Saffron Threads

[AndyGoat]

(closed for SecretEpiphany)

“You're saying there's no way out of doing the damn interview?” Alex snapped. He was a bearish sort of man, standing just a hair under 6'4”, and a wide frame. He had the body shape that a life of rich food and intense activity had given him, solidly muscled, but with a little cushion. Like a bear, he looked at first glance to be all brute strength and no finesse, and like a bear, he was surprisingly quick, and was capable of a delicacy that seemed entirely out of place for a person as big as he was.

“There's no way,” Tom had been a good friend for a long time. “You knew this was going to happen.”

“Alex, relax. It's been twelve years.” Twelve years since La Langue Francaise had closed its doors for the last time. Alex had been 27 at the time, and had dreamed of opening his own restaurant his whole life. A native of Sonoma, descended from generations of lawyers, he had burned a lot of bridges when he went to culinary school in Paris instead of Berkeley pre-law.

After graduating, he had returned to the Bay Area had cultivated his reputation, working with some of the finest chefs around for a few years, and in 1997 had set out to create the most romantic restaurant in the world. It had been a wildly ambitious project, but his confidence had won him the financial backing he needed to make his dream a reality. The first blow had been a brutal review by a new food critic at the Chronicle, and the promise of the opening had turned to ashes. It had taken six months for his dream to bleed out.

Tom had taken a huge financial blow, but it had been Alex's dream. He had spent a few months in the bottom of a bottle, before the few friends who still stuck with him pulled him out. There was a restaurant in Milan that needed a sous-chef, and someone knew someone, and he went back to work. A couple of years in Europe, moving ever eastward, had led to his break, when a party of Arabs were so impressed with his chilled mezze musaqqa, that they created a restaurant for him at a hotel in Dubai.

It was his dream come true in many ways, he had investors and clientele with seemingly bottomless pockets, and there seemed no limit to what he could do. The Desert Hyacinth Hotel was known for an extreme of luxury unmatched in the world, and Alexander's was the culinary side of the equation. But after almost a decade, he found that he missed home.

The Arabs thought it seemed like a good investment, and Alex began working his connections in California, and a year later, Saffron Threads was ready to open. This time, he knew he had the talent and the backing. The staff had been chosen carefully, word had been carefully spread, and it seemed that all was going, and then the marketing manager had told him that he would be interviewed by the woman who had written the review that had blasted La Langue Francaise.

“She called me 'a child whose talent was obscured by his arrogance,' and I'm supposed to make nice?” he muttered.

Tom nodded. “Wasn't the 'Hallmark Valentine's Day Card of French cuisine,' line the kill shot. You don't want to be doing that Julia Childs, Cordon-Bleu crap anyway, do you?”

Alex glowered and poured the rest of the wine into his glass. He stood to get another bottle, but Tom put a hand on his arm, shaking his head. They glared at each other for a moment before Alex sighed and sat down. Tom was right, he didn't want to be hungover tomorrow.

“Seriously,” Alex said, “What am I supposed to say if she asks about La Langue Francaise?”

“Say she was right. Say you were young and cocky. Tell her the only thing Americans like better than seeing someone fail, is seeing them recover from failure and come back stronger than they were. She's going to do a story, it can either be about how you're a whiny princess who's still holding onto this shit after 12 years, or about how you've matured and become the brilliant chef you were always meant to be.”

“I don't want her anywhere near me til we close. Then I'll deal with her.”

“No problem. I'll kick back with her at the bar.”

“Yeah, get her drunk.”

“So you can take advantage of her?” Tom wise-cracked.

“Go home," Alex laughed, rolling his eyes.

“You gonna get some sleep?”

“Yeah, I just want to check a couple of things, quickly.”

After Tommy left, Alex went into his office. Tommy had given him a dangerous idea. In the back of the safe was a small ceramic jar he had brought back with him from Dubai. It was sealed tight, but even so, he could detect the mild scent of the saffron in the jar. It wasn't just any saffron, though, but a particular strain unique to a particular valley somewhere in Bhutan, if he believed what he'd been told. He had paid an absurd amount of money for the unique spice, having seen first hand that it was a powerful aphrodisiac. Just the scent in the air was enough to arouse him. He smiled thoughtfully.

Maybe he'd make the bitch something special.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

“Not that you ever take your friends’ opinions into consideration when you’re writing your articles,” Maria said with a roll of her eyes, “But this food is amazing.” She devoured another bite of lamb. “I’m not even that big a fan of Indian food, but oh-my-god this is so good.”

Evie Thurgood shot her friend her signature cynical look and took a sip of wine. “I always take the experiences of my friends into account when I’m writing. If I didn’t, then why would I bring you?”

Maria shrugged. “So people don’t look at you suspiciously for always eating out alone? Wondering what’s wrong with the beautiful woman with the perpetual sneer who apparently can’t get a date?”

“Stop it,” Evie said with a laugh, showing no outward sign that her friend’s comments had hit a raw nerve. “I don’t sugar coat my opinions. I’ve built my reputation on being a bitch of a reviewer and it’s way too late in the game to change now. I kind of like being successful, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m not questioning your success or the methods you’ve used to get it,” Maria said quietly, much more serious now.

“But?” Evie asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “A statement like that has to be followed by a ‘but.’ Let’s hear it.”

“But... I do question your happiness sometimes. Having a successful career and being a happy person don’t always go hand in hand, and the bitchy persona you use for your job never seems to turn off anymore. Even when you’re not working. Even when it’s just a small group of old friends hanging out at home. When we went to Julie’s for a girl’s night a few days ago, you told Julie—our friend the accountant who doesn’t claim any culinary expertise—that her crab dip had shallow flavors and so much salt that the crab probably died of dehydration before the boiling water killed him. She didn’t say anything, but you hurt her feelings, Evie. It’s one thing to talk to chefs you don’t really know like that, but we’re your friends. We used to see the real you—the fun Evie, the Evie who could relax and have a good time, but lately… Bitchy Writer Evie seems to be the only Evie left.” Maria set down her fork and leaned back in her chair, mimicking Evie’s crossed arm position. “There. I said it. Now go ahead and blast me with some hateful words. I’m ready for it.”

Hateful words did spring to mind—an automatic defense mechanism, but she swallowed them along with the surge of tears that suddenly threatened to spill out. She tossed her thick, dark hair over her shoulder and picked up her fork again, eating the cucumber yogurt salad that was supposed to cool the palate after the slow burn of the spices in the lamb. It didn’t cool the burn of indignation and resentment though.

Maria was right, and that was what stung the most. But here at Saffron Threads, Chef Alex Garret’s new Indian-American fusion restaurant, wasn’t the place for this discussion. She couldn’t get emotional. She was working. This was business. She had an interview to conduct after the meal.

“I’m not going to blast you with words,” Evie finally said, a distinctive chill in her voice. “But I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m here to write an article; therefore, Bitchy Writer Evie is working. If you don’t want to hang out with her, then you can leave after the meal and I’ll stay and do the kitchen tour and interview alone. I can catch a cab when I’m ready to go.”

