Page 12 of Say Yes to the Chef

He tugs the triangles of my bikini top aside to free my breasts, quickly taking my nipples between his fingers and teasing them into even harder peaks.He drops one hand, trailing it down my middle, stopping when his fingertips meet the waist of my bikini bottoms, the other hand still a firm caress on my breast. “I was raised by women, Adrienne.”His firm hand flexes against my lower belly.

I frown, confused by the statement.

“I know all about consent.”

“Oh,” I breathe. “I consent.” My statement is a hungry, greedy plea in a voice I don’t recognize.

He tucks his hand between my skin and my bikini, his long fingers moving downward, down until he grazes the tight curls. Thank God the girls made me get a trim and a wax—first time for everything!—before this trip.

My eyes fly open, thoughts of my girls ripping me from this moment as successfully as a bucket of ice being tipped over my head.

I have to know…

“How old are you?” The words have left my lips before I can stop them.

His hands still. “Does it matter?”

I swallow. Consider the question.Doesit matter?

His hand dips lower between my legs, driving his middle finger through the wetness there before he brings it back up to circle my clit.

No, no it does not matter.

“Does it matter?” he whispers again, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“No.”

He makes a sound of approval deep in his throat, then Marco pushes one finger inside me and silences all other words or thoughts in my mind. He nudges my ear with his nose and whispers, “I have a question, too.”

“Mhm?” I practically moan. God, how can just a simple thrust of this man’s finger feel so damn good? He starts a fire inside me, fueling the flames with each stroke of his finger.

“Are you married, Adrienne?”

“N-no,” I stammer, the truth still difficult to admit aloud. Leaning into his lips against my ear, I whisper, “Not anymore.”

He hums in satisfaction and sucks my earlobe into his mouth, then the finger between my legs moves faster, picking up speed and intensity as if that response was all the encouragement he needed.

Marco

She smells of gardenia and something musky; not sweet enough to be vanilla, but I can’t place the scent. I can decipher ingredients in unfamiliar recipes by scent alone, but this woman’s perfume is a mystery to me. I press my nose against her throat and breathe deeply once more, pulling her scent into my lungs, hungry for it, for her. She feels incredible in my arms, the way she leans back against me, tilts her head to expose more of her throat. My mouth waters; I want to bite into that throat, taste every inch of her, but I also want to go slowly, take my time.

As a chef, I know one hard and fast rule above all others: the finest things in life are meant to be savored.

And this woman is definitely one of those.

I massage her left breast, teasing her tight nipple between thumb and forefinger while I slip a second finger inside her. She opens her legs for me, bracing the weight of her body against mine, then her left arm comes up behind her to circle my neck. Her right hand settles on my right forearm.

Her fingers flex and I wonder if she realizes she does these little things, these little messages of encouragement, or if her body has taken over now, simply speaking to mine in the most primal, base way it can.

With sounds, like the ones coming from her now.

With movement, like the way her hips move to follow each stroke of my fingers.

Or the way the muscles inside her clench and release me.

I pull her backwards slowly, never breaking my hold on her, until the backs of my calves hit the bed, then I sit down, easing her to sit between my legs. The mirrored doors of the armoire across from us present a new view of this scene.

Meeting my gaze in the reflection, she opens her legs wider for me, and I watch in rapt amazement as she unties the sides of her bikini bottoms and the fabric falls away.

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