The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She saw his glance travel further down, consideringly, along the length of her bare legs.

  Hmm . . .

  “Hugely popular show,” Lee said. “We want to try something similar here. Only it’ll be an all-day thing. A team thing. Teams pitted against one another. A cook-off. Ratings through the roof.”

  Drew leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You want us to compete?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lee said. “No. Competition, yes. But not against each other.”

  “Separately?” Caroline asked. Sometimes it was hard to get Lee to express a full idea, and you had to coax it out of him. She’d learned what kind of questions to ask to get a successful response. Mostly.

  “No.”

  This time when Caroline glanced at Drew, both their expressions conveyed their dismay. Then his changed to something more considering. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  This couldn’t be good.

  She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Drew’s gaze was riveted.

  “As a team,” Lee said. “You two against an amateur team. Found a couple, husband and wife. Real whizzes in the kitchen.”

  “You want us to cook with amateurs?” Drew asked, breaking out of his reverie, obviously having missed part of the plan.

  “Not with them. Against them. Two teams, competing.”

  “I understand the idea of a competition, Lee,” Caroline said in her most placating voice, “but wouldn’t it make more sense to put us on opposing teams?”

  Lee shook his balding head. “Pros against amateurs. Plus demographics indicate viewers want to see both of you. Team thing. Survivor.”

  Caroline doubted Lee had ever seen a single episode of Survivor. But she understood what he was getting at. Teams, but with the members still clashing.

  Who would get voted out of the kitchen?

  Drew muttered an invective under his breath, so low that Lee couldn’t hear it. Caroline could, though, and for the briefest flashes of moments, they were synchronized, in complete agreement.

  It wouldn’t last.

  Soon, Caroline had a plan. It was a good plan, it was an evil plan, and if she pulled it off, she’d have her ratings back.

  She put the plan into action the day before the actual show. Although they were going for an Iron Chef feel, with a studio-supplied surprise ingredient for each course, the teams were allowed to meet in advance to plan what other ingredients to bring.

  Drew had suggested meeting at a café, but she’d proposed her apartment instead.

  Her living room was already decorated with exotic, Middle Eastern-looking furnishings, plump pillows covered with soft sari silks, and lush, jewel-toned fabrics covering the walls. She made the room even more seductive for the occasion with scented candles and a bouquet of hypnotically perfumed Stargazer lilies. Some low, sultry Middle-Eastern music murmured and flowed through hidden speakers.

  She dressed to suit the mood, in a silk camisole embroidered with shisha mirrors and bright patterns, a short black velvet skirt and stilettos. Not that she planned to seduce him, oh no. She just wanted him to start thinking about the possibility.

  As soon as he showed up at her door, though, she realized the plan’s fatal flaw: namely, she couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities either.

  Drew seemed to fill the space. Every time she turned around, his long legs seemed to be in her way. His smell – not just aftershave but the underlying warm smell that was uniquely his – was inescapable. The candle flickering on a side table cast a shadowed light that accented his cheekbones and eyes.

  Did she want to win or did she want to drag him to bed?

  It was a shame it had to be an either-or question, but the parts of her that were voting for jumping him – and why bother getting as far as the bed – weren’t the ones Caroline trusted to guide her career. There were always other men (although, as her body hastened to remind her, none recently that had the visceral appeal of Drew Benjamin). But there was only one cable station in Peaveyville.

  And room for only one cooking show.

  “Cucumbers,” she said suddenly, hoping to catch him off-base. Judging from his expression, she succeeded. “As one of our ingredients, I mean. I saw the most gorgeous cucumbers at the farmer’s market today. Thick, firm, perfectly straight. I had to pick some up – just couldn’t resist.” She gave what she hoped was a catlike smile.

  “I’ve never been sure what to do with cukes.” Drew realized what he was saying just too late to catch it. “Other than pickles or salad,” he continued, evidently hoping that if he rooted the conversation firmly in recipes, he’d regain control. “You can’t grill them.”

