Hot Dish
Chapter 2. The Mid Course
EPOV
"Uh, espresso would be great. Work before pleasure." Chef Bella blushed and gave me a guilty look before scurrying off to the kitchen.
Why guilty? I wondered.
Her reaction was a little…deflating. As mundane as inventory night was, the thought of a few hours alone with Bella gave the chore a certain glamour. I had high hopes for this evening.
Hopes that now seemed unfounded. Hadn't she just said, in as many words, that this evening was going to be all work? But wait a minute; she'd said something about pleasure, too. Right?
"Oh, come off it, Masen!" I told myself sternly, "Just because you walk around with a limp from your perpetual wood for this woman, doesn't mean she feels the same!"
I tried to keep my expression neutral in front of the staff as I turned to the Escomat® machine. I had done my best to conceal my attraction to Bella (my boss, gack!), but obviously I wasn't as much of an actor as I could wish: it seemed that everyone employed at The Swan's Nest knew of my hopeless crush.
Everyone but the object, that was.
And yet, I could have sworn there was a glow of… well, something in her eyes when I'd catch her looking my way at times. An expression in those gorgeous browns that told me there was more going on in her head than the strictly business-like contacts we had.
It was probably just as well that she couldn't read minds: if she'd known what was going on in my head she'd take after me with the big cleaver. Or else drop trou and jump me.
Yeah, right. There went Little Eddie, doing the thinking again! Amazing imagination. He kept grumbling that he was tired of his dates with Miss Rosie Palm and her five sisters. His preferences were embarrassingly evident.
Thank the-powers-that-be for bistro aprons, though many times I could have used one of those lead-lined jobs they put on you at the dentist: Little E usually did an Olympic quality pole vault whenever Chef entered the room.
Just how long can a guy live with blue balls? I seemed destined to find out.
Some months previously I had moved from Chicago to Seattle, with the intention of putting distance between an ex-girlfriend and me. I wasn't exactly crushed, things hadn't been good between us for a long time, but a change of location and a fresh start were welcome.
In the short while that I'd been in the North West I had hooked up a few times - plenty of hot ladies in the area - but, to be honest, the ol' libido had kind of stretched and yawned at the thought of a repeat performance with any of them. Not to disparage, there just wasn't any, well, magic happening.
I'd sort of knocked around for a couple of months, enjoying the newness and getting my bearings until economic reality had reared it's ugly head.
Selling one of my melodies gave me the right to call myself a composer, but the royalties weren't exactly pouring in. (One of the many problems with the ex.) Like so many people with creative ambitions I supported myself as a Food Service Professional. It had a lot of advantages, not the least of which were flexible hours, leaving me a decent amount of time to spend at the piano.
Acquaintance with other musicians, novelists, artists and actors in similar circumstances was another perk. The co-workers were always interesting. They made good connections, too: a friend of a friend of my agent had suggested The Swan's Nest for potential employment.
Bella Swan was considered one of the next generation of rising star chefs. One look around her little establishment and I was immediately impressed at the attention to detail. I knew the business well enough to tell that money had been tight for the start up, but I could also see that the funds had been allocated properly. The dining chairs were 'stylishly' mismatched but the wineglasses were top quality, thin and highly polished.
I hoped I didn't gape like too much of a jackass when the chef-owner came out to interview me. I had been expecting a much more formidable, diesel-y type of female. She was just a slip of a girl! Slim, fair-skinned with an appealing heart-shaped face and a kissable mouth with a full lower lip. And a perfect, teardrop-shaped –.
"Good God, Masen! Your mother tried to raise you to be a gentleman! You've barely met the woman and you're already mentally undressing her! Show some respect!" I scolded myself. The undressing in my mind had revealed nicely rounded -.
I yanked my filthy mind back to reality with a gulp; the Chef was probably thinking that I was a hopeless lecher.
Closer inspection (down, Eddie!) showed that she was a bit older than I had first thought, judging by the tired lines around her eyes and mouth. However, as she warmed to the topic of her dream restaurant and showed me around her little queendom, I found myself revising my impression of her age downward again: it was plain and simple weariness that caused those little lines in her face.
The restaurant business is a cannibalistic bitch: it will devour you mentally and physically. I was awed at what this young woman had been able to accomplish on her own - I love strong, resourceful women - but it was obvious that she needed help. I felt sure that I could… rise to the occasion.
I brutally forced myself to pay attention to the interview.
Now, I wasn't the sort to believe in love at first sight - that sounded like a teen romance novel - but there was something about Bella Swan…. Her smell, maybe?
