Black Lace Quickies 3

by Kerri Sharpe

  And a bar of bittersweet chocolate.

  I started singing, ‘One of these things is not like the other …’

  Zak laughed. ‘I thought we’d make Mexican chicken with red mole. The chocolate is the secret ingredient. Trust me.’

  ‘We’ was being generous. This was my third time having dinner at Zak’s. The first two times, he made the kinds of meals you’d pay big money for in a restaurant and I helped by chopping vegetables and doing other things that didn’t require much in the way of real cooking skills. ‘Of course I trust you. You are the master chef and my guide in all things culinary.’

  ‘Stop. You’re making me blush.’ He was smiling, and while he did turn a bit pink, it was more what I’d call a flush, the slight change in colour that shows a fair-skinned redhead is feeling good about life.

  From that brief description, you probably picture freckles and light eyes and a full name along the lines of Zachary O’Connell. Actually his name is Itzak Meyer. Amend your mental picture to include brown eyes, ivory skin with a warm undertone and thick curly hair a deep, rich red that you’d never call auburn or carrot. Add a Caravaggio saint’s sensual mouth, which seems out of place with a tall, big-boned Eastern European build and a face created to study the Kabbalah by flickering candlelight. I’d fallen for him while watching him eat a particularly decadent chocolate-marzipan torte at a mutual friend’s party. The luscious mouth and blissful expression sparked my interest; watching the passion and precision with which he cooked stoked it. He liked things hot and spicy and complex. This I took as a good sign.

  There was one problem. Zak’s culinary boldness didn’t extend into other areas. Some guys move too fast. He was the other sort, the guy who’s clearly interested, but so determined not to be pushy that a girl ends up having to take matters into her own hands. That was my plan for the evening. But I didn’t want to rush things either. For one thing, a sauce that combined chocolate and spices was just too intriguing to miss. I wasn’t the cook that Zak was, but I liked good food.

  ‘So, molé,’ I said, hoping it sounded casual. ‘Where do we start?’ I put my hand on his arm, looked up at him and leaned in more than was necessary. He echoed my movement so we were definitely in each other’s personal space. A little closer and we’d be wrapped around each other.

  So far so good.

  ‘Well, first we taste-test the chocolate.’ Zak popped a square into his mouth, then broke me off a piece. I could almost see him thinking through how to give it to me. I was delighted when he held it up so I could eat it from his hand.

  Naturally, I took the bait. I made eye contact the whole time, nibbled the tips of his fingers as I took the chocolate, and then licked them to make sure I got any melted bits. It was fine bittersweet chocolate, not that I would have expected anything less from Zak, but it didn’t taste nearly as good as he did. By the time his fingers were clean, I felt as melted as the chocolate had been.

  He made an exaggerated ‘cool me down’ fanning motion. ‘Oh yeah, that’s good. And the chocolate wasn’t bad either. Where were we?’

  ‘We’d just gotten started.’

  I hoped he’d pick up on the suggestion, but he was either clueless or hungry and determined to make this meal. I opted to believe the latter. ‘We need to roast the peanuts and the spices, and then grind them. If you’ll chop the chillies that are soaking, I’ll start that.’ I don’t think I imagined that he sounded a little flustered, or that he was a little more flushed.

  The peanuts went into the oven, a pile of spices into a dry skillet. Meanwhile, I went to work on the chillies, removing the seeds and stems and chopping what was left into fine pieces. They were ancho chillies, not super-hot, but with a rich, smoky, raisiny aroma that the chopping released. From the stove, the fragrance of spices and nuts filled the air, tempting my taste buds and tickling my nose. I could recognise clove and peppercorns, but roasting peanuts smelled surprisingly wonderful, and other aromas – annatto and allspice, I guessed – added complexity. Delicious.

  Zak came over behind me. ‘You can do big chunks,’ he said, leaning over my shoulder. ‘We’ll be putting them into the food processor.’

