Sweet Cravings (3 page)

I lowered my head and licked his frosting-smeared chest.

He groaned and squeezed my ass harder. His next plunge was soul deep. I opened my legs wider to take him farther inside, pressing our sexes so close together they could merge atomically.

At the same time, I dipped my mouth to his chest and the creamy flavor burst over my tongue, completing the pleasure circuit. And then,
God
!
God, I’m coming
! With my mouth, my sex, and my arms full of him, he surrounded and completed me. Time warped as inner muscles squeezed his firm flesh over and over and in those endlessly long seconds where I touched the heavens, I had everything I’ve ever wanted, all at once. I didn’t know it could be like this.

His body coiled taut as a livewire, riding a calm before the storm. When the tempest hit the force of the assault was brutal and beautiful to watch. His cock slammed into me and he keened out a long wail. His back arched, powerful muscles in his shoulders and chest strained to the breaking point. He thrashed against me, his body convulsing in time with mine. While my orgasm subsided, he burst, spending a burst of cum inside me, drenching me with his heat.

For long seconds we stood there, immobile, his heavy breaths eventually gentling against my neck. He pressed a long kiss to my collarbone, and I hugged him tighter. I didn’t know what to say.
Thank you
seemed inadequate.
Let’s do this again
seemed presumptuous.
Please don’t go
seemed downright clingy. But though tongue-tied, I was loathe to leave the sanctuary of the embrace. For several long minutes, neither of us moved. But after too short a time spent in silent harmony, someone knocked on the door.

“Max? You in there?” The handle jiggled. “It’s time for the prize drawing. They need you up front.”

With a long exhale, my sexy chef dropped his arms and leaned back. “Just a second. I’ll be right there.”

He kissed me softly and my lips quivered. My heart sank to my knees as I watched him bend to retrieve his underwear. The moment was gone. Spell broken.
Time for Cinderella to take her cake and go home
. I numbly picked up my panties. Usually, cake was enough. What was wrong with me?

He pulled up his pants over rich, meaty thighs, and I sighed knowing I’d never see them again. And who could blame him after my crazy behavior? He obviously had a life of his own. A busy one. I rolled my eyes, tugged my on my own panties, and clasped on my bra.
God, what was I thinking attacking him like that
?

He watched me pick my dress up off the floor with a dazed expression. I shook it out the best I could, but the wrinkles were the least of my troubles.

“One moment,
mon ami
.” He strolled to the sink and wetted a white kitchen towel. First, he toweled the rest of the frosting off his naked chest, then moved over to do mine.

I stood there frozen in time, silently chastising myself about what a demented dessert-crazed slut I had been and let him clean off my chest and bra. I could hear my mother ranting about the foolishness of my actions. But damn it, I had wanted this,
needed this
. Instead of being blissfully happy though, I wanted to cry.

When he finished with my breasts, he kissed each one and tucked them back into their cups. I ached for his touch to linger, to rewind time a few minutes, back before the knock broke the spell.

Instead he smiled and licked extra frosting off my chin. He kissed the tip of my nose, too, and I held my breath. He stood there, staring into my eyes, searching. Before too long I dragged in a long inhale and glanced away.
God, what must he think of me
? The only excuse I could come up with for my behavior was the time-honored sugar mania defense.
The Twinkies made me do it, Officer. Really
.

I shimmied into the dress and tried to make it appear presentable, which was hard to do with a generous amount of whipped cream smeared on the front. Once more, the chef came to my rescue. He snatched a clean, crisp linen chef’s jacket off a hook and handed it to me. I felt guilty putting it on, as if I were trying to fake my way into culinary school. But the jacket surrounded me with a little part of him and that felt good. Right. Even though it was probably the last piece of Chef Max I’d ever get. My arms tingled as I slipped them through the armholes, and I wished for his touch again.

With my head down, I made my way to the door and leaned against the frame, where I watched as he pulled on his undershirt and his own white chef’s jacket. When fully dressed, he came up to me and trailed his fingers down my arm in a long, soothing caress.

