Cooking up a Storm (2 page)

He’d assumed a professional would do better than he could. With his upbringing, he didn’t know how a home was supposed to look. He only knew it didn’t look like this.

Something on the bedside table caught his eye: a glossy magazine. He picked it up.
Restaurant Monthly.
The woman must have left it. He hoped she wouldn’t use it as an excuse to return. He paged idly through the issue, calmed by the pictures of gourmet cuisine. A flaming banana rum cake made him smile like a woman at a particularly adorable baby. He’d made his first flambé at the age of thirteen. How Mrs Kozlakis had clapped. A favourite recipe is like a trusted friend, she’d said, and she’d been right. Flipping ahead, he admired the presentation of a fan of chargrilled chicken breasts. Then, near the back, where the cheaper ads clustered, a black and white photograph caught his eye. It showed a woman standing in front of a quaint two-storey house.

Without warning, his heart gave a great pound and his face flashed hot, as though his blood was rushing to his extremities. Love at first sight, he thought, one finger rising up the clapboard siding to the picturesque widow’s walk on the roof. He smiled at the overflowing window boxes, at the fat brick chimney, at the bird-filled bird’s nest in the shady oak. Now this was a home.

THE COATES INN
, said the hand-painted sign next to the blurry little woman — the owner, he presumed.

‘The Coates Inn,’ he murmured, and a second flush of excitement warmed his chest. Fate, he thought, having lived in California too long not to believe in such things.

He scanned the copy beneath the picture.

‘Prime Cape Cod location,’ said the header. Cranberries fresh from the bog, he thought, his imagination beginning to spin. He read on. ‘Competitive salary and benefits…room and board…fabulous opportunity to put your stamp on a thriving family concern…’ Ah hah! The Coates Inn was looking for a chef.

Storm laughed out loud and kissed the photograph. It was perfect. So what if Massachusetts was clear across the country? From what little he knew, they had a nice ocean, fresh air, no crazy actor types, and all the oysters you could eat. Best of all, the tone of the ad sounded a mite too cheery, as if they were desperate for a good chef, as if they might go belly-up if they didn’t get one.

Unless his business radar had failed him entirely, the Coates Inn was a cherry ripe for plucking. Lucky for Storm, he knew all about plucking cherries, plucking them and letting them stew in their own juice.

*   *   *

Abby’s room was done up country-French style with big overstuffed chairs, lots of chintz and ruffles and purposely ‘distressed’ secondhand furniture. The walls above the white wainscotting were painted a rich, cinnamon pink. Bill fitted the flowery decor like a bull in a china shop, but he’d been here so many times in the last four years, Abby hardly noticed. Now he sat on the edge of her high tester bed and stared. His eyes trailed over every scrap of clinging black leather before fastening, spellbound, on the yellow rose that hugged the lower curve of her belly. His mouth fell open.

‘Jesus,’ was all he said, his butcher’s hands kneading and releasing his hairy, trunk-like thighs.

Bill was a big man, a big ol’ teddy bear, according to Abby’s two sisters, who didn’t understand why she kept declining his marriage proposals. At six foot three, two hundred who-knew-what, he made Abby feel slim and delicate rather than short and solid. His size was no small part of what had attracted her to him, along with his unfailing gentleness. Even now, with his chest heaving and his cock bouncing in his boxers like a toddler on a bed, she knew he’d make no move towards her until she indicated she’d welcome one.

‘Jesus,’ he said again. ‘Ab, you look…’ He shook his head, completely dumbstruck.

Suddenly self-conscious, Abby crossed her hands over her belly. ‘You don’t think this makes me look fat?’

As soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. She wasn’t fat. She knew she wasn’t. She was a healthy young woman with the sense not to diet down to stick-hood, but sometimes she just couldn’t believe in her bones that she was attractive.

‘Ab,’ Bill said, shaking his head again. He lumbered off the bed and went to his knees before her. He kissed her belly on either side of the rose, reverently, gratefully. His neatly trimmed beard brushed her skin. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I know. You’re smart and kind and you cook the best clam chowder in New England.’

Her nervousness abating, Abby laughed and stroked his short dark hair. The way to Bill’s heart had definitely been through his stomach. Taking her caress as permission, his hands roved up the back of her legs and cupped her bottom cheeks through the butter-soft leather. He growled against her belly. Like an animal, he opened his mouth and nipped its curve between his teeth.

