Sweet Cravings (4 page)

By the time I reached the front door, I’d lost most of my bravado and was ready to turn and run. But I had a job to do—though I still was not sure how catalog orders of kitchen essentials segued into catering—and if I didn’t do it, there would be hell to pay, not to mention some very angry Frenchmen. I took a deep breath and entered.

During the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor, I checked my lipstick more than was necessary and glanced over my well-rehearsed and crumpled, fast-approaching unreadable, notes without actually seeing them. The elevator dinged, and I stepped out into an empty restaurant. Or nearly empty. Maybe a couple tables were occupied way in the back. I said a silent prayer of thanks there would be fewer people to witness my humiliation when the chef threw me out on my ear.

I ducked into the kitchen before the bored-looking maître d’ could accost me and found myself heating up at the sight of a stainless steel table. Sous-chefs in white hats and dishwashers with racks of clean plates bustled back and forth down the aisle in front of me, but I didn’t spot the pastry chef in their midst. I almost gave up and left before noticing the light was on in the “secret kitchen.” I gulped.

My knees went weak, and I stood frozen to the spot. Inside me, determination, embarrassment, and heady desire warred. I wanted so bad to turn and walk out, find another caterer, and be done with it. But I couldn’t. There’d be questions. Chuck would want to know why he wasn’t getting the best French-trained chef in town, and I’d be up shit creek without a paddle. What could I say?
Sorry, I didn’t mean to have hot, sweaty sex with the guy—if I’d known you’d need him the next week, I would have waited
?

Remembering the hot sex had my traitorous feet moving forward,
toward
the door instead of away.
Wrong direction
, I told them.
Shut up and go with it
, my pussy ordered. I bit my lip, swallowed my pride, and knocked.

The door opened and the man himself appeared wearing a chef’s coat splattered with pretty light pink frosting and powdered sugar. One whiff of him convinced me he’d taste positively delicious. My stomach let out a loud rumble, and I put my hand over it to try and squelch the embarrassing sound.

His mouth fell open when he caught sight of me. In fact, he seemed kind of stunned for a second. My fight-or-flight response kicked in. I swiveled on my heel, but he grabbed my elbow and tugged me inside his secret domain once more. “Mademoiselle,” he murmured low and rich as fudge pudding. “How nice to see you again. Please, come in.”

I glanced at his face from under my lashes and found him smiling at me, looking as though he might actually be glad to see me again. Part of me stiffened, vibrating with nervous energy. The rest of me tingled in saucy anticipation. The promise of
man and dessert made one
once more for my licking pleasure had me close to giggling with happiness as the door snicked shut. As he twirled me in his arms and drew me close, the all-important notes clutched in my hand could have jumped a shuttle for Mars for all I cared.

His mouth surged over mine, his lips warm, wet, and insistent, as though he needed to make up for lost time. I heartily seconded the sentiment, and the kiss turned from buttery hot and soft to spicy and decadent with a touch of dare.

I opened my mouth to let his tongue in, and we both moaned at the intrusion, his hips bucking against mine as he pressed my butt into the table. I clutched his shoulders, pulling him closer as my initial embarrassment waned. He tasted of sweet pastry, and I savored the flavor as I relaxed in his arms. God, the hungers the man awoke in me with just one kiss!

I’d dressed “professionally” for the occasion—stockings, skirt, silk work blouse, light blazer, and heels—so it wasn’t a surprise to feel the heat of his hand brush along the smooth stocking covering my thigh. But I let out a yelp as his strong fingers ripped through the material and pushed the stocking aside, delving under the crotch of my panties, headed directly toward my wetness.

“Spread for me,” he growled.

My sex clenched but my tremulous legs parted, obeying his command to give him easy access. Long, thick fingers slid through my dampness until they were coated with my slick cream before plunging inside my wet core. I moaned into his kiss at the glorious pressure and he chuckled. His other arm held me close as his mouth continued to plunder mine, setting up a tantalizing rhythm with his tongue and his fingers that my body could not ignore. My head rolled back and my hips rocked into his thrusts. I emitted soft, mewling cries every time his cock ground against my clit. It felt so good I thought I’d died and gone to pink frosting heaven. “Oh, God. Please. Just a little more….”