“Fine,” Maria said, grabbing her purse. “I know you’re pissed off at me, but somebody had to give you the harsh truth. You can dish out the ugly criticism all day long, but you sure don’t take it very well. Sometimes “un-sugar-coated opinions” hurt, Evie. And if you’re going to offer them so freely, you really need to understand that. I’m telling you that because I’m your friend, not because I have a bitchy reputation. Thanks for dinner.”

Evie watched her walk away and downed the rest of her wine in two big gulps. A waiter instantly appeared to refill her glass. She couldn’t complain about the service, that was for sure. “Thanks,” she murmured as he walked away, leaving her alone.

She finished her salad and nursed her wine until the table was cleared. Mentally, she was writing her article—trying to write her article. Maria’s words kept creeping into her thoughts and interfering. Evie did not want to dwell on personal issues. Yes, she was bitchy most of the time. Yes, she was lonely. Yes, sometimes she hated the isolation that came with her job. Add to all that the fact that she hadn’t had a relationship, or even a real date, in ages, and her life in reality didn’t look nearly as successful as her life on paper.

She didn’t even notice that Tom had slid into Maria’s seat until he spoke to her. “I can only hope that the food has left you in a euphoric daze and that’s why you haven’t noticed me,” he joked.

She grinned and set down her wine. “I will admit that the food was well executed, Tom. Chef Garret must have learned a thing or two in the last decade. Listen, my friend had to leave,” She glanced at her watch and shifted restlessly in her chair. “I know the kitchen’s not closed yet, but you can take me back there. I want to see the hustle and bustle, and if I’ve already seen the kitchen before closing then everybody can get out of here that much earlier. Quick interview and we’re done.” She needed him to agree to this because sitting and waiting was going to drive her insane. The faster she could get her article information, the faster she could go home and cry.

Tom shook his head, and even a few Bitchy Evie comments and narrow-eyed glares couldn’t sway him. Irritated, she followed him to the bar and started on yet another glass of wine.

“I promise it’ll be worth your wait, Evie,” Tom said, trying to sooth her. “Alex is even going to make you a special dessert—a new recipe he came up with just last night. You can be his tasting guinea pig during the interview. And chatting it up with me for a little while won’t be so bad, will it?”

She sighed and took another sip of wine.

 

[AndyGoat]

The night went better than he had dared to hope. The advertising had worked as well as Tom had said it would, and when the doors opened at 6, the place quickly filled. The staff they had so painstakingly recruited showed themselves to be worth all the time and energy spent collecting them, and things went remarkably smoothly. When they began turning over some tables for the second time, Alex retired from the kitchen to his office for a moment, confident that his staff had things well in hand.

The night before, the idea had come to him for a beautiful, elaborate dessert, one in keeping with his new style, but reminiscent of what he had attempted at his other restaurant. He had opened his safe, and used tweezers to take out a single strand of the golden saffron from the jar he kept hidden there. It would be enough. He whipped the thread of saffron into a mousse, sweetened with honey that had been infused with rose petals. He had lined a martini glass with fresh rose petals and put the mousse in the fridge to set overnight.

Until that moment, he had been undecided whether or not he would follow through on his plan, and he was still uncertain whether he would actually seduce her. He had no doubt that he would enjoy watching her squirm with lust as she attempted to interview him, though. The idea of it pleased him so much that he found himself actually looking forward to meeting her. When Tommy peeked in to tell him that she was here, he was tempted to come and greet her at her table while she ate, but he restrained himself.

The last hour or so seemed to crawl, and the second round of tables seated were people who would linger over coffee and digestifs, but once they had eaten, the closing routine began, as each station began to shut down, put things away and clean. It would be an hour at least before the last of the staff went home, but that could be time well spent, he thought. He took his specially prepared mousse from the fridge and uncovered it, taking the gentlest sniff to make sure that no other odors had tainted it, and set it on a tray.

Tommy had let him know which table she was at, and he knew that she had eaten well, choosing some of the more challenging dishes as well as a few standards. It didn't matter, he had every confidence in the food his kitchen had prepared. He knew that her reputation would demand some sort of scathing critique, but he was confident that whatever she found to harp on would be something trivial. Noone ever got a positive review from Evie Thurgood, after all.

He carried the tray with the martini glass out to the bar, where a couple was gazing into each other's eyes and sipping cocktails. They were drunk on liquor or love, or a bit of both most likely, he thought. Then he saw Tommy wave, and he took just a moment to observe his enemy as she turned to look at him. Just an ordinary woman, he thought, with a posture and wardrobe that stylishly proclaimed her frigidity. It was a shame, he thought, because she looked to have a decent figure, at least from here.

He smiled brightly at the thought of that nicely curvey figure squirming with desire. Tommy looked relieved, probably had been expecting Alex to come out scowling and sullen. Alex chuckled and gave Tommy a wink. He knew he could be a pain in the ass, Tommy had told him so often enough, but this time, he was doing the right thing.

“Miss … it is Miss, yes? ... Thurgood,” he said, setting the glass with the decadent confection in front of her. “We've never been introduced. I'm Alex Garret. I hope you've enjoyed yourself this evening. Anything that Tommy told you about my childhood is a lie, I swear. I made this little mousse last night, and I hoped that you would try it for me, and tell me if you think it needs anything. That'll give us a few minutes to chat, off the record, and then I can show you around the kitchen and answer any questions you might have.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down, opening the top button of his shirt. Tommy gave him a questioning look, but Alex gave a nod, and Tommy stood, excusing himself. When he had gone, Alex turned to the bitch and smiled.

“So, here we are at last.”

 

[SecretEpiphany]

“Yes, at last.” Evie gave her wristwatch a pointed look. “Tom was quite adamant that I sit out here and chit-chat instead of seeing the kitchen earlier, despite my argument that we could all get out of here faster if I could just go ahead and take a quick peek. I’m not sure when he got so stubborn. I don’t know him well, but in all our previous encounters, he’s made every effort to keep me happy. I hate being told no. And it always makes me suspicious when a chef won’t let me in the kitchen while food is being prepared, but that’s enough about me and what I want.”

She gave him a sweet smile that completely contradicted her implication that he had something to hide. “You want me to try your dessert, so let’s focus on that.”

She slid the martini glass in front of her and took the spoon he offered. “It’s beautifully presented,” she admitted, watching his face for a reaction. So far, he’d been unflappable, which was impressive. A lot of chefs she encountered either fell all over themselves trying to please her or cut her cold, determined to match her bitchiness with their own disdain.

Alex Garret seemed to be in a ridiculously good mood. He’d had the same goofy grin on his face since he’d walked over, and even her thinly veiled sarcasm hadn’t been able to dislodge it. She vaguely remembered the review she’d written about his last American restaurant attempt—some French place. That was years and years ago. The food must not have been very good though, or she would have remembered it. The food tonight had been good. Maria’s ooohing and aaahing hadn’t been too far off, not that Evie would ever openly oooh and aaah about food. But the guy really could cook.

“What do you call it?” she asked, lifting the glass to her nose and breathing deeply.

Whoa.