Whatever it was had reached out and grabbed me by the hojos and it wasn't letting go.
The confiding way that Bella looked up at me as she offered me the position of headwaiter and dining room manager sent a charge straight to my loins. I almost flinched in my effort to control the urge to pull her into my arms. I wanted to kiss away the little worried line between her brows, brush my lips over her eyelids, nibble at her earlobe and work that little pulse point at the corner of her jaw…
Fuck. I was hard. The libido was definitely back on duty.
In spite of myself, it seemed, I walked away an employed man. An employed man with an apparently never-ending erection for the boss. What a deal! Here I was, getting paid to work closely with a woman who aroused me like no one else ever had.
And there the matter stayed.
It amazed me at times that I managed to get any work done at all as fantasies of Chef Bella haunted me day and night.
Fantasies as simple as Bella preparing a special meal just for me, in an apron and nothing else. Hardly original, but the enticing way her boobs jiggled as she energetically whipped a Sauce Maltaise turned such a trite imagining into soft core porn.
Or a late night meeting in her tiny, crowded office that ended with me in the desk chair, a naked Bella straddled across my body, riding me like a jockey. The chair creaked, Bella squeaked, I groaned.
The ultimate: Chef stretched out on the prep table as I decorated her nude body with sauces from the dessert cooler. Fingerprint swirls of crème anglaise, ziggles of caramel and chocolate sauce from squeezie bottles, Pollock-like splashes of raspberry coulis. Her nips stood up in my masterpiece like pretty pink cherries for garnish.
Naturally, this last invention involved a lot of tasting and licking, from both of us: much of my artwork would be transferred to my body as I drove Little Eddie home into her sweet, warm….
I was spending a lot of time in the shower these days. Shaking hands with the man, so to speak.
Being so flummoxed by a woman was an experience I hadn't had for years, yet a glance and a smile was all it took to turn me into a stammering adolescent, and one with a raging rod-on at that. The harder I tried to impress her the more I made an ass of myself. Often I took refuge in a certain formality of manner, as if I were addressing a table of VIP customers; it was either that or babbling like an idiot.
This I attributed this to fluctuations in blood-flow to the brain. Could long-term circulation or cognition problems result from these near-constant interruptions in oxygen supply?
Watching her work was a turn-on of its own. Experts are always fascinating, but what intrigued me most were Bella's hands: they were small, but very strong and deft in their never-ending labors. The thought of other tasks those small strong hands could engage in was enough to make me forget whatever errand had brought me to the kitchen in the first place.
I frequently pondered the notion of wearing a cup to work; preferably one made of titanium.
Often it seemed as if she was making love to me through the medium of her food, only to turn around and fuck with my mind by her distant professionalism.
The impassioned glow of her face when she presented a new dish was damn near irresistible, as was the adorable way she bit that deliciously full lower lip as she awaited my response.
She would set the plate in front of me with an air of anticipation… and challenge.
It became a matter of pride to search my taste memory for the perfect beverage to accompany her creations.
Grilled Portobello stuffed with Wild Boar Boudin, drizzled with a Port reduction Demi-glace, topped with Fried Leek Threads
I took a bite, and involuntarily closed my eyes in an extremity of pleasure. The mildly gamey-sweet flavor of the boar, the earthiness of the mushroom, the delicate oniony crunch of the leeks and the intensity of the sparingly applied sauce. Surely, such sensuality couldn't be limited to her cooking. The instincts that could combine such a wealth of taste and textures had to have other applications.
Eyes still closed, I murmured, "How about, um, an Argentine Malbec? The Bodega de Silva '06?"
The little "Ahhh!" of satisfaction she gave was a reward in itself. A reward that sent my mind along a familiar route…. With a guilty start, I glanced down at my lap; was it my imagination, or was my table napkin moving?
Even my time at the piano, doing my real work, was disrupted, tormented, inspired by visions of Bella – at the stove; sipping a glass of wine; in my bed, red-brown hair tumbled over the sheets as she looked up at me, her eyes hazed with desire…. Yes, tormented was a good word.
Admittedly though, the composition that had flowed from my fingers as I let my mind wander over the way the little hairs grew on the back of her delicate neck –and the way I would like to nibble that neck - was one of my best. I might even be able to work it into something saleable. Not that I had any motivation for moving on from The Swan's Nest.
Sometimes I found myself wishing that Costco carried Astroglide in, say, a half-gallon pump dispenser.
So – inventory night. It wasn't much, but I was getting so desperate with thwarted lust that I was determined that tonight, one way or another, something would happen.