I looked up at him, despite my fear that my need for sweets had finally driven me full-on crazy, and found him giving me the puppy-dog eyes.
Oh holy crap
.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have much experience at encouraging men. Besides, my gray matter had dissolved to whipped cream frosting some time ago, which made it difficult to form words. I blinked and offered a semi-smile and a shrug. It apparently wasn’t enough.

The corners of his mouth turned down in a frown before he tore the tinfoil off the door in one smooth motion. We both stepped out into the sterile, stainless steel kitchen. Busboys zoomed past us as we drifted toward the main double doors in silence. Then I floated through the dining room alone, adrift, my head in a fog. His warm hand no longer caressing my back. I missed his fiery touch already.

I told myself he wouldn’t want to see me again anyway. Likely he was just being polite. I’d learned the hard way not to court disappointment, not to count on too much. Men had a way of disappearing after the first date, never to return.

Desserts were always the safer choice.

***

By Saturday morning, dessert held little appeal.

Recuperating slowly from the sugar high, I lay in bed late fondling the chef’s jacket, wondering if Max did want to see me again, or if my hearing had gone fuzzy. I longingly caressed the chef’s jacket as I fantasized about him, replaying the kitchen encounter over and over again until I needed to take an extra-long shower to cool down. By the time the shower was done, the windows were laden with more fog than the English Channel, but I was no closer to finding satisfaction. However, I could think of no excuse that would allow me to see my sexy chef again that wouldn’t also put me in danger of rejection. With my mother’s words ringing in my head, the rest of the day limped by.

Sunday passed in much the same way, except I forced myself out of bed to do grocery shopping and laundry before lapsing into a fitful depression. My confidence took hit after hit as I imagined the millions of things Chef Max must think of me. The words crazy, slut, and nutcase rounded out the top three, and I sank into the sofa, staring at a turned off TV. I normally don’t relish the thought of going to work on Monday, but at least it would provide a much-needed distraction….

Monday morning, I sat down in my four-walls-of-gray cubicle and found a note taped to my monitor: “See me.”

No name adorned the note, which wasn’t at all unusual. My boss, Chuck, rarely spelled his whole name—I think he did it as an affectation to prove to us he’s always in a big hurry—and most of the time, all we got was a scrawled “C.” However, no name was needed; his squiggly handwriting was unmistakable. He should have been a doctor.

I toed open his office door, and he ushered me in with one hand, phone glued to his ear with the other. I sat next to Suzy from HR and Ben from Sales who were already seated in the room. They both smiled at me but said nothing to reveal the game plan. As Catalog Manager, I had no fucking idea why I might be there.

Chuck hung up and turned his beacon-white toothy grin on the three of us. “We’re having visitors on the fifteenth,” he announced. “From France. To talk about a new product line.” He pointed at Suzy. “Suze, I want a list of all employees who speak a foreign language, and the names of the best French hotels and restaurants in the area.” Next, he jabbed a finger at Ben. “Ben, study up on sales techniques. I want insider knowledge about cultural differences in closing a sale with Europeans, and I need it yesterday.” Finally, he directed his full attention at me. “You.” He paused, and I wasn’t sure he even knew my name so I sort of understood his hesitation. “Get some food and dishes ordered. We’re catering a dinner for forty-five.”

My jaw fell open—to show my unbridled enthusiasm for this project. “Sir, I…don’t know anything about—”

He swished an arm through the air dismissively. “You work in Catalog. You know how to order stuff. So requisition what we need.” He opened a drawer and tossed me the bright, shiny red company credit card. An item whose existence I’d only heard rumors about, but never figured I’d have the opportunity to touch, much less wield. He gave me a cheesy smile and an even cheesier wink. “I know you can do it.”

“But—”

He vaulted from his chair as though the snake of epiphany had bitten him in the ass. Indeed, maybe it had. His eyes were glassy. “Dismissed.”

All three of us shut our traps, snapped to attention, and filed out the door without further comment like good little sheep.

Back at my desk, I sat down and frowned at my computer screen much the same way I’d absentmindedly glared at the television all weekend. Why had my life suddenly gone so crazy? And why did I have a sudden urge for cream puffs and fried chicken? Hmm. Salty and sweet had never steered me wrong. The phone rang, so I answered, against my better judgment.