That was… strange. She glanced at her wine glass. How many had she had? All of a sudden she felt warm. And a little…tingly? The smell was sweet, exotic, floral. Not bad, definitely not bad, but it was kind of…dizzying? What was wrong with her? She didn’t flounder for words. And God, it was hot in here. She shifted her position on the barstool and dipped her spoon into the mousse.

 

[AndyGoat]

His smile faltered for a moment when she asked what he called the dessert. It wasn't really something he had given much thought to. He had never really intended to sell it, really. The soft pink and white was entirely too much of what La Langue had been, visually, though the flavors were a move forward. Only a moment, and then he shrugged. From the way she was acting, she didn't seem to remember who he had been.

"I have a confession to make, Miss Thurgood," he glanced down at the glass in front of her. She still hadn't touched the spoon. "I just came up with this last night, and I hadn't really thought of what to call it. I admit, I had sort of hoped you might do the me the honor. Being a renowned wordsmith, I'm sure you could find a name that captured the essence of the thing. Though it may not be acidic enough for you to really do your thing."

He winked at her, leaning forward conspiratorially. He looked at the table cloth, a fine natural linen color that offset the rich golds of the service nicely. He licked his lips, wondering if the exotic spice was starting to thaw her yet. She was definitely distracted, which was a good start. Considering she hadn't yet had a taste, actually, he wondered if there might be something else on her mind. It wasn't going to be as fun if she were distracted, he realized.

"I hope you won't blame Tommy for keeping you out of my hair," he said. "I insisted. I figured that you're going to go for the throat no matter what, so there was no particular reason for me to inconvenience myself, and I prefer to work without being watched by such a famously captious eye. I'm sure other chefs prefer to get an interview with you over as soon as possible, but I'd rather take my time, make sure you get the whole story. I'm not keeping you from anyone important, I hope?"

He looked away then, catching the eye of the sous-chef as he headed out. The kitchen was empty. The last customers had just made their way into the night and the waitstaff was finishing things up in the dining room. He smiled as he watched her bring the spoon to her lips. They were nice lips, he thought to himself. He decided, as she drew the spoon back out of her lips, that she might thaw out a little after all. His eyes dropped to her figure for a moment and he smiled. As near as he could tell, she was just his type.

He gestured towards her dish. "Finish, and then I can give you the grand tour."

 

[SecretEpiphany]

He wanted her to name his dessert? She was a little flattered, even though she recognized the comment as some pretty blatant brown nosing. Or was it? He seemed almost snide about it, like he knew something she didn’t. She smiled without saying anything else about it.

He leaned in close as she took a bite of the dessert. It was cool on her tongue, sweet and light, yet creamy and rich at the same time. Alex was saying something about Tommy, she wasn’t sure what. She closed her eyes as she savored the bite—it was so good, it left her a little flustered.

“I'm not keeping you from anyone important, I hope?" he asked.

She pulled the spoon out of her mouth and shook her head. “No, of course not. Why would you think so?” She scooped up another big bite of dessert and put it in her mouth.

He smiled and looked her up and down as she ate. Was he checking her out? That was crazy. Chefs hated her. Well, they hated what she wrote about them; therefore, they hated her by association. Which wasn’t really fair because she was a nice, likeable person deep down. Or she used to be, anyway.

Alex was still staring at her, at her lips now. She licked them and shifted on her stool again. How had it gotten so hot in here so fast? She left the spoon in the half eaten mousse and pressed her hand to her neck and the exposed skin of her chest above the conservative neckline of her blouse. She was so warm, but she had an interview to do. She should be using this time to ask questions. What was wrong with her?

She rummaged in her purse for her notebook and laid it beside her dessert. “I’m sure I’m wasting your time. Do you want to go ahead and start the interview?”

He gestured towards her dish. "Finish, and then I can give you the grand tour."

“Well, okay. If you’re sure you have plenty of time…” He had big hands, strong hands, with thick, long fingers. She picked up her spoon and took another bite. He was big all over—at least everywhere she could see. Tall. She liked tall men. At 5’8, she was tall for a woman and hated feeling like a giant standing next to a man, but she doubted many people could feel like giants next to Alex Garret. He was big too—strong, muscular, but not leanly athletic.

He was wearing a white chef’s coat with black trim and jeans. The jeans were a nice touch—and they told her something about his personality. Nobody would come to dine in his restaurant in jeans, but he wore them in the kitchen. She liked it. She liked his style, his looks, his food. Definitely his food. Alex Garret was an attractive man.

She smiled at him and absentmindedly twisted a long, dark strand of hair around a finger as she held the last bite of mousse in front of her mouth. “I almost don’t want to eat this last bite.” She sniffed the creamy pudding on her spoon. “It’s too good, and once I eat this, dessert will be over.”

 

[AndyGoat]

Alex grinned, knowing he probably looked a little foolish, but it was unexpected. After all, here was the woman who never had anything good to say about anything she ate. At least, not in print, he reminded himself. Let her sleep on it, and he expected it would sour in her memory into something truly unappealing. Hell, maybe she liked all sorts of things, and just a bitch professionally. He'd known people like that, before, and in some ways, it seemed worse to him. Some people just couldn't help being assholes.

"Thank you," he said. "I hope you'll remember that feeling when you sit down to say nasty things about us. And please take your time. I'm actually still toying with the idea of spending the night here. Since I got back to the states, I've been here so much, my apartment still feels like a hotel room."

He watched her finish the mousse, a smile spreading on his face. She was not the confrontational, challenging critic Tommy had tried to coach him for. She was giving him doe-eyes, wide open, so pale blue they seemed grey, and playing with her hair. He grinned. His love life was another thing that had been neglected since he had come back to the states, and even if she was only flirting because of the saffron, it was still nice.

He took a deep breath and stood up, unbuttoning the jacket, showing off the old t shirt he had on under it. Like most of the t shirts he wore, it was swag given by a distributor at one point or another, but this one he had chosen special for the interview: ABSOLUT SEDUCTION. The vodka ad's familiar lettering and the distinctively shaped bottle on a black background.

"I hope you don't mind the informality.' He spoke loud, walking around behind the bar and pulling a couple of snifters down. He poured two glasses of dark Venezuelan rum, and brought them back to the table. He didn't sit down. "I don't see any reason to stand on ceremony. Now if you're ready, I'll give you the grand tour and you can ask me ... well ... whatever you want to know, I suppose."

He took her hand, helping her to her feet, and gave her another quick once over. She really did have a nice body, he thought, not fat, but full and curvy. He had always liked a well rounded figure. He supposed he didn't think thin people would appreciate the rich food he loved. He held onto her hand a little longer than was probably polite, and gave a little squeeze as he let it slip free.

"You should feel free to let your hair down, as well. Make yourself comfortable. Let me take you down the line." He gestured towards the kitchen, letting her precede him, being the gentleman and checking out her firm, round bottom. It was unfair of the world to make a woman who looked so delicious leave such a bitter aftertaste.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

Chef Alex Garret had a nice smile. A nice mouth, actually. She watched it while he talked and predicted she’d say nasty things about his restaurant. His lips looked soft and his teeth were straight and pearly white. She suddenly had a vision of those lips, and even those teeth, against the soft, sensitive skin of her neck. Kissing her just below the ear… All the way down to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And he’d bury one of those big strong hands in her hair, holding her head just where he wanted it. God…

She almost choked on the last bite of mousse. Goodness, she was so hot. And tingly. She pushed the martini glass away from her and pressed her hands against the back of her neck, trying to cool herself off. She shouldn’t be having thoughts like this about a chef who was a subject of an article. It wasn’t professional. She was supposed to be objective—well, slightly to the negative side of objective because that was her thing.

