Page 11 of Falling for Paris
Through the years, Tori had understood her sexual preferences. She liked the feeling of being confined, of surrendering control. Although she had never pursued her interest fully, she had visited sex clubs to watch. The first time was with her ex-husband. It was, she knew now, their failed attempt to spice up what was already a poisonous brew of resentment, distrust, and scorn. Submitting didn’t work out well with James because there was always something missing. His demands were needs that fulfilledhim,and not her.
What she found herself most attracted to, more than any singular sexual experience, was the way the dominant was the one taking care of the submissive, and not the other way around. A sub could be the recipient of unimaginable pleasure by simply and completely surrendering to another’s command.
To give up control sounded enticing. After all, she was always in control of every aspect of her life: as the older sister, as the head of her department, and as the reliable friend who smoothed things over with calm competence.
On vacation, those responsibilities fell away. Is that why she was so alert to Rafael’s masculine authority? Her guard was down. The thrill of exploring a vibrant city and immersing herself in new experiences amidst strangers excited her. She didn’t need to know what tomorrow would bring, she simply had to let it happen. She need only submit.
Though Rafael taking control in his office was a fantasy of submission she didn’t expect. Now that’s all she could think about.
“That’s right, now it must fold over itself. With confidence you must lay it on top!” The pastry chef instructed with flourish, dragging her to the present. He was talking about the dough in front of her but that’s not the image that flashed in her mind.On topspiraled her thoughts in all kinds of directions.
What was wrong with her? She was here in this kitchen lab to cook! She wasn’t here to bend over the kitchen counter as Rafael pushed her head down and spanked her bottom. Holy shit, where didthatimage come from?
A sound between a choke and a moan escaped her lips, making everyone turn around. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. Unfortunately, she also raised her gaze and caught his unwavering attention. The glint in his eyes told her he wasn’t fooled. Rafael knew exactly what caused her choked moan.
With a deep breath, Tori focused on the ingredients laid out on the prep table. Cooking at home was no substitute for the delight of baking with experts who could anticipate your mistakes or amend them if necessary. She was in Paris, for goodness’ sake. That’s what she needed to focus on: baking and cooking, learning and exploring. In the kitchen andonlyin the kitchen.
Despite being an avid baker, Tori never learned how to make such an exquisite pastry with the basic ingredients of milk, sugar, flour, salt, yeast, egg, and butter. But that’s what croissants were: perfect in their simple layers of buttery softness.
In the recesses of her mind she recalled that maybe she had mentioned this years ago? Something about the way he ejected her from his office—it’s about time you learned to make croissants—was uncannily familiar.
She finally registered that the pastry chef’s name was Frederick and he worked with Rafael in one of the hotel restaurants before they both branched out. One to open a pastry shop and the other to be an executive chef in some fancy place. She knew it was fancy because of the gasps of adoration from her classmates. Throughout the week, she got more hints about what a big deal Rafael was in the world of fine cuisine. To her everlasting embarrassment, she was the only one who didn’t know who Rafael Baptiste Lyon was before signing up for his school.
But she knew some things her classmates didn’t.
She knew the sensation of his hand around her throat: warm and precise and right. So right. She knew his wrist gave off a scent of sweet sandalwood. His body’s aroma was tinged with a hint of earthy sweat but it didn’t repel her. He was just so damnmanly.
Most of all, Tori knew, without logic or reason, how much more she would let him do to her.For her. That excited her most of all: that in giving him what he demanded, she experienced the fantasy she could hardly articulate.
What would you let me do to you?he had asked her. Her body screamedSo. Much. More.
The thought of relinquishing everything to him made her heady. The fantasy of offering herself to a man who knew precisely what she needed to hear, to feel, todocreated an anticipation that bloomed from her middle and spread to every corner of her body.
Stop. Get it together and make the damn croissants.
She trained her eyes forward to the smiling pastry chef. The stern chef with the scorching glare, however, she would avoid for as long as she could.
For the rest of the week, Rafael felt Victoria Espinoza’s avoidance like a cloud—thick and amorphous and oppressive—looming over them. Throughout the pastry demonstration, she skirted around the kitchen to avoid his path. During yesterday’s foray into the world of sauces, she chatted with every person in the room but didn’t once look in his direction. He knew because he couldn’t stop staring.
Good. Sheshouldavoid him. Rafael had been a second away from devouring her when they were in his office. Plunging his tongue deep, where his cock ached to be. And the sight of her panting with excitement when he pinned her arms back…fuck, she was sexy. He couldn’t remember when a woman stirred him this way, awaking possessiveness, and risk, and lust. So much lust.
Although she kept out of his way, his mornings felt like a kaleidoscope of thick hair and full lips, grabbable breasts and ample hips. And why did she smell like the very essence of summer? Flowery and savory andhoneyed.
Rafael told himself all this tension and torture would pass soon enough. It was Friday; they were halfway finished with the cursed class. The woman would be a distant memory in a few weeks, just like the girl years ago.
And with some clever scheduling by Patrice, the two-week session might conclude with him never having to cook in front of anyone. Instead, he gathered experts from all over Paris to display their culinary skills.
When Inez made calls on his behalf, almost everyone was too busy to take over the class but wanted to connect in some way. Probably out of curiosity. Rafael had been a recluse for a while, but that accident just over a year ago made his illness the stuff of gossip. Well, curious or not, his colleagues came: chefs, servers, merchants, restaurateurs calledhimwhen they heard he was back in Paris. It was, after all, an industry in which he had worked with or helped many people.
Before the nerve damage got so bad, Rafael was a mentor to many. And prior to the accident that had riddled his right forearm with the angry slashes and reddened patterns of burns, he had opened opportunities to young chefs and went out of his way to support new shop owners. He knew firsthand what it was to break into the business without the support of a wealthy family or the background of the most esteemed schools. If you weren’t born into privilege, finding one’s footing in the world of fine cuisine was nearly impossible without some insider assistance.
To Rafael’s surprise, people didn’t just call him, they offered to help. Plus, there was some kind of YouTube channel or whatever that Patrice had started. Apparently if you had enough views, people wanted to be in the videos you posted. Surprising, really, that anyone found value in such silliness.
The last few days went smoothly with him imparting his knowledge and his guests demonstrating their talents. The most important part of this arrangement was that Rafael wouldn’t have to battle the seizing of his limbs while in the middle of a baking technique or a cooking demonstration. Humiliating breakdown of body versus unapologetic YouTube drivel—he’d take the latter any day.
“I told you it would work out,” Inez harped from a video call he propped on her kitchen counter. She insisted that he show her around to prove that her plants were still alive. Rafael stayed in her apartment, within walking distance of the school. But as soon as class was dismissed today, he would head outside the city to his house for the weekend.
“If byworked outyou mean we’re halfway through and no one has been maimed or traumatized, then yes, you’re right.”