‘You look so sexy I could scream,’ he said, then grabbed her up and tossed her on to the bed as if she weighed no more than a child.

Abby let out a shriek of startled delight. One of her heels tumbled with a clatter to the floor. Bill gasped and picked it up. As though the shoe had been hurt and needed soothing, he rubbed it across his chest before slipping it back on her foot. It was a strange gesture; one she was sure he made without thinking.

She glanced at his crotch. His cock was so erect the head was poking through the vent of his pale-blue shorts. Bill didn’t usually get this hard until they’d engaged in a bit of foreplay — a good thing, too, since his family jewels were proportioned to the rest of him: big, thick and meaty. Intrigued, she stretched her leg, caught his testicles on her pointy toe and lifted.

To her surprise, Bill moaned and clasped her ankle. Holding the back of the shoe with his other hand, he rubbed her foot over his joggly sac, working the point over and into his hidden curves. His boxers felt warm and sweaty, his balls taut and full. A trickle of pre-come rolled down the head of his cock. Abby’s womb tightened at the sight, despite the fact that his behaviour unnerved her. This outfit really turned him on. She liked knowing she could reduce this big, strong man to jelly with a flick of her toe; she just wished she had more to do with it than the spike-heeled shoes.

‘Oh, God,’ he said, suddenly dropping her foot and yanking down his shorts. His cock stood straight out from his body, as red as if it had been dipped in a lobster pot. It jiggled with his movements as he climbed on to the bed. It hung and swayed as he straddled her. It pounded as he kneed her thighs apart. It bobbed as his hips swung down to take her.

‘Bill,’ she said nervously, because she wasn’t sure she was ready to be taken.

‘Right,’ he said on a heavy breath. ‘Got to make you wet.’

He looked at the bikini top and stroked his moustache. Abby loved having her nipples sucked. She was small, it was true, but very sensitive. Unfortunately, she had a strong suspicion she wasn’t going to get any suckling today, not if it meant removing Bill’s arousal aide.

Sure enough, he avoided her breasts and began kissing his way down her belly.

Well, all right, she thought. I like that, too.

The crotch of the bikini was narrow but, rather than push it aside, he took it in his mouth and licked her around the barrier. Like a dog with a chew toy, she thought, and had to scold herself again. As usual, he didn’t get the pressure or the positioning quite right. To give Bill credit, he often asked what sort of touch she preferred. The problem was, if she said anything besides ‘that’s great, keep it up’ he got defensive and invariably forgot her instructions.

You can’t blame him if you don’t speak up, she told herself, but at the same time a little voice said: there’s something wrong here if you don’t care enough to speak up anymore.

Nonsense, she thought. Bill was a wonderful lover — considerate, vigorous. If the earth didn’t shake when they made love, that was because the earth only shook in romance novels. Count your blessings, she ordered, and buried her hands in his thick, straight hair. Her nails were clipped short for kitchen work, perfectly safe for a good scratching. She raked them from his temples to his nape, firm, scalp-warming strokes. Bill uttered a deep, pleasured sound and licked her harder.

‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped, as he inadvertently hit the right spot. ‘Don’t stop. That’s perfect.’

‘You’re perfect,’ he said, lifting his head and crawling up her body. ‘I can’t wait, sweetheart. I’ve got to have you now.’

He looked so desperate she didn’t have the heart to protest. Instead, she lifted her knees. Pushing the damp crotch of her bikini to the side, Bill took his big banger in his hand and guided it to her gate. He dropped on to his elbows.

‘Ah,’ he sighed, surging halfway in. ‘Tight. You’re always so…’ His words dissolved into moans as her body gave way before his steady pressure, sooner than it usually did. She was wet and slick inside. His arousal had aroused her, in spite of her ambivalence.

She hugged his hovering bulk and he grunted, already starting to thrust. He rarely spoke once he’d entered her, as if the act of penetration precluded all but the most primitive communication. Abby didn’t mind. She liked grunting, actually; it was sexy. Sometimes, though, she wished she knew what was going on inside his head when they made love, that she didn’t have to guess — and that he didn’t, either.

‘Mmph,’ he said, pushing up straight-armed so he could swing his hips faster. ‘Agh, Abby, Abby.’

The sound of her name, not to mention the panic in his voice, startled her from her thoughts. She looked up at him. His face was red, twisted with effort and so sweaty his beard had gone damp. His eyes were glued to her breasts, joggling now behind triangles of snug black leather.