And he knew that. He seemed to just accept the fact that she was going to slam him in her writing. Yet this place obviously meant the world to him. Hadn’t he just said he’d rather sleep here than at home?

He stood up and took off his chef’s coat, revealing a vodka t-shirt with the word ‘seduction’ on it. Her heart rate kicked up a little. She wasn’t sure if it was the shirt, or the ripple of the muscles in his arms, or just this man in general, but he did things to her senses. He poured them each a glass of rum—how did he know she had a weak spot for rum? And made a half-apology for his attire.

“I think you should wear whatever you’re most comfortable in,” she said before taking a sip of the rum. Smooth and warm, it left a trail down her throat when she swallowed. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Mmmmmm…” The next sip was just as intoxicating. “This is the good stuff. You’re not trying to impair my judgment before I start asking questions, are you?” She narrowed her eyes at him—but not coldly and cynically this time, this time with heat in her gaze.

He helped her from her chair, and a sizzling awareness burned through her at his touch. This was the first time he’d actually touched her, she realized. And she wanted him to do it again the second he pulled his hand back. But he gestured for her to go into the kitchen, so she walked in front of him, keenly aware of his gaze on her. She put a little extra sway in her step, just in case he went for women with curvy hips.

The stainless steel kitchen was shiny and spotless. She set her purse and notepad on a counter and turned to him, taking another sip of rum and then licking her lips, slowly. “I have a recorder in my purse. Do you mind if I use it? Or would you prefer I take handwritten notes?”

 

[AndyGoat]

"By all means, use the tape recorder. Idle hands are the devil's workshop, after all." He kept his tone light, teasing, but his eyes drifted over her body appreciatively. His tone dropped, lower, deeper, much more sensual. "Let's face it, I'm in the decadence business. If anyone leaves here without tasting something sinful, I owe them an apology."

He licked his lips, and then pulled his eyes away from her, swinging his arm to indicate the wide space of the kitchen. Three cast iron ranges, fryers and grills were arrayed against the wall, with stainless steel prep tables behind. Three line cooks could easily work, sliding their food to the expediter's station, where it was garnished and sent out with the food carriers. On the far side of the room was a wide arch that led to the store rooms, the walk-in cooler and freezer, and his office. He glanced up at the bubbles in the ceiling and called her attention to them.

"Just so you know, we're already being recorded. Security cameras. My financiers insisted. Mostly they're afraid of fraudulent insurance claims, I think. And it keeps my guys from drinking too much free booze." Cooks worked under a lot of pressure, and many of them kept cool with a little help from booze. He had done the same, and as long as it was under control, and they didn't drink the good stuff, he figured it made the business run smoothly. He explained this all with a shrug of his shoulders.

He ran his fingers over the glassy smooth granite counter tops. It had been a ridiculous expense, and he and Tommy had argued for weeks, but the Arabs put up the money, and Alex felt like he was already getting a return on the investment. It made the cooks feel like stars, and they set the bar for themselves accordingly. It was also a way to show Evie that he was not an underfunded kid trying to bluff by on charm and talent. He had made that mistake once, and she had cut the shoestring that his operation had been held together with. He took a last swallow of rum and set the glass down, smiling at the chiming sound of crystal on stone.

"I'd be happy to show you the storage areas and the dishwashing stations if you like, but I think this is really what you wanted to see." He let his hand brush against his crotch, not related to what he was saying, just a guy adjusting himself after a long night's work. But he knew it would catch her eye. "I would never have imagined that a member of the press would have any trouble holding her liquor. I could make you a cappuccino or something, if you think it's necessary. Though I warn you, it's been a long time since I was a barista."

 

[SecretEpiphany]

She stared at his crotch a little longer than she should have, then blinked a few times and redirected her gaze to his face. How did he know what she really wanted to see? Was her face getting hot? She took another sip of rum and tried to get a grip on the situation, tried to formulate the questions she needed to ask for the interview.

But she kept thinking about his crotch. Just about him, really. Was his cock proportional to the rest of him? Long and thick? She swallowed and rummaged in her purse for the recorder.

“I would never have imagined that a member of the press would have any trouble holding her liquor.”

Purse forgotten, she looked at him sharply. He thought she was drunk?

“I could make you a cappuccino or something, if you think it's necessary. Though I warn you, it's been a long time since I was a barista."

“Since you brought it up, I can only assume you think it’s necessary. But let me assure you, I can hold my alcohol.” As if to prove it, she drank the rest of her rum and plunked the glass down on what had to be an insanely expensive granite countertop. Then she crossed her arms. “Your coffee making skills can stay rusty.”

She gave him what she hoped was her cynical stare, but she was still undressing him with her eyes. My god, why was she so horny? She’d been flirting with him, and he had assumed she must be drunk. Drunk, horny, it didn’t really matter because neither was good for her reputation and either was unprofessional.

But damn, she found him attractive. He had nice arms. His forearms bore a few scars—probably burns and such that gave him a weathered, tough look. She liked it. He also had a thin scar that ran across his chin. She wondered what it was from. And what his skin felt like. The texture and taste of his mouth, his neck, his…everything.

She didn’t realize she’d relaxed her arms, that she idly rubbed one hand over her abdomen, just below her breasts or that she’d been staring at him for an awkward amount of time. She also didn’t really remember that she was trying to be cynical and sarcastic. She was too caught up in imagining what it would feel like to touch him. And what it would feel like to be touched by him.

 

[AndyGoat]

He smiled and watched her face as she studied him, her eyes taking him in like he was the choicest of meals, just waiting to be devoured. With her face flushed, she looked almost pretty. No, she was pretty, she looked almost approachable. He grinned and watched her hand as she softly caressed her belly, hardly aware of what she was doing. Her body was sending all the signals, and the cynical sneer she was trying to affect didn't change the fact that she had still not gotten her tape recorder out as she did her best to keep her lust at arm's length.

The rum would only act to lower her inhibitions, as it always did. He had thought to give her another shot, but if she set her glass down any harder, he would be sweeping up broken crystal, and that was not part of the plan. He stepped closer, much closer than anyone had a right to stand to a stranger in an otherwise empty building. He slid both glasses back, away from the edge, and he put a hand to her cheek. He lifted her face just a bit so she was looking up at him, and he smiled. She really did have pretty lips, when they weren't bent in some hateful smirk.

"Find your tape recorder," he said, his gentle voice expressing all the patience in the world. He didn't imagine she would take it as anything other than condescension, but he did want her to have a recording. He wanted her to be able to listen to herself as the aphrodisiac thawed her frozen soul. "So you can do the interview."