  Perfect. “Leave the cucumbers to me, Drew. I know exactly what to do with a cucumber.” She leaned forward as she said that, giving him a glimpse down the shadowy front of her camisole and a whiff of her warm amber perfume. “I’ll leave the figs to you.”

  “Figs?” he echoed, his eyes fixed on the shadowed curves under the silk.

  She pitched her voice at a purr. “Don’t you ever go anywhere but the meat market? It’s fig season and I got us a case of soft . . . plump . . . juicy ones.” If he only knew how closely that described the condition of her own “fig”, they’d never get through the conversation.

  As it was, he was leaning closer to her, looking like he was considering a kiss.

  If Caroline let him, she’d lose everything. She sat back, crossing her ankles decorously in an attempt to remind herself to behave. “I bet you could grill figs and make a relish with them,” she suggested. “Maybe Middle Eastern spices and Aleppo pepper.”

  They both thought of the implications of hot, spicy figs at the same moment and looked away from each other.

  Maybe this plan wasn’t foolproof.

  Drew stood up and stretched. She could see his muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt. Once the play of muscles stopped distracting her, Caroline could see why he was restless. The fly of his jeans looked uncomfortably tight, and she liked the look of what was outlined against the straining fabric.

  Definitely not a foolproof plan, but if she could keep her cool while making him lose his, it could still work.

  It had to work. This was war, not sex.

  “Yeah,” he said too quickly, “fig relish. And melons are in season too. I saw some nice casabas . . .”

  He looked at her cleavage again, turned red, and looked away. Caroline would be the first to admit her breasts were more the size of peaches, but the old joke was inescapable.

  “Leave the meat to me,” he muttered. “I can handle meat.”

  “So can I,” she riposted.

  Another long, breathless pause.

  “Dessert?” he asked.

  Oh, the places they could go with that thought! “Peach tart.” She smiled as she said it. “With cream.”

  She couldn’t be sure in the flickering candlelight, but it looked like he flushed.

  The thick silence that followed that was broken by Drew adding, “I think we’ve got a good start. I’ve got stuff to get into marinade, so, uh, maybe I should go.”

  Oh, he was definitely riled up, all right. Caroline fell back on the overstuffed cushions and let out a long breath in her suddenly empty-feeling apartment.

  The problem was, no matter how hard she tried to focus on saving her show, she kept coming around to the same issue: She was riled up, too.

  Curse him!

  Caroline arrived at the studio early the next morning dressed to kill. Her bright turquoise knit dress was short enough that anyone with blood flowing in their veins would wonder what colour her underwear was – or if she were wearing any. (She was, but the lace low cut bikini did more to accent her ass than hide it.) The dress’s halter top bared her shoulders, but was otherwise quite decorous – from the front.

  The back view was another story. Her back was exposed to below the waist, low enough that if she moved just right, she flashed a hint of butt cleavage.

  She always kept her str
awberry-blonde hair pulled back in the kitchen. Usually she wore it in a ponytail, but today she’d gone for an updo, sophisticated, but with soft curls falling artfully out.

  The viewers wouldn’t see that it revealed the dragonflies tattooed on the back of her neck. At first glance, the tattoo was innocuous enough, pretty, delicate insects in shades of blue and green.

  On second glance, you realized they were mating.

  The audience couldn’t see them . . . but Drew would.

  Her only regret was the shoes. Stilettos weren’t practical when she was going to be on her feet all day. The flat Indian-style sandals decorated with turquoise and coral went well with the outfit, but they didn’t work nearly as well as weaponry.

  When she sashayed into the kitchen, though, it was pretty clear no one was looking at her shoes.

  Drew leaned forward for a closer look as she walked past him.

  Their amateur opponents seemed just as fascinated. Ally and Stephen Jarvis could best be described as cute geeks: she was tall and angular, not conventionally pretty, but blessed with a charming smile and a perfect cocoa complexion. He was white, about six inches shorter and heavyset, with the air and fashion sense of someone who did something obscure with software. And both of them seemed to like what they were seeing, a lot.

