the veggies in the pan, adding a little more salt. They were almost done.
The next moment, strong arms encircled my waist and I shrieked in surprise. He lifted me completely off the ground, and there was a scraping noise. He set me back down, and I looked at my feet. I was standing on a small footstool.
“That’s better,” he said, kissing my neck again. This time he didn’t have to bend so far.
With no time to focus on my sudden increase in height, I glanced at the timer. I had less than five minutes left but for the first time, I was pretty sure I was going to make it. Maybe I was feeling a little too confident because I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Thanks, now I don’t have to keep my legs spread.”
He growled in my ear. “Sure you do, love. That’s rule number one. Now it’s even better because I get to punish you for disobeying.” He bit gently on my earlobe, tugging with his teeth. Then he released it and stepped back. A sharp sting landed on the part of my ass not covered by the apron.
He’d used his hand this time. Wow, it stung. His hand came down twice more. I was perfectly still, every nerve in my body braced, wondering if more smacks were coming. But a few traitorous body parts were preoccupied with the image of his hand lingering on my ass, stroking, squeezing … and then moving between my legs. But he didn’t spank me again, and I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed.
When I was sure he was finished, I jumped off the stool and dashed over to the cupboard. In thirty seconds, I was back in position with one final seasoning for the veggies. Chef Bryant’s large palm landed on my butt the minute I was back in place. He spanked me once more, then twice. Was he going to do this the entire rest of the time? It was erotic, sure, but it was slowing me down. It was making my blood rush away from my brain in favor of more sensitive body parts.
Finally, his hand stilled, kneading my stinging flesh. “Okay,” he breathed into my ear. “New temporary rule. While you’re on the stool, you don’t have to keep your legs spread … but you do have to arch your back and stick out that gorgeous ass.”
What? Surely he was kidding. But no, the firm pressure of his hand on my backside let me know he wasn’t. So I did it, arching my spine and pressing against his hand. He squeezed again, and then shifted, pressing the front of his body against my back, his arms wrapping around me.
It was like wearing a warm cloak—a cloak that had a prominent, hard bulge pressing against my bare skin. Chef Bryant leaned his head to the side, his chin resting on my shoulder.
Somehow, I finished the meal. I got it arranged on the plate and added the sauce about four seconds before the timer went off.
“That was cutting it close.” Chef Bryant gave me a final squeeze before stepping back.
I stood there panting, looking from him to the meal I’d prepared, and back again. Now that he wasn’t tantalizing me with his hot, hard body rubbing against me, it was easier to concentrate on the food before us. I’d just prepared a meal for a world class chef. Would he like it? I knew he liked my body—that much was clear. But I wanted more than anything for him to be impressed with my cooking.
“Let’s see how you did,” he said, echoing my thoughts. He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me. I was a small girl, but I wasn’t used to men lifting me up like this. I had to admit, I liked it though. It made me feel small and delicate—and made me realize how strong and powerful he was.
He set me on the counter on the far side of the food. I gasped, feeling the cold stainless steel under my bare bottom. I was eye level with him now, and I couldn’t help staring into his face. Those hazel eyes were so damn mesmerizing. Right now, they were twinkling. His right eyebrow raised at a cocky angle. “Forgetting something?” he said
I looked back at the food, suddenly panicked that I’d left out a key ingredient. But the filet looked perfect, moist and juicy. The spears of asparagus were propped up against the steak with just the right amount of sauce drizzled over them. Everything looked all right to me.
But apparently, that wasn’t what he’d meant. Hands descended on my knees, and with a firm movement, he pulled my legs apart. “Don’t. Forget. To. Spread. Your. Legs.” He punctuated each word with a sharp tap on my inner thighs.
Ouch! I looked down at my widely-parted knees, and at the apron stretched tight across my upper thighs. It was still covering me, but just barely. My pulse sped up. I’d never realized before how being exposed like this could be both embarrassing and a complete turn on. Maybe I was a closet exhibitionist? Or maybe it was the fact that the sexiest man I’d ever met, a man I had a huge crush on, was so clearly enjoying this. Or maybe it was both.