He ran his thumb across her chin, the tip just missing her bottom lip, and he smiled at her. He had thought of this as straight revenge, but as her passion grew stronger, he started to see more and more ways that he might enjoy it.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

He was so close to her she could smell him—spicy, musky, good enough to eat. He shouldn’t be standing this close. It wasn’t appropriate, but she wasn’t about to step away. If anything, she wanted to press up against him.

Then he touched her, cupping her cheek. She couldn’t help it, she tilted her head and leaned in to his touch. His hand was warm, and just slightly rough against the smooth skin of her face. When he ran his thumb over her chin, it took every ounce of will power she had not to open her mouth and capture that thumb between her lips—sucking it in her hot, wet mouth. Her eyes drifted closed and she dragged in a heavy breath. This man made her want things she shouldn’t even be thinking about. It was crazy, but she couldn’t help it.

He reminded her to get her tape recorder and she snapped out of his sensual spell, almost. She stepped back and turned away from him to dig through her bag. Hopefully the space would help her get her bearings. She found the digital recorder and cleared her throat, turning to face him again. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said with what she hoped was a professional smile. She pressed the record button and propped her hip against the counter. “First, why don’t you tell me a little about what inspired you to create this cuisine you call American-Indian Fusion. It’s a pretty radical change from the classical French fare you started out with, right?”

She was proud of herself for not stuttering, losing her train of thought, or just plain throwing herself at him. She could do this. Self control had never been a problem for her, and whatever was stirring up her hormones now could be controlled too. No problem. She pushed her hand through her hair and looked at him through lowered lashes as she waited for him to answer. Her mind drifted to his hands again. His palm against her face had felt so good… She sighed and let her gaze wander down his body. What else could he touch her with that would feel good?

 

[AndyGoat]

He smiled, watching her fight for self-control as she moved away. Just a step, to find her tape recorder. When she turned back to him, she gave him a cool smile, that he was sure had cooled off many men who had thought that she might make a good lover. It was a smile that said abandon all hope. Her eyes were telling him another story, and while she was looking him so intently in the face, he dropped his eyes to her chest. The way she was dressed she wasn't showing any cleavage, but the shape of her full breasts was unmistakable. He licked his lips.

“First, why don’t you tell me a little about what inspired you to create this cuisine you call American-Indian Fusion. It’s a pretty radical change from the classical French fare you started out with, right?”

He raised his eyes to hers again, giving her a very warm smile, and then on a whim, he reached behind her, crowding her again, taking a wide, wooden spatula from its hook on the wall. The surface of it was a bit larger than an ordinary spatula, and it was all carved from a single piece of wood by a Bengalese he had become friends with. He leaned back again, giving her a little space as he caressed the smooth wooden surface.

"I suppose the short answer is because my ideas about food have changed. It's just so sensual, there is such passion in it. Not that French cuisine lacks those qualities, but that's where my formal training comes from, and I think to me it will always be a bit formal. Just a little ... stiff." He glanced down. He was indeed a little stiff, mostly with anticipation, but also with the heat he felt from her skin, and the scent of her hair, something floral, but earthy as well.

"After my first restaurant failed, I was sort of lost for a while, professionally as well as personally. When I found my feet again, I was in the Middle East, and I just saw the world from such a different perspective. Different philosophies, different spices, and so on."

He clapped the spatula against his palm, making a nice, loud smack. He held it up for her to look at, as though he had forgotten he was holding it. "These are wonderful, by the way. Much gentler than metal, but still good and solid." He smacked his hand again, and waggled his eyebrows at her.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

It was like every nerve in her body was attuned to his every movement. Her senses were hyperactive. His gaze fell to her chest and her nipples hardened without him even touching her. She could feel them tighten and pebble against the soft, lacy fabric of her bra.

Then he leaned over her to grab a spatula, and she could smell him again. The scent practically drugged her, and she had to bite her lip and swallow to keep from whimpering and rubbing against him. She was like an animal in heat, raging with a primal need for sex. This wasn’t normal for her, but she couldn’t help it.

She tried to concentrate on his answer to her question, but she kept getting distracted by his hands on that spatula. She jumped when he slapped it against his palm.

"These are wonderful, by the way. Much gentler than metal, but still good and solid." He smacked his hand again, and waggled his eyebrows at her.

That had to be a double entendre. “I’m sure they are,” she said breathily. She almost asked him to describe some of his favorite things to do with the spatula, but she was supposed to be a professional. She was supposed to be in control. She cleared her throat and thought about her next question. “Ummm…” His fingers were stroking the smooth wood of the utensil. She wanted his fingers to stroke her like that. “So why the Middle East? It hasn’t been the most welcoming region for Americans in the last decade. If you couldn’t find your footing in your homeland what made you think you could there? And then why come back home?”

She wasn’t sure her questions even made sense. Rational thoughts seemed to be escaping her and she was finding it harder and harder to stand still. Before he could answer her question, she reached out and slid her fingertip over the spatula in his hand. First, tracing the edge of the smooth wood, then, tracing the edges of his fingers wrapped around the handle.

 

[AndyGoat]

His smile faltered, only for a heartbeat, but still. When it came back, it was relief. He had made the right choice, slipping her the spice. He had been wondering if it had been a mistake, the kind of petty revenge that he should be above, by now, but she had clarified his purpose. Even though she was obviously distracted, she was still journalist enough to ask a question with a little bite to it.

"I couldn't make it here ten years ago because I was young and full of myself. I had this faith that if I just gave people something beautiful, it would be enough. If you build it, they will come, you know what I mean."

Her eyes were on the spatula, and she reached out, caressing the wood, and his fingers. She was probably not even listening, so he went on about his experiences in Europe and finally in Dubai. There would be enough for her to scrape a bio out of it, he thought. After all, she had a deadline, she would have to write something. And even if she just did her usual hatchet job, he knew she would not be able to believe what she was writing.

"As for why I came back," he said, leaning closer. He closed her fingers around the handle of the spatula. Hell, he thought, she can keep that one, if she wants to. He whispered in her ear. "I came back for you."

He let the thought sit. Though he leaned back, he left a hand resting comfortably on her hip, his long thick fingers curling around, feeling the soft flesh under her clothes. "I felt it was time for me to come home. This is my home, after all. I have changed. I am a better chef. I am a better man. I am still a dreamer, but I have learned to surround myself with practical people. I am home, and I believe we have created something really unique and wonderful here. It was time to let the past go, and to seize the moment. I had been holding back for long time, not doing what I wanted because I was afraid. Do you know that feeling? It is a wonderful thing to put it behind you."

He held her eyes as he spoke, lifting the spatula from her hand and holding it backwards. He used the rounded handle to brush against the skin of her neck, tracing the high collar of her blouse to her throat, and pulling down, just a little, before he withdrew the handle and gave her a warmly challenging smile.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

A small spark of sanity struck her and she was about to jerk her hand back when his fingers closed over hers, pressing the handle of the spatula into her palm. Warmth radiated up her arm and spread through her. She wanted more of that heat. Somehow, involuntarily, she moved a little closer to him. Or was he moving? He was so close that with the tiniest movement of her head, she could kiss his neck.

Then he whispered in her ear, "I came back for you."