  I set the knife down and leaned back as if stretching, knowing this would bring me into contact with his body. He didn’t pull away, so I wrapped my arms around him and cupped his butt, despite the awkward angle. ‘Thanks for inviting me over.’

  He slipped his arms around me. ‘My pleasure.’ The contact was lovely, but not enough. Feeling him against me, I immediately flashed to how wonderful it would be if I were leaning on the counter and he was pushing into me from behind, hitting all the right spots, gripping my hips decisively as he moved. I wriggled a little at the delicious image and he pulled me closer in a way that suggested his thoughts were heading in a similar direction.

  Unfortunately at that point we both noticed the aroma of spice was getting more intense. I’d already learned from an earlier adventure in Indian cuisine with Zak that spices burn easily, so I wasn’t offended when he wheeled around to pull the skillet from the heat. Disappointed, but not offended. ‘That was close. The peanuts should be ready now too.’ He pulled them from the oven and set the tray on the counter. ‘We should let it all cool before we grind it.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’ll give us a few minutes.’ And then I kissed him.

  When you catch someone off-guard with a kiss, you expect a second or so of confusion – more than that and you should probably stop kissing and start apologising. I figured Zak, being shy, might need a little extra time before he relaxed.

  He didn’t. He took me in his arms and returned the kiss as if he’d been waiting his whole life to do so. The sheer force of his pent-up desire came through on his lips, his hands on my back and ass, the heat of him against me. And I don’t mean that in a he-hadn’t-had-a-date-lately sort of way. This felt personal, and it burned straight into me, hot as chillies and sweet as chocolate. I buried my fingers in his hair, tried to pull him even closer. I didn’t realise that I’d instinctively started grinding my pelvis against his until I felt him getting hard against me.

  I was wet already, and that caused flooding. There were about a thousand things I wanted to say to him, but that would have meant using my mouth for something besides kissing. And there were about a thousand things I wanted to do and with him, all crowding into my head at once (frankly, some of them had already been camped out there for a while), but they could all wait a while so we could enjoy the moment.

  He didn’t rush, either. He kissed with the patience of a man who made bread and the passion of one who’d drive a hundred miles to get the perfect ingredient, and I realised that what seemed like caution might have been a matter of waiting for the right moment. He wasn’t doing anything but holding me and kissing me, not attempting to rip off my clothes or anything, but the word kissing covers a lot of territory. Nibbles and licks and sucking my tongue and lower lip. Gentle mouth-caresses and fierce kisses that threatened to devour me whole. And I was giving back as good as I got. By the time we had to pause for air, he was rock-hard against me and I was trembling.

  He let me unbutton his shirt, showing off a broad, furred chest, but when I reached for his fly, he took my hand and gently but firmly moved it away. ‘Oh no,’ he said with a wonderfully evil smile, ‘we need to finish making the molé. But first …’ He didn’t let go of my wrist. Instead, he put it behind my back.

  Such a small gesture, but it had such a weight of possibilities behind it, possibilities I hadn’t even really considered where quiet, seemingly shy Zak was concerned. Vanilla is a lovely flavour, but it’s not my favourite one. I drew a sharp breath, both delighted and excited, and felt my knees go a little weak.

  Catching my reaction, he grinned approvingly. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said. Then he used his free hand to unbutton my blouse with a deftness that up until a few minutes ago would have surprised me.

  He definitely wasn’t shy or overly cautious. Zak had been stalking his prey,
and I’d walked right up to him thinking he was harmless. I was wrong.

  Lucky me.

  My breasts are of the smallish, perky variety, so my red lace bra was more decorative than structural. Even one-handed, Zak was able to move it out of the way easily, baring my nipples. He traced the ring in the left one with one finger and was rewarded with a sharp, pleasured intake of breath. ‘Now that’s a nice surprise.’

  ‘Glad you like.’ I don’t think I was talking above a whisper.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He bent down, took the ringed nipple in his mouth.