He pushed himself against the counter between my legs, his body inches from mine. Years of culinary school had never provided a cooking lesson that was even a tenth as strange as this. Nor a tenth as effective.
He reached for my plate and set it down on my lap where it barely fit wedged between us. I could feel the heat from the dish even through my apron. I tensed when he picked up the steak knife, but he carved off a bite of meat efficiently. The man was an artist with a knife, I knew that, but I wasn’t used to having sharp utensils near any part of me except my hands.
Chef Bryant held the morsel in the air, examining it from all sides. Then he placed it on his tongue and sighed. “A perfect medium rare,” he said, then fed me a piece. It was delicious. In spite of the bizarre situation, I was proud of my accomplishment. I’d made a meal that he approved of, and I’d done in it under twenty minutes with a hot-as-hell man doing his best to distract me. And he’d been damn good at distracting me, too. As he was now.
He pierced a large stalk of asparagus and held it up, examining it, too. As far as I could see, I’d nailed it. It looked firm but perfectly seasoned. He pushed the asparagus spear toward my hand, not my mouth, and I took it between two fingers, confused.
“Go down on that,” he said.
“What?”
He grinned. “Eat it in a suggestive manner,” he clarified.
Seriously? Right here inches from him? But one look at the sparkle in his eyes and his wicked smile told me he was serious. He was a grown man, a man about twelve years my senior, but sometimes he got this look in his eyes that made him seem like a boy. A very, very bad boy. He made me want to be bad with him.
I darted my tongue out, tasting the tip of the asparagus stalk. I paused a minute to appreciate the hollandaise sauce on it. The side dish would definitely meet his approval. Now I wanted to see if my performance would. I brought it to my lips and swirled my tongue around it, my eyes never leaving his. He ate another piece of steak, but his gaze was glued to my mouth.
Slipping the point of the asparagus spear past my lips, I closed my eyes and gave a little moan, imagining that it was the head of his cock. I wished it was. I bet it would taste a million times better than the asparagus covered in a rich, creamy sauce. Wait, now Chef Bryant’s warped kitchen perversions were putting my mind in the gutter, too.
I sucked the stalk a few inches into my mouth, swirling my tongue, pursing my lips, bobbing my head. He was staring at me raptly, not eating at all now. I moaned deep in my throat—too bad the asparagus wasn’t able to enjoy the extra vibration. I opened my mouth, pushed my tongue out, and then slowly slid the tip farther back into my mouth, farther and farther, resisting the urge to gag.
Chef Bryant was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse. When I couldn’t take the asparagus any deeper, I pulled it back out. I slowly closed my lips around it … and then bit off the tip.
He blinked once, then twice in surprise and laughed. “Not bad,�
� he said, “though that finish made me wince.”
We sampled a few more bites of steak and veggies. It was delicious, but then I started getting anxious again. This was quite clearly the end of this lesson. Would he want another round? I had no intention of stopping now—but it wasn’t up to me.
But he answered that question quite easily. “Have you ever made sushi?”
“No,” I said, though I’d seen it done and knew the basic techniques.
“Want to learn?” he said.
I definitely did.
Chapter Six
“GENTLY, GENTLY. THIS is not about producing a huge serving for an overfed American. It’s about creating delicate, delicious, aesthetically pleasing bites.”
Nodding, I tried to follow his instructions. I was on the stool again, leaning over the counter, my butt sticking out like a good little kitchen concubine. He’d spent half the time pressed against my back again, stretching his arms around me as he demonstrated proper techniques. The feel of his body against mine made my pulse quicken, but somehow his skill was an even bigger turn on. The competent way his fingers moved, the way he never hesitated, the way everything he touched turned out perfectly every single time. Who knew that level of expertise could be so damn sexy?