Her insides felt like they were literally melting. For her? It was so…intimate. But he didn’t know her. They’d never even met before tonight. She’d anonymously visited his first restaurant years and years ago and had done a review. That was the only connection she’d ever had with him before tonight. This attraction was so intense, so insane, she knew she would have remembered if they’d met before.

He pulled back and a small sound of protest escaped her lips. She needed this man. In a way she’d never needed anyone before. He gently squeezed her hip and she leaned into him—unable to help herself.

He asked her if she knew what it felt like to hold back because of fear. The question hit her hard. Of course she knew—that feeling basically summed up her whole life.

“Yes,” she whispered as he took the spatula from her. “I know that feeling. I know what it’s like to live a façade and be afraid that just being yourself will cost you everything you’ve worked for. To be so afraid of that… That you can’t tell where the façade stops and the real you starts anymore. It’s like you’re stuck in the life you always thought you wanted, but you can’t be yourself and enjoy it. It kind of sucks, really.”

She blinked rapidly a few times. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that out loud. That wasn’t appropriate for an interview. Nothing about this whole situation was appropriate. She was supposed to be asking questions, not making confessions.

Then he caressed her neck with the spatula and tugged at the neckline of her blouse with the utensil. He was looking at her with an expression that said he knew just how badly she wanted him to rip the blouse from her body. Was she that transparent? Where was her control?

She took a step back and wobbled a little before catching her balance. “Ummm…” She pressed her hand to her hair and drew in a deep breath. “Excuse me, please… For just a minute.” Giving him a wide berth, lest she drop to her knees in front of him and beg him to ravish her like some stupid, quivering romance novel heroine, she fled the kitchen with her notebook and went to the restroom.

Space and a splash of cold water to the face. That was what she needed. The restroom was as elegant as the dining room. It was even equipped with a small seating area in a vestibule just inside the door. After pressing a damp paper towel to her face, she collapsed in a chair and frantically scribbled a few more questions—in the order she wanted to ask them. Alex Garret made her lose her head. Having a cheat sheet wasn’t he way she usually operated, but nothing about this interview was normal.

And even the space wasn’t helping. She was so hot. She ripped the paper out of her notebook and fanned herself with it. And so horny. Control, control, control, she chanted to herself. She’d go back in that kitchen, rush through the rest of the questions on her list, and get the hell out of here—fast. Because if she didn’t, and if he touched her again, she was going to do something stupid.

With another deep breath, she marched out of the bathroom and back through the kitchen door.

 

[AndyGoat]

Things were back on track, he decided, but her answer to his question had shocked him. It was so human, so much like he had been so many years ago, the last time she had come into his life. He realized as she spoke that he really had been hiding in what was familiar, even then, he had wanted to try something a bit different from the classics. It made him see her differently, and think about the things she had said to him, in the past hour since he had sat down with her. There was more to her than he had imagined.

When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, he had almost followed her. The saffron's effect was likely to reach a plateau soon, he thought. It was difficult to anticipate exactly how a given preparation would react, but he knew it would last through the night, at the very least. He had time, still, to tease her and toy with her. He was thoughtful though. The game had changed. Somehow, it wasn't only a matter of revenge any longer. He had not expected to find her at all attractive, but it turned out she was quite beautiful. He had certainly not expected to like her, but despite everything, he felt a curious warmth towards her. And she had left her tape recorder running.

He leaned close, and spoke softly.

"By the time you hear this, you will be at home, or in your office. I won't be there, and I don't know if this will make any difference at all. Whatever is going to happen between us will have happened by then, and whatever that is, I want you to know that I think you are wasting yourself. You are a beautiful and passionate woman, with a deep appreciation of the good things in life and a real talent with words. That you use that talent so destructively, and hide your beauty and your passion behind this facade of frigidity and bitchiness is a terrible loss. I don't expect you will change overnight. I'm expecting a mean-spirited review from you, so don't hold back when it's time to write. But if you want someone to share the other side of yourself with, you know where to find me."

As he finished, he looked up. She was sweating, he thought for a moment, but then he saw that she must have splashed water on her face. Trying to cool down, he thought, and wished her luck, smirking to himself. Then he noticed she had her notebook out. Was she changing her plan mid-interview? He didn't want her to stop recording. He especially didn't want her to play back anything until she had gone home, so he took a step towards her, intercepting her as she came around the counter.

"Before we continue, I have to apologize," he said. "I had no idea that you were such a treat to the eye, and I may have been leering just a little. There is a reason they keep me locked up in the kitchen when there are people around." He shot her a wink and gave her a warm smile. Then his eyes flicked down to her chest, and his smile softened as his nostrils flared. He held his hand out to her, silently inviting her to stand close, much too close for any pretense of casual conversation.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

Pretty much all her resolve melted as soon as he looked at her. The rest of it went when he winked and held out his hand. There was no will power in her to resist, absolutely none. She let him hold her hand and pull her closer to him.

It was so hard to think. His scent, the texture of his skin as his fingers lightly rubbed hers, the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed while she stared at his throat. She was hyperaware of everything about him. And she wanted more. She wanted to bury her nose in his neck and suck as much of that tantalizing scent in as her lungs would hold. And she wanted to press the tip of her tongue to that bobbing Adam’s apple. She wanted… whatever Alex Garret was willing to give her.

But he was supposed to be giving her an interview. Those damn questions still waited on the now crumpled notebook paper clutched in her free hand.

“Ummm…” She was breathing hard, like she’d gone out to run a few laps around the building instead of going to the bathroom to get her bearings. “I wrote the rest of my questions down.” Her hand shook noticeably as she tried to focus on the paper.

He was rubbing circles on her palm with his thumb and she felt it everywhere. Her breasts ached. Her nipples were tight. Her pussy was wet—it had to be with the low throbbing in her belly. She licked her lips and held the paper closer to her face, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t think much less read. She could barely breathe. All she could think about was sex. With Alex. Alex touching her. Alex kissing her. Alex licking her. Alex fucking her… Oh god, what was wrong with her? She’d never felt this horny in her life.

She pressed the crumpled paper against his chest, which was a mistake because she could feel the heat of his chest through the paper. “Here,” she said, her voice sounded weird to her own ears. “Maybe you could just read them yourself…”

Then she gave in to the magnetic force pulling her towards him and pressed herself against his side, leaning in close so her breasts smashed against him. The sensation made her whimper. This was wrong—inappropriate, unprofessional, just plain unwise—but she did it anyway, rubbing a little so the friction on her nipples through her clothes eased just a little of the throbbing in her breasts. “I just…” She didn’t know what to say… “I…” She should make an apology or an explanation but she didn’t have either, so instead, she did what she’d wanted to do for what felt like hours. She buried her face in his neck and breathed him in.

 

[AndyGoat]

Raw hunger was written plain on her face when she came out of the bathroom, and he felt his body responding, so that he felt like he had taken the spice instead of her. Her naked lust for him was as intoxicating and arousing, though he was still able to stay in control of himself. It helped that he knew what was happening, he supposed. She stammered something and handed him a piece of paper she had torn out of her notebook.

