All things Twilight are the sole property of the divine Stephenie Meyers. This fan fic is purely for entertainment with no other gain. No copyright infringement is intended. Think of it as an homage….
Hot Dish
Chapter 1. The Appetizer
"You know, Bella, if it's just a matter of skin, I could always fix you up with one of my friends."
"Thanks but no thanks, Mikey. I, ur, appreciate the concern, but I can't help thinking that I'm sort of lacking in areas that your friends find important!"
"Hon, a lot of them are just like that dining room door over there, they swing both ways!"
"Okay, let's say I'm not interested in a guy who looks better in a dress than I do!"
"Picky, picky."
Mikey pretended to grumble at my objections to his attempts to expedite my love life (or lack thereof) but we shared a friendly laugh over the situation. So often I felt it was a matter of laugh or cry. And I did truly value his concern.
Our wrangling stopped at the sound that my ears were always tuned for, the voice that made my heart (and other parts as well) give a little leap.
"Order in, Chef, last table."
"Thank you, Edward, I'm on it." I took the ticket from his long, graceful fingers.
"They want to pre-order the Drambuie soufflé for dessert."
Why, why had I put that damned soufflé on the menu on inventory night? Just one more hold up at the end of a long day. Oh, well, looking at the ticket, just this one table would make it possible to pay Edward's wages till the end of the week. I could always count on Edward to up sell.
Cold-smoked Trout Mousse and Avruga Caviar with Lavash
Coriander-scented Eggplant Bisque with Fried Besan Dumplings and Cilantro Cream.
... ... ...
Pan-seared Sea Bass with Ruby Grapefruit Beurre Blanc on Wasabi Mashers
Grilled Tandoori- spiced Lamb Tenderloin with Caramelized Onion Flan and a Trio of Homemade Chutneys
I sighed and forced my mind and hands to the task at hand. I plated up an order of the mousse as my sous chef, best friend and confidant, Mikey Newton, ladled a bowl of the soup.
Manys the time I had blessed, and cursed, whatever restaurant gods there were that had brought Edward Masen to the door of The Swan's Nest.
I'm Bella Swan, chef and proprietor.
Blessed, because this man with his musical voice, dreamy green eyes and tight ass, was the perfect head waiter, taking most of the dining room chores off my hands and leaving me free to pursue my passion: the food.
Cursed, because half a year of working closely with this paragon had me close to a frenzy of lust. Unrequited lust, at that, to all appearances.
To fulfill my ambition of being a chef, I had worked my ass off in a world hostile to women. I had refined my skills, arrived early, stayed late, and out guyed the guys when it came to raunchiness and trash talk.
However, popular TV programs aside, it is dispiritingly rare for a woman to become chef of a restaurant that she herself does not own - hence The Swan's Nest.
The first six months I had nearly killed myself with all the details necessary for even a tiny restaurant like mine to survive. Most nights had seen me almost too tired to drag myself up the stairs to my little apartment above the restaurant.
Between all the kitchen work and the front of the house operations, I had been at the point of giving up when fate brought Edward - tall, bronze-haired, feline-graceful Edward - to the rescue.
Previously, the combination of ambition and exhaustion had put my libido into a sort of hibernation. No more. Not only did Edward's efforts at the Nest give me more time to myself than I'd had in years, there was the E-Factor, the Edward-factor, itself.
I was quickly finding that all work and no play makes Bella a dull, frustrated, HORNY girl!
I spent a great deal of time covertly observing him, attracted, fascinated, maybe just a little…obsessed?
I had always felt rather apart from all the fuss about love and romance and sex, not to mention a bit smug at my imperviousness to what I saw as the monumental foolishness of such things.
Knowing the disdain with which women in general were treated in the culinary world I had early on made a strict 'no co-workers' rule. I had repelled all advances vehemently, earning myself the charming moniker "iron box", a not-so-pet name that had followed me around to different establishments.
Sure, I enjoyed a good sweaty roll in the hay as much as anybody. But most of my partners had been of the casual type, a shag friend rather than a real boyfriend or lover.
But I'd never had any man give me such a shot of adrenaline merely by walking into the room; a reaction that made my heart pound and my, well, certain areas, ache and burn with longing.