We’d already made tuna, mackerel, and eel rolls. They were artfully plated and resting on the counter. They looked delicious, but he hadn’t let me try any yet. Now he was showing me how to make some of the more complex rolls.
“Easy, there. Gently,” he said again, as I rolled the sticky rice and the sheet of nori seaweed up in the sushi mat. This time, when I unrolled the mat, the roll remained in a perfect cylinder. I cut the slices carefully, trying not to crush the seaweed and rice, or the lobster, avocado, and sprouts in the middle.
I cut it into the seven pieces and arranged them on a shallow, rectangular dish like he’d shown me. It looked good enough to be on the cover of a menu at a Japanese restaurant. I wished he’d let me taste it.
After we had finished eight different kinds, I couldn’t stand it any longer. It looked so good. “When do we get to sample our work?”
“Soon,” he said. “We have to get the presentation right, first.”
“But we’ve already done that,” I said, looking at the small platters in front of us. Each held perfectly sliced rolls but also little extras such as leaves cut out of sheets of seaweed, edible flowers, and artistically carved vegetable buds adorning them.
He scoffed. “That’s nice enough for the teriyaki place around the corner, but we’re aiming for better than that. We’re going to elevate this to an art form.”
“How are we going to do that?” I asked.
“With your help,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer. “Go wait over there,” he said, nodding at a clear countertop behind us.
Obediently, I walked over to it, making sure to spread my legs as soon as I got there. Chef Bryant kept his back to me, doing something with the sushi. I hoped he wasn’t tasting it since he hadn’t let me yet.
He washed his hands and got several clean, white tea towels out of a cabinet. A moment later, he was standing in front of me, staring down at me. He lifted my chin with his index finger, and when his hazel eyes met my dark ones, it felt like bolt of electricity connected us.
“Do you trust me, Shy Little Cheyenne?”
“Yes, Chef Bryant,” I said, automatically. It was a phrase that people in this kitchen used a lot, but I really meant it.
“Do you remember your safe word? Or rather, safe spice?”
“Yes, Chef Bryant.”
“Okay then. Turn around.”
I did so, facing the smooth countertop in front of me. After a moment, I felt the warmth of his body brushing against the bare skin of my back and ass. A white square descended over my eyes, obscuring my vision. He pulled it around the sides of my head, tying it behind me—he’d made a tea towel into a blindfold.
My breathing instantly sped up, and I was dying to know what he’d do next. I’d almost gotten used to being half-clothed in front of him, but with my vision taken away, I felt all the more exposed and completely at his mercy. It was at the same time a frightening and exhilarating feeling.
He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me back around toward him. I shuffled awkwardly. My lack of sight made me feel clumsy. When I stilled, I spread my legs dutifully, but it didn’t matter because his hands encircled my waist as he once again picked me up and deposited me on the countertop.
“Kick off your shoes,” he said, and I complied, toeing off one and then the other. They dropped to the floor with a clatter.
“Now scoot back and lie down,” he said.
Oh my god. Somehow, this felt more risky, more naughty, than anything else he’d asked me to do. But I still had the apron on. And I did trust him. I trusted that whatever he did next would be enjoyable for us both—and I trusted that if it wasn’t, he’d respect the safe word.
Gingerly, I leaned onto my elbow, swinging my legs up, my knees glued together to keep from flashing him any more than I already had. I shifted around until my back was pressed against the chilly stainless steel. I lowered my arms to my sides and waited, nervous and excited at the same time. Behind the blindfold, my eyes were wide open, and my other senses strained for a hint of what would happen next.
At the last minute, I remembered his rule and parted my legs. Chef Bryant chuckled and placed his hand firmly on my thigh, stopping me. “It’s okay. For this, you can keep them closed.”
I slid my legs back together, briefly trapping his fingertips between my thighs. Heat radiated from his hand, and I allowed myself to wonder again what it would feel like if he slid his hand up toward my center. I shifted my hips at the thought, and he gave another low laugh, like he’d known what I was thinking. But then he removed his hand. Damn.