He quickly upped his game, nibbling down the column of my neck and then moving his fingers up to my clit, circling it with my own slippery juices until I was on the brink of breaking apart and screaming my head off. Then he abruptly pulled his hand away. “Dinner.”

“W-what?” Every brain cell in my mind struggled to comprehend the concept of language. It seemed so foreign, so far away, so
unnecessary
. My hot button throbbed with frustration. I’d been so close….

“Dinner. Have dinner with me. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

I panted, trying to form words. No matter how I rocked my hips, he remained just out of reach from where I needed him most. My fingers dug into his back, silently demanding satisfaction. But he gave me none.

“Say yes,” he commanded. “Or this ends here. Now.”

His demand seemed simple enough and since agreeing would get me everything I so badly wanted I said, “Yes.”

His fingers resumed their assault with redoubled efforts and seconds later I went into a full leg-shaking, head-tossed-back, moaning-like-a-banshee orgasm. Oh God, it was good. Sweeter than sugar cookies and deeper than the darkest chocolate. The aftermath left me more languid than melted butter on a hot biscuit, my limbs limp with happiness from my head down to my toes. “Max…. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He rubbed his nose against mine.

His soft response confused my brain.
Violet, men aren’t nice to fat girls
, mother had said.
They just use them for one thing
. I stifled a growl.
Shut up, Mom
. Her words shouldn’t bother me, but in my experience, nobody gave mind-blowing orgasms for free. Besides, I could feel the stiffness of his dick through his crisp, white uniform. I directed my hand between us and down to his crotch. “Let me take care of this….”

He kissed my cheek and backed up a step. “No. I’m fine. My pleasure, mademoiselle.” At my questioning look, he added, “Really.” He straightened my skirt as though we’d done the most natural thing in the world. Did most people do this in kitchens?

Inside, after-quakes of pleasure rippled through my bones just from looking at him, from hearing his voice. I could do this all day, I realized. And all night. Mom’s words stung in a new way, making my heart squeeze. I tried one more time. “But….”

He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, looking all businesslike, which stunk, since I’d tried for the I’m-here-for-business facade and had obviously failed. He did it so much better. He did plenty of things really well, come to think of it. “Now, what did you really come to see me for? Hmmm? You need some pastry?”

I nodded, my head spinning a little, dazed by the aftereffect of the yummy orgasm. “Y-yes. Pastry.” I had to check and see if my tongue was hanging out of my mouth in true Homer Simpson doughnut-drool fashion.
Nope. Check. All good
.

He turned, walked to a stainless steel two-door fridge I hadn’t noticed the last time I’d visited, and pulled out a white cardboard box. When he brought it back to me and opened the lid, I could have fainted from delight. Inside were six perfect raspberry cream puffs, each tantalizing, mouthwatering, and absolutely perfect.

“I kept these handy in case you came by. Think they will satisfy you for a day or two?” He raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Y-yes.” I nodded. “I mean…no.” I shook my head. He frowned, and my heart stumbled at the tiny flash of sadness in his eyes. Mouth still engaged in sluggish mode, I struggled to get the words out right. My hands flopped around like loose fish, though I’m not Italian. “Wait….”

My brain cleared a little, and I remembered I had a purpose for being here—other than feeding my own addictions.
Whew
. “I-I need dinner and dessert for forty-five,” I rushed out, thrusting the crumpled and sweat-dampened note at him.

He accepted it without comment, turned around, and walked back toward the fridge, taking the box with him.

“No!” I reached out to stop him. “I want those, too,” I yelped.

He turned and looked back at me, the left corner of his mouth raised. Damn it. Was that a smirk?

I swallowed what was left of my pride. “Please.”

He let out a triumphant smile and brought the box back to me.

The second he placed it in my hands, I inhaled the delicious aroma of raspberry and
pâte
à
choux
and rich, real-cream filling, and knew I’d done the right thing coming to him. Not for my job, for me. I glanced up from my reverie to find his lips curled into a smug grin.

“Remember, we’re having dinner. Soon.”

Gulp
. An actual date. I nodded, not trusting myself not to say something stupid.