How could a man emanate such sex appeal, without seeming to mean it, or even be aware of it? He had this smell….
As a chef, my senses were highly refined: Edward's scent had nothing to do with colognes or body washes. That aroma of sunshine, lilacs and freshly baked sugar cookies was just him.
And I wanted to get closer to it. Much closer.
A sudden thought: could he smell me? Smell the state of almost constant arousal I felt when I was near him?
Growing up, I had been enthralled by cooking shows. On one of my favorites, re-runs of the original Great Chefs program, the Austrian-born narrator had waxed eloquent in her lavish descriptions of "de tsuckulent chusess" created by the products of the featured chefs. That phrase rolled around in my head whenever I spent more than a moment in Edward's presence. However, I didn't think these were the "chusess" referred to….
I often had the feeling that I was about to mimic the embarrassing over-erotic antics of my Siamese cat, Charlie, in estrus (Charlie is a girl): any second I would start yowling and rubbing the furniture.
We spent a lot of time together, often in very close proximity, going over schedules and expenses. We had an easy camaraderie going, typical for a small restaurant such as mine, but nothing else.
Reflecting on my previous philosophy of keeping my love life (what love life?) separate from my work, I wondered about the ethics of starting something with an employee. Ack! But, hell, we were both adults and who was going to rat me out? And to whom?
It had occurred to me that one of my problems with furthering my pursuit was because I honestly liked him. Enough to care what he thought of me afterwards, if there ever was an afterwards.
It wasn't as though he was exactly stand-offish; quite the contrary, he was pleasant, sexy, well educated, sexy, with refined sense of humor, and, well, sexy.
He was charming, courtly even, and dismayingly detached. He was in every way the perfect business associate - I just wished I could get him interested in my business.
Best of all, he loved my food.
Just watching Edward's mouth as he sucked in a tender lobster ravioli – with just a touch of fresh chervil - in saffron cream was almost enough to send me into a rendition of that ancient Divinyls tune 'I Touch Myself', complete with interpretative dance.
Inwardly, I cursed his impeccable table manners as he fastidiously dabbed a napkin at a stray droplet of sauce from the corner of his perfect mouth. My tongue had been slipping from between my lips, acting on my longing to lap that errant drop away.
The mental image of feeding Edward delicate slivers of pan-seared foie gras from my fingers was one of my favorite nighttime fantasies.
I paused mid-task to glance through the service window and appreciate the sight of Edward, all unaware, going about his duties.
In my mind, I dismissed the tailored black pants and immaculate white shirt, leaving only the black bistro apron. As he bent to the lower shelf of the wine rack to make his selection (hmm, Silver Oak Cab -go Edward!), my mind was filled with a dazzling vision of a chiseled ass behind, a substantial teepee in front.
I sometimes wondered if he was as impervious as he seemed. Once, as I stirred a dark roux – a lengthy and muscle-cramping process – he had come up behind me and started massaging my neck and shoulders, wonderfully. Those graceful hands of his were both strong and knowledgeable. I gave a little shiver and tried to suppress a moan as I contemplated how else I would like his hands to touch me….
Edward broke into this inspiring reverie, saying, "Wow, you're really tight, Chef, you need a proper massage!" Just as I was hoping he'd offer, he fumbled out the business card of his MT, saying that she was the best before walking off. Aargh!
I wondered idly if there was an analogous female phrase for 'cock blocked'? Twat caught?
At every turn, my crush (who'm I kidding - my letch) for Edward seemed thwarted. I was weary of the strain of denying my impulses to grab him by his perfectly knotted tie, pulling him into a lip lock and dragging him upstairs to my bed for a few rounds of playing hide the cannoli.
Fantasies were all very well, but I found myself at an impasse: all my years of work had not prepared me to approach, let alone seduce
I often thought over the collection of vibrators in the night stand drawer upstairs, drearily wondering which would be my 'date' for the night. Hmmm, the Superbe, the Liberté, or the Magnifique? I had studied French, of course, to further my culinary refinement; who knew the knowledge would come in so handy when selecting personal sex toys?
Mikey, who knew all about my love lornity (well, lust lornity) made anxiously helpful (he wished) suggestions. His desire to be of service was not only for my sake: he was open about trying to preserve the harmony of our little culinary domain from my increasingly frustrated bitchiness.
