Cocky Chef(19)

She stops for a second, a faint note of hesitation appearing in those eyes.

"You still think we're gonna regret this?" I ask.

"Only if we stop now," she says, voice slurred with desire.

I pull her body on top of mine, breasts against my chest.

"Then we'd better keep going," I growl into her ear.

We tumble together through the sensations of the evening. The smell of grilled peppers and soft bread, hard cock against soft pussy, garlic and lime aftertaste, rough hands against smooth breasts that press against the fine fabric of my shirt as our mouths feast on each other, her teasing pussy rolling over the head of my cock like an ecstatic torture, a perfect appetizer that can't satisfy.

I pull on her ass, smack it and draw nails up the arch of her back, urging her to let me in. She bites my lip and laughs, fighting me for pleasure, making me growl even harder with lust for the kind of woman who can do that. Until she can bear it no more herself, throwing her head back, taking all of me inside of her as she grinds her hips, riding me.

"Yes … " she purrs, eyes drowsy with sensation. "Oh my God, yes."

She's mine now, fixed upon my hardness, hips swaying, her breasts magnificently naked. She clutches at her hair as she rocks on top of me, eyes rolling back, mouth fixed open as she moans loudly, as if letting the surge of pleasure inside of her escape before it makes her explode. I watch her sway and throb above me, waves of electric pleasure flowing upward from our connected bodies, up through that tight stomach and those bouncing breasts, up through that pulsating throat and ecstatic face. A monument to beauty, one I worship with roving hands and panting grunts, until she's too full of bliss, too full for even the screams to temper it, full enough to burst.

She puts a hand over mine, the one I've been pinching and rolling her nipple with, pulls it to the center of her chest, clutches it as if for steadiness as she lets the desire overflow.

"That's it. Come for me, Willow. I wanna see you come, right here on top of this desk, right fucking now." I tighten my grip on her ass and thrust into her harder, deeper, my voice coming out harsh as I command her to let go.

A final, high-pitched wail gets tossed up at the ceiling, Willow moaning as she falls down the rollercoaster. The sight of her losing control makes it easy for me to join her, to slam myself inside her one last time, to push both of us out from madness and into light.

"Fuck," she says on desperate breath, as heat leaves her body and she slumps over me. "Cooking is a hell of an aphrodisiac."

I look down between her damp locks of hair splayed across my chest, her face sleepy now as she rests against it.

"Depends on who's doing it. Now let me make you dessert."





6





Willow





It's mid-morning in Los Angeles, and I'm sitting at the diner Tony suggested, stirring the foam at the bottom of my coffee cup lazily as I look out of the window. It's a nice place with a vintage 50's flair, kinda small, and with a great menu I'm more than ready to pick something from, but which I thought would be rude to do before Tony came.


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For almost thirty minutes now I've been eyeing the attractive waiter (though he can't hold a candle to the flame of Cole's perfection) and watching the breakfast rush hour die down as I sip my coffee, trying not to think about last night, the lingering soreness I can still feel between my thighs.

"Spud!" I hear Tony call, turning to see him step inside the diner, open his arms, and make a beeline for me.

I step out of the booth and hug him-or more precisely, allow myself to be squeezed like a lemon.

"Relax, it's only been a week since I saw you," I mumble, even with my asphyxiated lungs.

Tony pulls back and laughs, taking a seat across from me. He pulls off his aviators to reveal emerald eyes that always made me kinda jealous.

"I'm just pleased to see you."

"Shut up," I smile. "I know you're just trying to make me forget how late you are."

It makes sense that Tony would end up in Los Angeles. Even though he's from Ohio, and I met him when we studied in the south of France, he's never looked quite so at home as he does with an L.A. sky behind him. His bronzed skin, meticulously arranged more-on-top brown hair, skintight T-shirt revealing a hint of his bare chest, immaculately sculpted pectorals-all of it fits in perfectly now that he's here.

"Oh, I've got a very good reason to be late, trust me," he says, conspiratorially. "Thanks for meeting me last minute." He looks up and gestures for the waiter to come over.