The rest of the staff finished up their side jobs, donned coats and departed. Rosalie the bartender gave me a conspiratorial smile as she left, whispering, "I put a pitcher of my special Knock-You-Naked margaritas here in the cooler. Use them wisely."
How thoughtful.
The restaurant was deserted now, with only the background sounds of the numerous pieces of equipment. I ground the espresso beans, my mind wandering, again, to thoughts of the best approach to take with Chef….
I jumped at the soft voice in my ear. Bella's voice. "You don't know how long I've waited for this."
Slender arms wrapped around me from behind. Tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence, the small, strong hands roamed up my chest, caressing and exploring. Her head rested against my back as she gave a tiny whimpering sigh of… longing?
"I don't know why I've never told you how attracted I am to you," she said with a rueful little chuckle. "I just could never find the words, somehow, or the right time – so I think I better show you."
The sensation of her warm breath through my t-shirt sent a chill up my spine; the soft touch of her lips against the thin fabric almost stopped my heart.
Her fingers lightly raked down my chest then insinuated themselves into my baggy khakis – pants I had particularly chosen for their loose fit, just in case any issues came up. But there wasn't any hiding my response to Bella's touch as slowly and tantalizingly she smoothed her palms down my thighs.
For the return trip, she curved her fingers and gently dragged her nails over my flesh, causing every hair on my body to stand up as if electrified. Those hands! Subtle, knowledgeable, searching; almost, but not quite, touching where my body screamed for her attention.
Little Eddie stood up like the Space Needle.
A little groan of protest erupted from me as she removed her hands from their increasingly snug enclosure. She circled around to face me; she stood on tiptoe as one arm went around my neck. It seemed like I would drown in the brown of her eyes as she pulled my head down to kiss her.
At last I could explore that lusciously full lower lip that had tempted me since the first time I met her. I gave a gasp like a starving man who is suddenly filled as I sucked that lip gently into my mouth and felt her tongue seeking mine.
It didn't stop with a kiss. Her free hand found one of mine and placed it on her breast, squeezing as if to encourage me. Like I needed encouragement! It filled my hand perfectly, the nipple hard and pert under my thumb.
The woman of my dreams was kissing me, sighing low in her throat, grinding her hips against my swollen, throbbing junk. Life doesn't get much better.
But get better it did.
That little hand slid back into my khakis, seeking and caressing, but not recognizing any boundaries this time: she had a thorough grasp of matters. We both moaned simultaneously into each other's mouths as she gripped the third party to our encounter.
The pressure of her fingers and palm wrapped around my cock was firm, but not too tight, as they slid along my rock hard heat. Her thumb moved round and around the head, then made little circles -oh, yeah - right on the sweet spot.
"Edward," she whispered, "I've wanted you so much, ever since that day you interviewed – couldn't you tell?"
The arm that was around my neck released me, to snake down my chest to the button of my pants. A couple of deft moves and the khakis, and boxers, were being shoved down my legs. Bella (dear God!) dropped lightly to her knees.
My dick practically leaped as she held it to her cheek and rolled it with a light touch of her palm. There was a mischievous smirk on her lips, which parted lusciously as, eyes closed, her lovely tongue made a long, slow, zigzagging lap up the length of my shaft from balls to tip.
How could this be happening? This was like something from my morning shower fantasies. I'd never even tried to get to first base with Bella, and here she was, greeting Little Eddie like a long lost friend, first with a handshake, then with a much-more-than-friendly kiss.
This wasn't at all the way I had planned things, but I couldn't bring myself to fight it.
"Mmmphalamph," issued eloquently from my mouth. Once again this woman had rendered me speechless. I wanted to express my pleasure – damn, I needed another, stronger, word for pleasure - at her actions. I wanted to tell her of my desire for her, how her beauty and very being turned me on.
How I wanted to fuck her blind.
I leaned my head back, panting hoarsely. Through slitted eyes I looked down at Bella's face, noting the flush on her fair skin and the look of focused attention she wore.
Her lips, deeply pink from their exertions, were working my cock like a virtuoso flautist as her fingers ran arpeggio up and down my length. She hummed her own enjoyment; the vibration was almost my undoing.
She sucked Little E into her mouth, tongue swirling in the ultimate Hoover action. My fingers clutched her hair as the muscles in my groin tightened and my legs trembled and stiffened.
"Ah, guh, Bella, I going to – going to… unh!"
I was about to blow like Mount Saint Helens.
PPhhsssstt!