He was sympathetic as I mourned, sotto voce, "I must have lost it! I used to have it – what it takes to turn a man on! My parts are going to atrophy!"
This was when he made his charming offer to fix me up with some of his friends. HUH!
Tonight, tonight, I vowed would be different.
Inventory night. Just me and the dining room manager and a pair of clipboards. Generally, Mikey, as sous chef, helped me with this tedious but necessary chore; by prior arrangement he was 'busy' tonight, forcing me to ask Edward's assistance.
A couple of hours, no distractions caused by customers or employees, surely, surely, I could manage to get my message across. If I didn't get tongue-tied; or blush so hard I lost consciousness; or he didn't politely decline; or run away in horror or -.
Oh, God, I had to stop that train of thought! Focus, Bella, focus! Positive thinking and all that! He would be fondant in my hands!
The soufflé was sent out to sounds of delight audible even back in the kitchen and we went on with the nightly chores of break down and cleaning. Part way through the routine, Mikey beckoned me back to the tiny room that served me as an office as well as liquor and linen storage (it had a sturdy lock on the door).
With a smile of complicity on his face, he thrust a small bag into my hands and gave me firm instructions to run upstairs, clean up and put on the contents of the bag before starting inventory.
The bag was deep blue with a pattern of tiny gold stars; the words Chez Midnight were elegantly printed beneath the ribbon handles. I peeked inside, wrapped in scented light blue tissue I could discern the gleam of satin, oooh, and was that lace?
"This isn't, like, used, is it?" I whispered dubiously. "A hand-me-down?"
"Girlfriend! Does this look like something I'd wear?" he rejoined indignantly. I had to agree that it didn't. Mikey's taste was a bit more… flamboyant.
I whispered my thanks to my friend as he pushed me out the door.
A short time later as I returned to the kitchen, I felt an additional gratitude for Mikey's thoughtfulness: the knowledge of my secret finery beneath the (clean and sweat-free) kitchen whites I had donned after a hasty shower gave me a sense of optimistic power. I could feel myself walking with a slinky saunter that was different from my usual brisk stride.
I stepped out into the bar. The front-end staff was there, finishing side work and totaling out tickets, all guffawing over a joke with the punch line, "Ah! Lucky Pierre – always in ze middle!" told by Rosalie the bartender. An oldie, but a goodie, just like Rose herself.
Edward had also changed clothes, khakis (baggy and faded, with paint spatters; he even looked hot in rags!) and a worn black t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "Eat the Worm", a promotion for Mescal. Mmmmm.
"Can I get you anything, Chef, before we start? A drink?" Offered my intended seductee, with a pleasant smile. I found myself staring, hoping to discern a note of desire in the simple sentence.
"Uh, espresso would be great. Work before pleasure." I gargled out, almost panicking now that the moment was close at hand. Shit! What kind of a prig did that make me sound like?
Giving a sickly smile, I indicated that I would be in the kitchen and made my exit, inwardly giving myself a stern lecture about loosening up.
For starters, I took off my chef jacket, leaving me in the new bra and a wife beater. Maybe if I bent wa-ay over as if to pick something up off the floor….
We were going over dry goods in the storeroom, when Mikey, dressed for an evening out, leaned in to say good night.
"Great dress, Mikey, is it new?" I asked approvingly.
As part of my agreement with my sous chef, he was permitted to use my apartment to freshen up and change before sashaying out to the tranny clubs on that side of town.
"What? This old thing?" Mikey squealed coyly, twirling for inspection. I had to admit, he made a good-looking woman; he certainly looked more feminine than I did much of the time.
"It's open-mike night at the Hell Hole," he smirked, curtseying to our standing ovation before sweeping out into the night, glory-bent.
"Who is he tonight? That's a new one, right?" asked Edward with a chuckle. I had been glad to see from the start that Edward had little or no reaction to Mikey's… tendencies.
"Um, Lady Clitora Rubswell," I muttered with a blush. "Mikey says there's already too many Chers and Lizas – he prides himself on originality. Or should it be herself?"
Sometime later Edward and I were in the walk-in cooler; he was settled on the kitchen stool, clipboard in hand as we went down the list of product in use.