He had barely glanced at the questions she had scrawled down when she pressed herself against him. Her breasts pushed into his chest, and she nuzzled under his chin, and he grinned to himself. He let the paper float to the counter and glanced at the recorder. He smiled, seeing the green light glowing steady, letting them know it was still recording everything. He let his arms wrap around her, pulled her close, letting her feel him stiffening against her as she breathed heavily, almost panting at his neck.

"Evie," he said her name carefully. He held a hand to the back of her head, fingers buried in her lustrous hair. The other was still tight around her waist, holding her close to him. The suddenness and simplicity of her move to him told him that it wasn't just the spice that was affecting her. She needed to be cared for as much as she needed to be fucked, and that had nothing to do with what he had slipped her. That came from her alone, and if she heard herself say what she was needing in the morning, it might help her see. "What are you doing? Are you all right? Do you need something? Tell me, what's wrong? What can I do to help?"

He spoke for the recorder, but his lips brushed against the skin as her temples, and his hand in her hair gathered the silky locks in a gentle fist and pulled her head back. He looked in her eyes, exhaling slowly, letting her feel his breath warm her lips.

"Tell me what you want, Evie."

 

[SecretEpiphany]

His embrace felt so good she thought she might cry, which was ridiculous because she wasn’t a crier. His hardness against her hip made her mouth go dry. This wasn’t all one sided. Thank god.

His fingers slid through her hair and he gently rubbed her scalp. She could melt into a puddle right at his feet. All he had to do was keep doing that. His big warm body enveloped her, and she felt safe, peaceful even, in his arms.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and she swallowed hard.

What was she doing? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she needed this man—badly. She needed him to cradle her in his arms, to bury his hands in her hair, to whisper to her that he understood about feeing trapped in your life and living a lie. She needed him to understand her.

When he pulled her head back, she gasped, helpless to do anything but stare into his eyes and desperately wanting his mouth on hers. The tease of his breathe wasn’t enough. And this new angle made her breasts lose their tight contact with his chest. She missed it instantly. She needed him pressed against her.


“Tell me what you want, Evie.”

A shiver rippled through her body and she closed her eyes for a second. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “You. This. More. Everything.” She licked her lips and met his gaze. “I don’t know. All I know is I’m drawn to you. I think, maybe, you see the real me. And sometimes, lately, I can barely see the real me. So I want to know you…”

She twisted slightly and rubbed her hip against his erection, moaning as thoughts of touching it, holding it, feeling it, flashed through her mind. “And I feel like I have to have you. I can’t… help it.”

Saying the words out loud was crazy. But she wasn’t herself. The desire humming through her body was overriding her good sense and she was powerless to stop it. She’d never blatantly told a man she had to have him in her life. But then, she’d never felt like this before either…

 

[AndyGoat]

He grinned as she spoke, watching her face flush red as she admitted her need to him. This was not a woman who was used to being vulnerable, that was plain, and he knew it cost her. He knew she was desperate, the way she was grinding against him, and he couldn't help himself, he wanted to see her squirm a little more before he gave her what she wanted. She owed him that much.

"Tell me all of it," he whispered in her ear. "Tell me exactly what you want. Don't be afraid. Tell me what could satisfy a woman so famously impossible to satisfy."

His hand slid down, resting on her richly rounded ass and giving it a squeeze. He was going to have to see her body naked before long, but for the moment, looking at the way her nipples were pressing through her blouse, he was able to be patient. He leaned closer, letting his chest brush lightly against her nipples, his lips close enough to hers that he could feel the heat of her skin, her nose brushing against his.

He pulled her head back, making her arch her spine, pushing her breasts against him and opening her throat to him. She was so exquisitely vulnerable that way, he thought, and leaned down and gently touched her neck with his lips. He dragged his lips gently along her throat, under her jaw, and back. His breath was hot on her, as he whispered so softly he could barely hear himself speak. "You use words so well to describe what you were dissatisfied with, to expose faults. Can't you use them to tell me what you need?"

With that, he shifted his hips, prssing his hard cock against her more firmly, his fingers digging into the meat of her asscheek.

 

[SecretEpiphany]

“Tell me what could satisfy a woman so famously impossible to satisfy."

It sounded like a thinly veiled insult, but the tickle of his warm breath against her ear and neck kept her from thinking about it too hard. She couldn’t get close enough to him. She was like a cat that kept butting it’s head on somebody’s ankle in a plea for attention. Except she was butting her breasts on his chest. And her pelvis on his erection. Or she would be, if he wasn’t holding her a few inches away from his body. Damn him.

She moaned when he grabbed her ass. If only it wasn’t through her skirt. Skin on skin. That was what she wanted. She licked her lips as he teased her neck with a feather light kiss. Then whimpered at his entreaty to tell him what she needed.

“You, Alex,” she gasped. “I need you to…finish what you started. You’re a chef. You know how to create things, and I swear to god, you’ve created a heat in me. You’ve stirred me up.” She lightly scratched at his chest through his t-shirt. “Made me forget my interview questions with your little winks and touches and grins and whispers and leaning in just a little too close and telling me I was pretty…” Her index fingers found his nipples and she massaged them through the shirt. “You’re not intimidated by me,” she whispered, raising her gaze to meet his. “You don’t let me cow you. And that is so sexy…” She let her eyes drift closed.

She almost felt like she was watching herself touch and speak to him. An out of body experience or something. Except she could feel and smell everything. The soft cotton of his worn shirt, the hard muscle that lay beneath it. The spiciness of his skin. It all drugged her, loosened her tongue, had her spilling her guts.

“You know what it’s like, don’t you?” she whispered. “To feel alone all the time, even when you’re surrounded by people?” Her fingers dropped down to his stomach, rubbed over his ribs. “I don’t want to be alone, Alex. Not now, not tonight.” Her hands were at his waist, lightly tracing the waistband of his jeans.

 

[AndyGoat]

Alex chuckled softly, his fingers massaging the flesh of her ass. He let his lips brush over hers, passing over her cheek, his warm breath tickling her ear. He leaned back against the counter, letting her press her body against him, letting her feel just how excited he was. It was almost a shame that she was spoiling his perfect revenge by being so desirable, and even human. Of course she wouldn't be that way if she weren't desperately horny, he thought, and smiled.

"Of course I know how it is to be lonely," he spoke softly, but pitched his voice loud enough for the tape to pick it up. "But I have not devoted myself professionally to intimidating and cowing the exact people who would really love me, so I have probably not felt it as harshly as you have."

He shifted closer, nuzzling in her hair and whispering in her ear, so soft that the recorder might not pick it up. "You should know you scare the shit out of me. For a long time, I blamed your review for my first restaurant's failure. I know that was not the cause, but I was young and proud and I had thin skin."

He nuzzled her ear and neck as he whispered his criticism of her to her. With one hand, he massaged her ass, pushing the heavy fabric of her skirt under as he probed between her thighs. With his other hand, he searched the magnetic rack behind him, until his fingers found the handle of the knife he had been looking for. A little paring knife, just a few inches long but sharp as the devil. As her tongue, even.