  Damn, that man had a clever tongue. And he didn’t make the mistake of assuming that because I was pierced I must like rough handling from the word go. He was exquisitely delicate, even while the firm grip on my wrist promised that this would not always be the case. It made me writhe, took me to that place where even a light touch on my clit would have pushed me over the edge.

  He didn’t do it. Instead, he reduced me to the point of gibbering, weak-kneed idiocy, and then drew the bra back up over my nipples. ‘More later,’ he said, again with that evil grin.

  ‘Do we have to finish the sauce now?’ I was whining, I admit.

  ‘It won’t take much longer. Then we’ll have a few hours while the chicken marinates – and another hour while it cooks.’

  That put us eating dinner at about ten o’clock. I’d do something like that by mistake, from boldly setting forth to cook something without reading through the recipe all the way or something equally foolish, but Zak wouldn’t. ‘You planned this.’

  ‘Hell, yes, I did. I’ve had my eye on you since the night we met. But you screwed up my timetable – I was going to start things once the chicken was marinating. And I’m still going to, because otherwise we’ll have to order out.’ It was clear from his tone that ordering out would be a defeat for him. But he didn’t let go of me as he said it.

  ‘So let’s get cooking!’

  Reluctantly, we peeled apart from each other. Not too far, though. It’s hard to cook with one person holding the other’s wrist, so he did let go eventually, but we kept in contact as much as we could.

  We whirred the peanuts in the food processor, then puréed the anchos I’d chopped and the canned chipotles, throwing the tomatoes in with them. The roasted spices and a cinnamon stick went into a spice grinder, filling the kitchen with an even headier aroma as they were reduced to powder. We kissed over the grinder, inhaling the fragrance and setting ourselves on fire again.

  Zak poured olive oil into a skillet and turned up the heat. When the oil was steaming, he poured in the purée and spices, then stirred in the peanuts.

  Everything had smelled good to begin with. As it heated together, the perfume became even more extraordinary, and the garlic in the olive oil added its own notes to the olfactory symphony. ‘Get the chocolate,’ he said. His voice had such a husky quality to it that he might have been saying, ‘Get the condoms’ or even ‘Get the whip.’

  I did.

  He let me stir in the melting chocolate, the almost-black streaks spreading out, then turning the brilliant red sauce to burgundy. ‘Taste,’ Zak said, practically making it an order.

  Explosions on my tongue. Smoky and complex and spicy, yet not overly hot. The chocolate had melded with the many other components, adding depth and a hint of subtle sweetness. If I hadn’t helped make the sauce, I wouldn’t have guessed chocolate was the source of that dark, rich undertone. ‘Oh my God. This is so good. How come I’ve never had this before?’

  ‘Stick with me, baby,’ he said, doing a remarkably bad Bogart imitation, ‘and you’ll get to taste a lot of new things.’ He accompanied that with a lovely little hip-grind against me.

  I don’t know how we got the chicken into the marinade without spilling something major, because we certainly weren’t being careful.

  As soon as it was safely in the fridge, clothing began to fly. My bra ended up in the sink with the dirty dishes, but I failed to care, being more interested in getting a good look at Zak. I’d expect a hedonistic gourmet cook to have a little belly rather than six-pack abs, and I was right, but he looked fine to me: muscled arms and good, broad shoulders, nice legs, not a runner’s but not a couch potato’s either. And any woman who complains about a paunch when there’s all that, an attractive face, a creative and sensual mind and an erection you could use as a flagpole doesn’t know when she has it good.

  He lifted me up and set me on a corner of the kitchen counter. I took the hint and opened my legs, resting one foot on the counter to give him better access, and wriggled down a bit to put my crotch on a better level. I don’t fantasise about men kneeling at my feet in a high-heeled-vixen-with-a-whip sense – my kinks are more on the other side of the fence – but there are certain lovely things one can do from that position. When he knelt down I shuddered with anticipation, already knowing that Zak had a talented tongue, patience and a bit of an oral fixation.

