Cocky Chef(25)

I'm barely below the neck on the bottle before I start thinking about Willow again, looking over to where Knife might be in the skyline and imagining what she's doing right now. Working a knife with focused delicacy, sipping soup through those lips, dancing between the other chefs on those long legs, skin alive with the warmth of the grills, eyes narrowed with the determination of purpose.


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I'm prickling with lust before I even realize it, even the cooling air not enough to release the pent-up tension that all these thoughts of Willow are stirring in me.

There are a million reasons why this is not a good idea for either of us. I need to nip this in the bud. I pick up my phone and flick through the messages and work notifications to get to the contacts list I keep for times like this, sucking down wine as I scroll through the names and photos.

Models with bodies that don't need Photoshop, actresses who talk dirty enough for an X rating. Leggy brunettes and manic redheads, nymphomaniacs with every kink in the book and shy types who let it all go at once. A list of perfect women who'd be here in a heartbeat, the push of a button.

But none of them is Willow, and tonight I'd rather have nothing than settle for something less.

I drop the phone to the side and replace it with the bottle, other hand already palming the hard cock in my briefs. This time the wine doesn't taste like wine, it tastes like her lips again, like that delicate, sensitive tongue against mine. A taste worth any price you'd put on it, worth searching half the world for.

I open my eyes to the shimmering sky blue of the pool, impossible not to imagine her being here, her long frame under that surface, flickering in the gentle lap of the water, gliding through it with the smoothness of that golden skin and the easy elegance of her movements. Difficult not to imagine those naked breasts as she emerges from the water, droplets catching the light as they trace that perfect shape, wet hair slicked back, that long neck.

Hand clutching my hard cock like a loaded weapon now, teasing appreciation of her turns to the uncontrollable desire to take her again. To lift that pool-drenched body in my imagination and lay her on the lounger, to spread her open and lick the wetness from her thighs, feeling them tremble from the cool breeze and my rough tongue. To taste her tender navel, the shiver of her stomach, the hardness of her nipples. Roll them under my tongue before sucking the full softness of her breasts. Eventually tracing a finger between her legs to reveal the path to her soul, the richest and most complex taste, the one that satisfies both of our hungers. A taste that has to be approached slowly, delicately, the tongue soft as a brushstroke, coaxing forth moans and sighs from her body. Soft, melting, and juicy, rolled and flicked, sucked and pushed, until it flowers in my mouth as her thighs shake, the sound of her helpless pleasure filling the air …

I come hard, orgasm slamming out of me, a coiled spring of tension that's been there for too long. But even in the aftermath, as I suck down another deep gulp of alcohol, tension seeping out of my body, there's only a little relief. Temporary and physical. The unresolved thoughts in my head still lingering-backed off into the shadows, but still there. 

There's no doubt left in my mind.

This thing inside of me isn't going to rest until I've had her again.



I spend the next day in Vegas, letting everybody know how disappointed I am at the lack of progress in the new place. I have a lengthy meeting with the flooring contractor where we struggle to find a solution to the fact that she can't source the type of travertine I requested, all to the background music of construction workers drilling in the kitchen fittings.

Just when I think I'm getting somewhat close to achieving a sense of turning the chaos acceptable, Martin comes rushing through the doors of the place, almost running between the stacked-up furniture and half-painted walls, carrying a laptop under his arm.

"Cole!" he shouts desperately, as if I'm in danger of flying away. "Glad I caught you."

I nod to the contractor to show that we're done and look back at the hurried man.

"Something tells me I won't be glad, though."

"Well … " Martin says, pushing his spectacles up his sweaty nose, "probably not."

He might look a mess, this wiry man with black, side-parted hair that he keeps having to palm into place, but Martin's the only person I trust to be my second-in-command. In another life, Martin would have been a fantastic chef himself, were it not for his constantly trembling hands and persistently flustered nature. It's his nervous disposition, however, that makes him perfect for keeping things running the way I like them-Martin basically does all my worrying for me.