I reached up to the top shelf for a bucket of lemon curd. As I turned away from the shelf, Edward turned toward me on the stool, bringing his nose directly into my cleavage. My boobs were in his face.
My boobs were in Edward Masen's face!
We both froze. Edward moved first; without taking his face from between my breasts, he set down the clipboard and pen carefully on the shelf at his side. His hands slipped around behind me to my shoulder blades and he pressed my body into his face. I could feel his chest expand as he inhaled deeply and then his warm breath as he slowly exhaled.
Was it my imagination, or did he emit a little groan of…longing… desire… triumph?
My arms were still stretched over my head, bucket between my hands. Edward rose from the stool, drawing his nose slowly up my chest to my neck. He slid his hands up over my shoulders then glided them up my arms and relieved me of the sauce bucket, setting it back on the shelf.
Still standing pressed against me, he said softly, "You can put your arms down now, Chef." My response was to grip my hands in his hair (his hair!) and crash my mouth against his. Some how, without my willing it, my thigh ended up between his. I was pretty certain he didn't have a zucchini in his pocket.
I realized I was rubbing my split up and down his leg and making little high-pitched growly sounds as my tongue avidly explored the luscious mouth that consumed so many of my culinary delicacies. Astonished at my own forwardness, I pulled my face away from his to stare up at him, wide-eyed, my chest heaving.
"Good Lord, Chef, do you think I'm made of marble?" His hands were kneading my back and ass, while holding me tight against the straining hot muscle in his pants.
Some other woman's voice, the voice of some sultry-take-charge-hoyden of a woman, hissed commandingly, "Stop calling me 'Chef'! You can't fuck 'Chef'! Bella's the one you want."
Was this really me saying that? All my tongue-tied fumblings and commonplace utterings were a thing of the past; simply having Edward's hands on me seemed to give me a sexy confidence I not known before. Amazing, how I could jump from an embrace to the assumption that he wanted the same thing I did.
With a rumble in the back of his throat, he pressed his lips to the base of my neck and nibbled his way up to my ear where he murmured with a throaty chuckle, "Bella, Bellissima, my Beautiful One."
He bent over me and traced a line of fire down the nape of my neck with his lips. His hands, those large, graceful hands with their tapering fingers roamed my body in a way guaranteed to make me dizzy. One slid around between us to cup my breast, just holding it lightly as if to test the weight of it in his palm. His thumb flicked over the swelling nub and was joined by his forefinger, pinching and rolling, sending a shimmering wave of heat to my core.
The fingers of the other hand stole into the waistband of my baggy chef's pants, just running the tips under the elastic of my panties. Back and forth, skimming the very beginning of the swell of my ass, lightly caressing the fuck-me dimples, sliding tantalizingly into the separation of my cheeks.
He was driving me mad with these feather touches. And he knew it, somehow. Maybe it was the hoarse way I was panting.
Of their own accord, my hands pulled his t-shirt loose from where it was tucked into his khakis. I gave a strangled moan from the relief of finally running my hands over the smooth flesh of his back. Here and there a tiny irregularity, a mole or a scar, just made the tactile journey that much more rewarding.
"Do we really want to do this standing in the walk-in cooler?" Whispered my fantasy man. "It makes your nips stand up, but I'd like to think I can do that with out freon to help out."
GOD! Is there anything sexier than a man who can make jokes while he practically brings me off, fully clothed? Reluctantly, I pulled away, putting a minute distance between us. Even with an air gap, I could feel a tingle of the electric attraction he had for me.
Drawing a deep breath, I said faintly, "I'd invite you up to my place, but I don't think I can wait that long."
I stuck my fingers in a belt loop of his khakis, turned and pulled him behind me in to the warm, fragrant kitchen. I paused for a moment to flick off the overhead lights – just the bright red EXIT sign over the back door to provide a lurid mood lighting for our encounter.
Edward placed his hands on my hips and lightly lifted me, setting my on the maple block top of the prep table. In one motion he pulled the wife beater I was wearing over my head and tossed it aside.
Mentally, I blessed Mike and his forethought in making me go change. The shadow stripe ivory satin of the bra was seductive in the subtlest way, the delicate lace trim an invitation to explore…
Those gorgeous hands were doing that tit-weighing thing again, but I had to have more. I wove my fingers through that divine mop of bronze locks and pulled his head down, while thrusting up with my bosoms. No fool Edward. He pressed his mouth to me, rolling a hardened bud between his lips. He crushed my globes together, rubbing his face back and forth, giving each equal time.