  He started by kissing and nibbling my mound, not touching the slick lips or straining, swollen clit below. Just enough to inflame me, just enough to send hot, sweet bolts of desire surging through me. I gripped the edge of the counter and squirmed against him. Now he let one finger trace each of my lips, feeling their plumpness, as he kissed my inner thighs, followed the crease of the joint with his tongue. ‘Tease,’ I panted. He laughed deep in his throat but didn’t say anything. He had better things to do with his mouth.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more teasing, he let his tongue go where his fingers had been, licking along my slippery outer lips, making me shiver and croon. Little, delicate, entirely controlled licks, reaching ever closer to my most sensitive areas, but not actually touching them. Delicious, but not enough, so far from being enough. My hand closed in his hair. I meant to pull him closer and end the glorious frustration, but there was an almost imperceptible hesitation on his part. I got the point – that he was doing things on his own timetable, not mine – and contented myself with playing with his flame hair.

  At last he relented and turned his attention to my clit. Focused, precise and intense as he had been in his teasing, he began to lick.

  After the long build-up, I exploded almost instantly. I felt it all over my body, radiating out from my clit until every bit of me, including, I swear, my hair, was tingling and shimmering. I bucked against his face, gripping the edge of the counter with one hand and his shoulder with the other and moaning.

  When Zak stood up again, he had to catch me – I was so limp I was ready to slide off the counter. I nestled against his chest, playing idly with the curly pelt there, catching my breath. I even wrapped my legs around him to hold him closer.

  That was what made us realise that the counter would be useful again, this time as something to brace against.

  Before I had time to wonder how I’d get to my now-distant purse without letting go of Zak, he pulled a condom out of a nearby drawer with a flourish, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I was almost too eager, clumsy as I rolled it onto his straining penis. His cock was thick, hot under my hands. It jumped with anticipation at my first touch, and my cunt jumped in response.

  There would be time to play with this pretty thing later, to lick and suck and swallow. Right now, though, I just guided him to my pussy lips and said, ‘Now. Please.’

  I expected him to tease me, to take his time as he had before, but he drove it straight home, lifting me up with the force of the thrust. His eyes darkened to an unlikely espresso as his pupils widened. I wrapped my arms and my legs around him and lost my mind.

  More bone-melting kisses. I couldn’t move all that much in that position, but he made up for it, driving fiercely into me, moving me against him with his strong hands. I did what I could, moving my pelvis in a small circle (I knew those jazz dance classes would come in handy for something!) and tightening myself to grip at him. Pretty soon my pussy set up a rhythm of its own, and it was a good thing I didn’t need to concentrate on it because I no longer could.


  My last semi-coherent thought was, I hope he doesn’t mind being scratched, as I clawed convulsively at his back. Then everything was dark red, red as molé sauce, behind my eyelids and I startled the remote part of myself that could still care with the insane-wildcat noises I made as I came. Zak grunted and began moving even faster, keeping me locked in ecstasy as he drove towards his own climax.

  He cried out, wordless and triumphant, lifting me away from the counter so he supported all my weight as he came. Our mouths locked again, and we sank to the floor together, too spent to crawl somewhere more comfortable.

  Zak’s first words were, ‘And that’s only the appetiser. I think we’ll need to rest a little before the entrée, though, and maybe make it to the bedroom.’ He was grinning like a fool – not that I blamed him, because I was too – but I had a feeling that he was serious about this being just the beginning of a long and very interesting night.

  I made a happy-animal noise and snuggled against him, breathing deeply. The kitchen smelled like spices, chocolate and passion.

  Teresa Noelle Roberts’s short stories have appeared in several Wicked Words collections. She is also one half of Sophie Mouette, author of the Black Lace Novel Cat Scratch Fever.

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  Black Lace books contain sexual fantasies.