“Lift your head, love.”
I did so, and I felt his palm cup the back of my head. He had such strong, powerful hands that I’d watched cut, slice, dice, stir, and sauté for years. It was amazing to feel them on me now, even if it was just quick touches here and there.
He was using both hands now, doing something that I couldn’t quite identify. I felt the blindfold stretch, felt something or maybe several things moving around. Was he sliding the blindfold off? But no, it remained firmly in place as he lowered my head onto something soft. He’d probably folded another towel to use as a pillow. Then something scraped across my forehead and briefly touched my nose. When it settled on my neck, I realized what it was.
He’d removed the apron strap that had been around my neck. Which meant … oh my god, that meant that all he’d have to do to bare my breasts was to brush the cloth aside. Oh god. Would he do that now? I fought to keep my hands at my sides instead of bringing them up to hold the apron top firmly against my chest.
I tried to slow my breathing down. I thought Chef Bryant noticed, because he said “Shhh … you’re okay. One more thing you need to do, and then you can relax.” Before I had time to wonder about that, he said, “Raise your hips.”
A gasp escaped my lips before I could stop it. I hoped it was soft enough that he hadn’t heard. I bent my legs, bringing my knees up, so that I could set my bare feet flat on the counter. Then I lifted my ass and hips off the table, in a modified bridge pose, though I didn’t raise them very high.
“Good girl,” he said, and years of hearing how little praise he gave out made those words music to my ears. I wanted to give him more reasons to say that to me.
His hands closed in on either side of my waist, and I felt his large form looming over me. He reached underneath me, almost as if he were hugging my midsection. A moment later, the apron strings fell free, and every cell in my body tensed. The sides of the apron hung straight down, still covering me, but loosely. It was a deliciously erotic feeling. Before today, I’d never known that something could feel scary and sexy at the same time. That maybe the one enhanced the other.
“Back down you go,” he said, res
ting a hand on my pelvis and pushing slightly. I settled myself back on the counter. The apron still covered me as much as it had five minutes ago, but I was acutely aware that one good tug would leave me naked. I knew that, and Chef Bryant knew it too. That was another one of those scary but sexy turn ons.
He stroked my stomach lightly. “Take it easy. You look like a wild horse about to bolt for the hills.” I tried to slow my breathing, but it was so hard with him right next to me, touching me. With my vision taken away, I was even more in tune with my other senses, including touch.
“Relax, little filly,” he said, continuing to rub his hand up and down the apron on top of my stomach.
Then his voice came again, this time closer to my ear. “Of course, some parts of you look quite the opposite of relaxed.” As he said that, his hand moved higher, brushing across my chest where my bare nipples were hard under the apron. They hardened even more after the light graze of his fingertips.
Abruptly, he straightened, his hand leaving me. “You’ll be fine, love, but let me know if at any time you want some licorice,” he said, and I realized that he was reminding me about the safe word. “But if not—stay here. Legs together, arms at your side. No moving. I’ll be back in a minute.” Warmth fell across my shoulder and his lips touched briefly to my forehead above the blindfold. Then I heard his footsteps moving away from me.
I thought about what he said as I listened to him moving around other parts of the kitchen. I was scared, but I wasn’t about to bolt. I wanted to be here. With him. In his kitchen.
Finally, he was back at my side. “Be very still.”
“Yes, Chef Bryant.”
Fingers grasped at the top of the apron by my neck. I held my breath, expecting him to whip the apron off like a magician pulling off a table cloth, but he didn’t. Instead, I felt him fold the top of the apron down, exposing my upper chest above my breasts. Firm hands smoothed my hair away from my neck and shoulders.
He leaned away, and then a moment later, something cold touched my skin near my collarbone. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. It wasn’t cold enough for ice, but it was still slightly chilled. Whatever it was, it was small. And light.
Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance Page 4