My God, she thought. He can’t hold back. He’s going to come already. The realisation sent a quicksilver flash of excitement through her sex. Her sheath tightened. He groaned again and pushed harder.

‘Ab. Jesus.’ He jerked his thighs wider, spreading her, stretching the tendons near her groin to the edge of pain. The bikini’s gusset, shoved aside in his haste, cinched her left pussy lip flush to his cock. She could feel her own wetness on his skin, feel his grossly swollen veins. ‘Ab. I can’t–’

The telltale ache of impending orgasm swelled between her legs, stronger than she could ever remember feeling it.

‘It’s all right,’ she gasped, throwing her hips off the mattress to meet his choppy thrusts. ‘I’m almost there. Keep going. Keep going. Oh, Lord–’ She came a second before he did. The long rolling spasm seemed to go on and on, as if his noisy, heartfelt groans were keeping it going. Finally, though, they both finished shaking.

He collapsed on top of her like a ton of bricks. Squeaking under his weight, she pushed hard until he rolled to the side. He sighed sleepily and captured her breast in one meaty hand, covering both it and the bikini.

‘Thawasgood,’ he slurred into her neck. ‘First time we came together.’

Abby stroked his big, damp shoulder and wondered why that fact didn’t seem more momentous. She hummed a noncommittal response.

‘Told you you’d like it,’ he said. ‘Next time you can wear the boots.’

Abby’s afterglow faded with the tightening of her neck. Was she supposed to wear his little costumes all the time now? Was that the price of today’s better - than - average pleasure? For once, she didn’t push back her annoyance but let it swell into full-fledged anger. With a huff of effort, she pushed Bill off her chest and sat up. He goggled at her, his mouth hanging slack within his beaver-coloured beard.

‘I think we need to have a break from each other,’ she said.

Bill gasped. She almost gasped herself. She hadn’t known she was going to say that. The hurt in his eyes made her wince but, rather than take the words back, she fisted her hands in the rumpled bed covers.

‘But I thought you liked it,’ he said. ‘You came harder than you ever have.’

Abby blushed and stared at her clenched hands. She wondered how she was going to explain this abrupt and rather intense urge to have him out of her life.

‘If it’s about the boots, we don’t have to–’

‘It’s not about the fucking boots!’ she shouted, then covered her mouth in shock. She never cursed, never.

Bill’s face turned soft and compassionate then, as if she were a child having a tantrum. He laid his hand over her knee. ‘What’s this all about?’

Abby felt sick to her stomach. Suddenly she knew she’d been wanting to do this for a long time. But how was she going to tell him? How was she going to make her wishes clear? ‘It’s…It’s just…’

‘What, sweetheart?’ His palm squeezed her kneecap.

God, did he have to be so nice? She took a deep breath and forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘It’s not about the boots. It’s about the fact that I don’t want to wear the boots for you.’

‘Oh,’ he said. She could see his mind working, trying simultaneously to decipher and deny. ‘Well, I understand, I suppose. Some women don’t feel comfortable–’

‘Bill.’ She covered his hand. ‘I’m saying I resent wearing the boots for you, but I might not mind wearing them for someone else.’

‘But–’

‘Our relationship isn’t working for me. I think I need something else.’ There. She’d said it. Despite her discomfort at hurting one of her oldest friends, she experienced a wonderful sense of exhilaration, like a spring rainstorm blowing through a musty attic.

‘You need a break,’ he said, returning to the one statement that now seemed tolerable. He pulled his hand out from under hers and swung his heavy body off the bed. Visibly in retreat, he gathered his clothes and began pulling them on. The change he always kept in his trouser pockets jingled. The sound was so familiar it brought an unexpected tear to her eye.

‘I might need a permanent break,’ she warned.

Bill looked up from fastening his belt. For a moment he just stared. When he spoke his voice was low and controlled. ‘I’m not giving up on you, Ab.’

‘Maybe it would be better if you did.’

He blinked, then covered the distance between them in a single stride and lifted her by the back of her neck. Legs bent, feet dragging sideways on the bed, she clutched his shoulders for balance as he pressed a hard, angry kiss into her startled mouth. His tongue filled her, thick and choking. If this was meant as a display of sensual mastery, it failed miserably. Abby began to cry, not because he was hurting her, but because she felt so sorry for him.