Black Lace Quickies 3 (12 page)

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
.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9780753524466

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Black Lace books contain sexual fantasies.
In real life, always practise safe sex.

First published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Black Lace Books

This edition published in 2012 by Black Lace,
an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company

Nothing But This © Kristina Lloyd
The Game of Kings © Maya Hess
Sonata © A.D.R. Forte
Rush Hour © Cal Jago
Number One © Candy Wong
Cooking Lessons © Teresa Noelle Roberts

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9780352341280

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