“Hey, Violet, it’s Suzy. I’ve got a question for you. What’s the name of the hotel that just hired the French-trained chef?”

My face heated, and I couldn’t seem to breathe for several long seconds. “Uh…the uh…Olympian?”

“Yes! That’s it! I’ll add it to my list even though it’s not French. Oh, and you might want to contact the new chef and see if he’ll cater for us. I’ve heard he’s good.
Very. Good
.”

I almost spit out, “Oh he’s good, all right, really
really
good,” but bit my tongue until it hurt.
Contact the chef
. Yeah, I’d
contacted
him all right. Right down to his underwear. And everything inside it I’d sure like to see again.
Damn
. “Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

Suzy signed off, and I hung up the phone. My palms had broken out in a sweat, and my underwear was just as steamy. Work was supposed to have distracted me from my fantasies, not add fuel to the fire. I sighed, looked up the phone number to the hotel, wrote it on my desktop blotter, and stared at it, often and repeatedly throughout the day.

But I did not call it.

On Tuesday, I stared at the number.

On Wednesday I stared at the number. I swear to God the paper stared back at me. The damn thing may have laughed….

On Thursday, Chuck called us into his office and asked for an update. Suzy jumped up and rattled off a list of employees with foreign-sounding last names, noting who spoke what language and handed Chuck a vetted list of reputable French hotels and restaurants, before sauntering back to her seat with her black pleated skirt swinging, looking competent and superefficient.

Ben remained seated, ruffled his sandy-brown hair, and then launched into a diatribe—as all salesmen will do—about how terrible the competition is, and how they’d botch up this opportunity. When Chuck asked him to get to the point, Ben said he’d gleaned four or five suggestions for sealing a contract with a Frenchman:

1. Good wine, and plenty of it

2. Good food, and plenty of it

3. A superb atmosphere

4. Avoid talking about business during the meal

5. Bring up business over dessert and coffee and seal the deal.

“So…wine and dine them before putting the moves on them? In other words, treat them like a lover?” Chuck asked.

I inwardly groaned and slumped a little deeper in my chair.

Ben shrugged his shoulders, appearing perplexed. “I guess so. They seem to care more about food and wine than getting down to business.”

Chuck sat, twirling his wedding ring on his finger for the longest time. I wanted to slap him, wondering what the hell he could be thinking. The instructions seemed pretty clear to me. I mean, what’s not to like about people who desired food more than business?

At last he nodded and blurted a question in my general direction. “So what are we having for dessert?”

I started in my seat then fidgeted as I searched for an answer. I absolutely didn’t want to discuss dessert with my boss, now, or in the future. Hell, I’d been trying to avoid the topic entirely, unlike some of my body parts.

“It should be French,” Suzy put in.

“Of course,” Ben agreed.

Chuck stared at me, his eyes boring through my skull to the back of my head like he knew every little dirty secret about me and kept them in a file in his desk drawer locked so tight you needed 007 to get into the damn thing.

I squirmed in the chair. “I…um….” My brain chanted.
Don’t say cream puffs, don’t say cream puffs
, and it’s all I could do not to blurt it out and then run screaming from the room. “Was thinking about a soufflé. Chocolate soufflé?” I squeaked out in weak voice before my breathing gave out.

Chuck banged his fist on the table so loud the floor shook. “Excellent! Good work. And do we have the caterer lined up yet?”

“Um…yes, I….”

“It’s the pastry chef at the new hotel, right? The Olympian?” Suzy nodded at me in a most annoying fashion as she tried to save my ass.

“Yes. Uh-huh.” I nodded back, nodded to Chuck and even nodded at Ben. Everybody nodded back, smiling. My fate was sealed.

Holy crap
.

***

On Friday afternoon, exactly one week since I’d sauntered into the Olympian Hotel and all but raped the pastry chef while infused with super sugar powers, wearing a little black dress that still harbored a potent smell of sex and dessert though it had been dry cleaned at a reputable establishment, I returned to the scene of my disgrace. But I forced myself to open the Ford Escape’s door and hold my head high as I got out of the car and strolled across the parking lot. This was business after all. Perfectly professional. No reason to mention the other night….