"What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." I gasped out. He raised his face questioningly at my obscure reference. "It means, shuck out of that shirt. You shouldn't be more dressed than me."
With a flash of that crooked grin that made my heart melt (well, not just my heart), he complied. I heard myself give a tiny moan as if in pain.
He was beautiful. His skin was fair and clung firmly to the sleek definition of his pecs and abs. A little scattering of bronze hairs over his chest made me go all shaky with the urge to touch. Suiting action to thought, I ran my hands up from his waist to his shoulders, taking my time, absorbing every muscular ripple through my fingertips.
The red-brown of his nipples beckoned to me, I had to taste them. I smirked to myself at his hiss as my tongue flicked, then my teeth nipped.
With deft haste, he unfastened the bra and slid it from my arms. I crushed myself against him, reveling in the feel of flesh on flesh, as our lips met and our tongues fought and mingled.
I could feel his hands peel down the elastic on my work pants. Bracing my palms against the tabletop, I raised up my ass so he could pull them off. His thumb traced a line along my slit through the fragile fabric of my satin panties then dipped under the leg band and anointed itself with my slipperiness. At his touch a felt a vibration start at my center that radiated out, making my knees tremble and my nipples grow even harder.
Edward raised that hand, with its glistening thumb, passing it under his nose as if savoring the bouquet of a fine wine. Then he slid it into his mouth, closing his eyes the same rapt way he did when I tested a new dish on him.
Down came the panties and Edward sank to his knees between my legs. Placing a hand on either side of my quim, he smoothed my thighs wider apart so that I was completely exposed before him. He sat back on his heels for a moment and smiled his appreciation at the view, then he glanced up to my eyes and ran the tip of his tongue voluptuously over his lips in anticipation.
He drew a line from my knee with his tongue tip all the way to my now quivering snatch. Pressing his face into my most secret place he gave a long, wide-tongue lick from bottom to top, from taint to clit, slowly, then again. For all the world as if he were licking a spoonful of his favorite gelato.
My hips gave an involuntary shimmy: my body was crying out to him for orgasm, for release from this torment he was lavishing on me. My urgency seemed to inflame him for the pace of his attentions picked up. His fingers sought my opening while the other hand pulled back on my mound, completely baring my knot of pleasure to his questing mouth.
I threw my head back in abandon, stretching my arms wide to grip the upright supports of the pot rack that hung above us. My last coherent thought as he laid waste to my swollen pussy was, "Thank God the health inspector doesn't work nights!"
The pots and pans clanged together gently as I writhed under his increasingly frenzied exertions, the sound growing louder as I gasped and cried out in ecstasy, "Oh, holy shi-i-it, Edward! I need you to fuck me, fuck me now!" I screeched as my body crashed again and again over to the other side of my climax.
My heart was pounding and my breath still ragged as Edward abruptly stood, his eyes wild and his face gleaming from my juice. His khakis were gone in a trice and he stood before me, the muscular V of his torso ending at an upstanding edifice, a sculptured ionic column carved of rose granite. Except granite doesn't twitch and quiver.
The cock of a conqueror, ready to breech my walls.
He loomed over me; from deep in his throat came words that inflamed me, "I'm going to fuck you now, Bella, and you're going to love it." I nodded feverishly as he pressed the tip of his pulsating hard-on to my entrance-.
"Here's your coffee, Chef." Edward's friendly-but-cool voice awoke me from my reverie. The sound of the pots and pans striking together was from the Juan the dish man hanging the last of the sauté pans, trying to work around me as I lolled against the table.
Holy fucking crap, I thought, what a fantasy! How much did anyone see? My knees were still quaking from the force of the sensations that had gripped me only moments before. I hoped Edward would think that the flush I could feel staining my face was from the kitchen heat…of course he would, he couldn't know - could he?
It seemed to me that his gaze was knowing as I shakily took the demitasse from his hand and downed the scalding liquid like a shot.
"Y'know," I heard myself say, "Maybe a drink would hit the spot after all. A strong one."