The espresso machine spit scalding water and coffee grounds over my fingers; in my abstraction I must not have locked the cams on the filter holder properly. My fantasy, and my erection, evaporated like the steam from the milk frothing attachment. Quickly, I cleaned up the mess and started over.
How was I going to face Bella with the memory of that whirling around in my
fevered mind?
Demitasse in hand, I entered the kitchen. Chef was half reclining over the big prep table, braced on her hands, head back, eyes closed. Her expression was a portrait of rapt concentration.
I swallowed hard. It was the face that I hoped to see some day from the vantage point of her crotch.
What the fuck was the matter with me? Why didn't I tell her that I wanted her? Take her in my arms and coax that look of rapture with my hands and mouth. Watch the rapture turn to ecstasy, hear her moan my name, feel her little hands clawing my back as she begged for more… My ever-ready cock gave a jump to let me know its willingness for such an endeavor.
As usual, however, I was as tongue-tied as some fucktarded high school kid. "Here's your coffee, Chef."
Bella's eyes blinked open, she stared at me as if surprised to see me here. Obviously her thoughts had been a million miles away. Why was she blushing?
She took the tiny cup from my hand and tossed back the steaming contents like a shot.
"Y'know," she said, a little hoarsely, "maybe a drink would hit the spot after all. A strong one."
I turned on my heel and nearly ran back to the bar. Would she think it odd if I served a margarita in, say, a salt-rimmed wine bucket? Not that I considered, or approved of, seducing a drunken woman, where was the satisfaction in that? But a drink, or three, might make the approach easier…for me as well for as my intended seductee.
Carrying one of Rosalie's special ritas in either hand (I had finally settled on using 20 ounce mixer glasses) I returned to the kitchen.
My mouth went dry. Bella had removed her chef's jacket. The thin cotton of her undershirt clung deliciously to her slim yet rounded-in-the-right-places body.
The pencil fell from her hand; she bent over to pick it up.
Oh, yeah! Over the top edge of the wife beater she wore, I could see the weight of her boobs filling the cups of her bra, and the delectable parting between them. I almost whimpered at the thought of burying my face between those luscious orbs. Bbbrrrr!
Was it my imagination, or was her face just a little too innocent as she straightened up?
Smiling her thanks for the rita, Bella said, coolly, "Shall we get started?"
Rationally, I knew that nothing had really passed between us, but it was… disconcerting, to say the least, to be treated in such an off-hand manner. After the surprise and gratification of – something that HAD NOT EVEN FUCKING HAPPENED, you pathetic, testicle-twisted wanker!
I had to pull myself together! I was almost sickened by my own wanting and frustration; I retreated, again, into formal professionalism.
The next thirty minutes passed in serene and courteous uneventfulness, broken only by a brief appearance from Mikey, dressed to impress. S/he gave me a meaningful glare before making a sweeping exit.
He did look pretty hot.
Shit. Was I pitiful or what?
At length, we moved into the walk-in cooler. I made notations on the clipboard as Bella called out amounts of product in use.
"Mmm, lemon curd, I love this stuff," she remarked. "Uh, two quarts – minus a taste or two."
Grinning impishly, the object of my desire dipped a finger into the soft yellow mass and scooped up a glob of the confection. Her eyes closed as the finger went into her mouth.
I licked my own lips in lustful agony.
"Care for some?" Bella asked brightly, holding out the bucket to me. I wished with all my…heart that she would offer me the same 'spoon' she had used.
I blinked.
There seemed to be a sudden shift in reality. My breath froze in my lungs and I became aware of a buzzing sound in my head. I took a dab of the lemon curd on my index finger – and seemingly without volition raised my hand to Bella's face, gently smearing it over her mouth.
Do. Not. Pass. Out. I ordered myself sternly as I bent my head and licked the tart sweetness from her lips. Lips that parted willingly under mine.
Not just willingly - eagerly, passionately. Our mouths didn't separate by so much as a micron as I took the bucket from her hands and blindly set it aside; it could have fallen to the floor for all the care I took.
She wove the fingers of one hand into my hair as our mouths frantically explored one another. The other hand gathered a fistful of my t-shirt, pulling me tight against her.
My newest erection might have been the first ever as her slender thigh slid between mine. I couldn't hold back a deep-seated groan of mingled relief and delight, as I filled my hands with that luscious teardrop-shaped ass and drew her hips closer still.
Abruptly, Bella disengaged and pulled back, panting slightly and looking anxiously at me.
Anxiously?
"Th-this isn't just a, um, a fantasy, or a dream or something, is it? It's really happening?" She breathlessly waited my response.
There was only one answer to a question like that.
Anyway, I needed to make certain for myself.