  Good. Drew was her real concern here, not the amateurs, but distracting them was a bonus. If she and Drew won the contest and she made Drew look like a fool, all the better.

  At 9:45 a.m., the opponents shook hands and took their places at opposite sides of the kitchen. Except her real opponent was on her side.

  At 10 a.m., the cameras began to roll and a studio employee came in with the secret ingredient for the appetizer course: asparagus.

  While the amateurs consulted frantically, Drew said, “Prosciutto, asparagus, melon and figs. Classic. Only we grill the asparagus and figs.”

  “I like my asparagus . . . raw.” Caroline picked up a stalk and began toying at the tip with her tongue, staring into his eyes.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he demanded sotto voce.

  “What’s that French expression? La petite morte?” She plunged the asparagus deep into her mouth, pursing her lips around it, then retrieved it, intact.

  “Stop teasing me,” he said, and then raised his voice to add, “Start splitting the figs. The other’s team’s already cooking.”

  “I bet I could get you cooking in no time, Drew,” she whispered. But one glance at the Jarvises confirmed that it was time to get to work.

  Nevertheless, she made a point of applying walnut oil (to protect the fruit on the grill) with her fingers instead of a brush, leaving the pink flesh moist, shiny, and more suggestive than ever.

  This cost them half a fig. When the camera was trained on the Jarvises’ frantic preparations, Drew picked up one of the fruit halves and ran his tongue along it, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Caroline clenched inside, imagining him doing that to her.

  Dammit. Not only was he on to her game, he was playing back with her – and rather effectively. That would make things a bit more difficult, but she could handle it.

  She could handle it. Think about Cooking With Caroline. Think about not being usurped.

  Somehow, they managed to finish their appetizer course without too many more incidents, although they seemed to brush against each other a lot. Caroline was doing it on purpose, but after a while she questioned whether she was doing it to distract Drew (who was fumbling the food quite a bit, although to his credit he hadn’t yet dropped anything) or to enjoy the jolt of desire that zinged her whenever she touched him.

  Purely an added benefit, that zing. She refused-refused! – to let it distract her.

  The Jarvises had made an asparagus frittata. The judges pronounced it tasty, but it lost to the pros’ offering partly on the grounds of visual appeal. The asparagus stalks were arranged poking into tunnels of pink proscuitto or laid out on top of gleaming, darker pink figs with heat-blackened skins, the plate accented with thin crescent moons of pale-green melon.

  “Very sensual,” one judge proclaimed, winking at Caroline.

  Lee grabbed Caroline before they headed back for the next segment. “The phones are ringing off the hook!” he proclaimed gleefully.

  “Who’s winning?”

  “It’s weird. No one wants to pick a winner. Everyone’s saying they love watching you and Drew interact. Well, except for the old guy who said you were both disgusting.”

  She chuckled and headed back to the set, swaying her hips so Drew, who was behind her, got an eyeful.

  The secret ingredient for the next round was shrimp. “Predictable!” they heard Stephen Jarvis pooh-pooh. The couple’s consultation was hushed, but Caroline thought she overheard an argument ensuing about the merits of garlic.

  “We could do your shrimp kebabs,” Drew suggested. “That’s a great recipe. Or something Cajun or Southwestern. I can whip up a dry rub in no time.”

  She shook her head, in part to dispel images implanted by whip and rub. “Talk about predictable! That’s exactly what the judges will expect from us. We have to think of something different.”

  “Japanese. A cold noodle dish with shrimp and seaweed and . . . something else. I’m not the Asian fusion expert – what do you think?” He bowed gallantly. Oh, oh, look at him trying to sway the audience to his side. Bastard!

  “Cucumbers!”

  Suddenly Drew looked less enthusiastic about his idea. “Not cucumbers, Caroline. Please, not cucumbers.”

  The studio audience tittered.

  “But they’re a classic Japanese ingredient. And wait until you see my way with a cuke, gorgeous!”