“Good.” He unfolded the badly worn note. “Now, what do we have here?” His eyes moved as he read it. With one eyebrow quirked he returned his gaze to me. “What part of France are they from?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He tucked the note into my jacket pocket. “Find out for me, okay? And call me at this number.” He produced a business card from within the folds of his white jacket and stuck it in my pocket, too. “What’s your name and address?”

I hesitated, and he lowered his brows. My toes curled under his disapproval. At the firm set of his jaw, my panties moistened anew.

“We’re having dinner together. At your place. Very soon.” He took a step closer and let his warm breath play over my face, my lips. I grabbed his shoulder, ready to hold him close should he kiss me. Instead he pulled out another card from a seemingly endless secret supply along with a pen and pressed both into my hand. “Write it down for me.”

Inwardly cursing the part of me that responded so well to his commands, I dutifully set down the desserts, wrote down my information, and handed him the card.

“Violet,” he said, staring at the information. “I’m Max, in case you haven’t guessed.” He stuck out a hand to grab mine and winked at me as he walked me to the door. “I’ll see that your needs are taken care of, Violet.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “All of them.”

My legs trembled anew at the sound of his voice so sultry and hot, it stoked my pussy like a cunnilingus brazier. “Oh God….” I breathed. “Max…I….” I pirouetted on my toes with the intent to embrace him and plant a kiss on his scrumptious lips. But just as the lust burned a pathway to my core with his name on it, a vision of my apartment put the brakes on my passion. My lovely 1960s era, shag green-carpeted apartment with the clothes strewn over the chairs, the never-vacuumed floor, the kitchen counter littered with toast crumbs. How long had it really been since I’d had a visitor—a male visitor? My twirl stalled and ended up a half turn. I peeked at him under my lashes. “Um…about that….”

He patted me on the butt and handed me the box. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. And don’t forget your cream puffs.”

I sighed with relief when the pastries were once more in my hands—those, I could handle! I walked out the door with my head held high. After all, I’d done my job. Done it well, too.

Never mind the panty stains.

***

The night of the big dinner party came and went—without me. I might have been the orderer, but I sure wasn’t invited to the sales meeting. On the Friday evening of the big event, I was home picking lint off my Hello Kitty sweat pants and watching old episodes of
Farscape
. Alone.

I knew without a doubt Max would be at the shindig since they were hosting it at his hotel. I’d talked to him two days after our last panty-soaking encounter and informed him rather breathlessly the visitors were from Alsace-Lorraine. He seemed happy to hear from me, but I worried it was my imagination playing tricks on me. Maybe he’d been happy about the job?

I pondered this as I sat and half listened to the show, doing my best not to pout after having scrubbed every inch of my apartment damn near spotless during the last couple weeks. For all his we’re-having-dinner insistence, he’d never called me after that, and I didn’t have the nerve to show up at the restaurant again and violate his secret kitchen area wearing nothing but panties and a bra. True, I’d eaten all the cream puffs and needed more—my hands were so shaky from sugar withdrawals I could hardly dial the phone—but foisting myself upon his good graces one more time seemed unladylike. Yes, I had needs, a lot of needs, but showing them to a—nearly—complete stranger over and over would make me…well, seem desperate.

Air snorted out my nose as I ground my teeth. Surely there must be some way to get man and dessert together again. Racking my brain didn’t seem to help.

The doorbell shrieked as though someone had jabbed a yardstick through its tiny electronic brain. I about jumped out of my skin at the sound. Seconds later, the thing blared again. I huffed, got up from the couch with my eyes squinted, and stood with hands on hips ready give the ringer a piece of my mind. My feet slapped against the tiles in the entryway as I marched toward the door. Before I arrived, the bell sounded again, and by this time I was ready to punch the doorbell addict’s lights out. I flung the door open without bothering to look through the peephole and glared at the intruder.

And there he was. Max. In all his chef glory. Wearing his crisp whites and carrying a large maroon canvas to-go bag in each hand, he looked concerned and sweaty.

“Max? You’re here!” I suppressed a loud squeal as the blood flow to my pussy increased by a thousand percent. My heart thundering in my chest, it was all I could do talk in real-people English. “Um…come in.” I held open the door, and he brushed past me in a hurry. In my head I mentally calculated what an impression my attire must make. Not to mention my mussed hair, no makeup, and the potato chips stuck between my teeth.
Sexy, Vi. Real sexy
!