"You love food, you are so passionate about it, yet you are so hateful when you write about it. You are beautiful and intelligent. If you would only let someone close without cutting them, you would not be lonely." He slid the hand that had been on her ass up to gather a handful of her hair and pulled her back. He flashed the knife at her, and brought the blade to the top button of her blouse.

"Now I am sure of myself. I expect a bad review from you, so what else can you do to intimidate me?" He lowered the knife to the next button, cutting it away. Then the next, til her blouse was open to where it tucked into her skirt.

He couldn't help staring at her cleavage, her full breasts were right there, barely covered by a surprisiingly delicate bra. He put the knife back on the magnetic strip. He winked at her.

"That still leaves us with the problem of loneliness."

He reached back again, coming up with the broad bladed wooden spatula, grinning mischievously. "Now you've been a naughty girl, but I'm prepared to forgive you. Of course, there must be a little punishment first. Lean down over the counter and lift your skirt up."

 

[SecretEpiphany]

"You should know you scare the shit out of me. For a long time, I blamed your review for my first restaurant's failure. I know that was not the cause, but I was young and proud and I had thin skin."

Her body was still reacting to him, especially since he was probing between her legs, pushing at the barrier of her skirt, but her mind came to a screeching halt. “I blamed your review,” he’d said.

It wasn’t that she’d assumed the reviews she’d written were without consequences. She wasn’t that stupid. But she’d never put herself in the recipient’s shoes. She’s always justified what she wrote without getting emotional—if the food or service was bad, then the place deserved to go under. But when places went under, so did somebody’s dream. She tried not to dwell on that. She couldn’t dwell on that and write objective reviews. Objective wasn’t exactly her forte, she put a negative, sarcastic spin on everything. But she couldn’t get personally involved. It was her job. She was just doing her job by writing the articles.

But while she’d just been doing her job, albeit harshly, while she’d been trying to make a name for herself and realize her dream of becoming a writer, Alex’s dream had crumbled. And while he said that he knew her review wasn’t the cause, did he really? Did she know that? On some level, even if it was just minute, she’d helped shatter his dream. And honestly, she couldn’t remember at thing she’d written about his first restaurant—not a damn word. What kind of person did that make her?

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” she muttered against his chest. She wanted to apologize for what she’d written, but it would be hollow if she couldn’t even remember the words. And pointing out that his first restaurant hadn’t even held a place in her memory would rub salt in an old wound.

Speaking of rubbing, his hand on her ass felt so good. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. And she wanted to touch him.

"You love food, you are so passionate about it, yet you are so hateful when you write about it. You are beautiful and intelligent. If you would only let someone close without cutting them, you would not be lonely," he said.

How could he compliment her? How he’d forgiven her for writing that article all those years ago, she didn’t know. He was a bigger person than she was. But she was so thankful that he had, that he was willing to act on this incredible attraction despite what she’d done to him in the past. She could learn things from Alex Garret. This man could make her a better person. She should hold on to him. In more ways than one.

Her hands were on their way beneath his t-shirt. She wanted to feel his chest—to press her palms against hot skin, to dig her nails into his back and clutch him against her—when he buried a hand in her hair and pulled her back, flashing a knife in her face.

Instantly she tensed, her heart rate kicking up even more.

“What?...” she asked, her voice shaky, but she couldn’t finish the question. Instead, she watched, wide-eyed as he cut the top button off her blouse. It chimed as it hit the floor and bounced a few times.

"Now I am sure of myself. I expect a bad review from you, so what else can you do to intimidate me?" He lowered the knife to the next button, cutting it away. Then the next, til her blouse was open to where it tucked into her skirt.

She was exposed, the silky fabric gaping and her breasts, lightly cupped in a black lacy bra, were practically spilling out at him. She stared down at herself, still shocked that he’d used a knife. That he’d ruined her shirt. That she found the whole situation—something that should have sent her running—so erotic that she thought she could feel her pulse between her legs.

She looked up at his face when she heard the knife click back into place. She wondered if she was trembling…she felt shaky on the inside. Could he see it? She bit her lip and he winked at her.

"That still leaves us with the problem of loneliness," he said.

Her chest heaved as she watched his every move. Wondering what he was going to do next. Wanting it, yet almost fearing it, feeling a spike of trepidation.

He reached back again, coming up with a broad bladed wooden spatula, grinning mischievously. "Now you've been a naughty girl, but I'm prepared to forgive you. Of course, there must be a little punishment first. Lean down over the counter and lift your skirt up."

She blinked at him. He couldn’t be serious. Could he? She stared at the smooth surface and swirling wood grain of the spatula. This was kinky. She didn’t do kinky. She wasn’t a submissive. She didn’t bend over to get spanked.

So why was she so intrigued by that damn spatula? By the man holding it?

“Come on…” she said flippantly, smiling up at him. “Joke’s over, right?” She pressed one hand against his chest and leaned into him. With her other hand, she reached for the spatula, intending to cast it aside so they could move on—and she was desperate to move on, but he didn’t let go of it. She sucked in a breath and looked him in the eye. “It’s just a joke…” she said, half asking, half telling. But what if it wasn’t?

 

[AndyGoat]

“Come on… Joke’s over, right? It’s just a joke…”

She leaned against him, her soft body pressed against his, warm and sensual, as she tried to take the spatula away. The grip he had on her hair and his longer arms made it simple to keep it out of reach, once he saw that she was really trying to take it, and he grinned at her.

"Always in control, aren't you?" he whispered in her ear. "Always ready to pass judgement, but not so willing to accept that words have consequences."

He shook his head and left the spatula on the counter behind him, reaching for her. He slid her blouse off her shoulders, letting it slip down to her elbows. Then he caught hold of it, twisting the fabric to pull her elbows behind her back, which made her breasts push forward and out. He cupped one, through her bra, kneading the soft flesh and feeling her nipple stiffening under the lace. He leaned so close that her eyes were all he could see, letting his lips touch hers.

He ground his cock into her hip. "You know I want you. I know you want me so much you're willing to take a pass on doing your job right." He picked up the paper she wrote her questions on, sneering a little as he looked them over, then crumpling the paper and dropping it in the trash barrel.

"You ground my pride into the dirt under your heel once, and you're going to try to do it again in the weekend edition. I'm not afraid of what you'll say this time. You'll write whatever you write on your terms, and we both know what those are. I can't do anything to stop you, but don't expect me to help you." His hand let go of her blouse, giving her the freedom to pull it back up or let it fall if she wished, and he held her head in both hands, like a lover, and looked into her eyes. Everything in his body belied the spite of his tone.

"I'll help with the loneliness, but on my terms. Give me what I want, Evie. Let go of your pride with me. Let your control slip a little. Be soft for me. Be a woman for me." As he spoke, his fingers slipped under her bra, lifting her breast out, and he leaned back to look at it, the dark skin around her nipple, puckered and flushed, and the tiny tracery of veins under her pale skin. His thumb stroked across her nipple, rolling it teasingly.

"You're a beautiful woman, Evie," he murmured. "You deserve to be held, and caressed, and loved. But you're a heartless bitch of a reporter, and for that, you deserve this. You can go, if you like. If you stay, you'll find a ... spatula-full of medicine helps the sugar go down. Now lift your skirt up, and bend over the counter."