  He tried to look away when she held up two cucumbers, both perfect specimens. Okay, he was going to play it that way? Fine.

  She turned to the audience, leaning on the work counter that separated the stage from the seating area, and held up both cucumbers. Batting her eyes, she asked, “What do you think: short and thick or long and slender?”

  The audience hooted and applauded, and she laughed along with them. That’s right, get ’em on her side.

  What the viewers saw was her being friendly and charming.

  What Drew saw was her arching her back and presenting herself as if asking to be taken from behind.

  She bit back a grin of triumph when Drew’s voice cracked. “I’ll get the rice noodles soaking while you, uh, work on those.”

  He moved behind her. To the viewers, it looked like he was just reaching around to grab the bag of thick rice noodles on the counter, maybe being a little playful, standing a little too close to get her back for the cucumber jokes.

  They wouldn’t know that that he whispered in her ear, “How about long and thick?” or that he pressed against her, pushing his cock into the crack of her ass.

  From what she could tell, “long and thick” was an apt description.

  And it would be so, so very easy for him to slip it deep inside her. All he’d have to do was unzip, raise her minuscule skirt, nudge her drenched panties aside. He could reach around and toy with her nipples through the dress. He’d start slow, with long, even strokes that would nudge her higher, then he’d gradually increase the speed until he was diving into her, filling her . . .

  . . . and getting them both fired and probably banned from TV anywhere in the country except certain pay-per-view channels.

  Caroline took a deep breath and a determined step to the right. Thank God nobody could see how her legs trembled as she did. She began carving cucumber flowers, first cautiously, not trusting her fingers. But as she pulled herself together, she wielded the knife with a certain vengeful glee.

  She really couldn’t say how they got through making the cold noodle dish. Every time she tried to focus on the preparations, her mind wandered back to the feel of Drew’s cock pressed up against her – and her body followed right along, rewarding her with more deep, aching shivers.

  It probably wasn’t a factor, but t
his time, although the judges had good things to say about the Japanese dish, the Jarvises’ Spanish-style shrimp, hot peppers, and garlic in olive oil got the nod.

  “Remember, everyone,” the announcer said, “This is an all-Saturday marathon. We need to give our talented chefs a short break, though, so for the next half hour we’ll be showing highlights from your favourite episodes of Cooking With Caroline and Warning: Man Cooking, as voted on by you, the viewing audience.”

  “I have to get some fresh air,” Ally Jarvis proclaimed, and the geek couple wandered off hand in hand.

  Caroline got herself a bottle of water from the tiny fridge backstage. “Want one?” she asked Drew, who’d followed her.

  “Thanks,” he said with a nod, and she tossed the bottle at him.

  She proceeded to do a series of yoga stretches to work out the kinks in her back from the marathon session of standing.

  Drew spilled water down his front. Which was probably a good thing for him, since the bulge in his jeans could use an icing-down.

  Dammit. The mental picture lodged in her mind of her wielding a pastry bag, drawing curlicues on his erect penis and then following the swirls with her tongue, tasting sweet powdered sugar and salty precome.

  A taste sensation not found on any menu.

  That was it. She had to hide in the bathroom, bring herself off. Clutching her water, she turned to flee, and nearly slammed into Lee.

  “Both of you. Here,” the station manager said.

  For a fleeting moment, in her aroused, fanciful state, she thought Lee meant she and Drew should do it right there. Luckily she figured out he simply meant he wanted to talk to both of them.

  “Phones are ringing off the hook,” Lee said. “Audience is loving this. Real chemistry between you two. Who knew? Bonuses for you both. Now, back to work.”

  Caroline bit back a groan as he shooed them back towards the soundstage. No quickie masturbation in the bathroom for her. At this rate, by the end of the show she’d have to wring out her panties.

  “Yeah, who knew?” Drew whispered in her ear, his breath fluttering the loose tendrils of hair.

  The lights went up on stage, and she had no chance to reply.

  They settled into their places in the kitchen, standing far closer to one another than was really necessary.