displaying their unique flaky tenderness, were my absolute all-time favorites: raspberry cream puffs. I stared and I drooled—my panties growing equally wet—at the rivulets of raspberry syrup cascading over the puff’s cap, drizzling over the sensuous curves of creamy filling, and pooling onto the plate, cushioning the puff in a moat of perfect sweetness. I, at first, wanted to cradle the delicate puff in my hands and care for it like a baby, but before I knew it, I’d grabbed a plate and buried my tongue deep in the almond-colored filling, letting the raspberry sauce coat my lips and chin in the process. Mother would have been horrified at my total abandon, but I’d denied myself this treat too long. Decorum be damned!
I moaned as my mouth filled with the flavors of cream and amaretto custard, and I fell instantly in love. So good. So perfect. Whoever made these is a god . With my fingers I scooped the top part of the shell toward my lips, and I dipped my chin to make sure my tongue could lap up every drop of raspberry sauce so nothing went to waste. When I’d devoured all of the puff’s top and bottom, I sucked the last of the syrup off the plate with glee. When I came up for air, the kitchen door popped open and a white-clad figure stepped through. I didn’t process the information at first though, because I was too busy clasping another cream puff.
But as I brought the new dish into my line of sight, I paused and took a good look at the man at the back of the room. Did he look foreign? French maybe? No, not really. But the dark, short hair and light olive complexion told me he might be Italian or Latino. I struggled to remember the name of the new chef from the flyer but couldn’t. However, I was sure the man wearing the white shirt must be him, because…well, because he was so damn perfect. And any chef who could make a cream puff this good had to be perfect.
Pastry on hold, I stared at the man. Broad shoulders and a solid stance. A strong jaw under generous lips made for kissing. Skin a natural tan amaretto and walnut-brown eyes. My knees weakened. On top of that, he exuded a patient confidence, a trait I found enormously sexy. I wanted to lick him from the tip of his swarthy black head to his toes to see if he tasted as good as he looked.
In a daze, my gaze traveled to the cream puff and back to the sexy chef. Cream puff. Sexy chef. I licked my lips as my breath came faster. All the sudden, I wasn’t sure which one attracted me more: man or dessert. It was normally a cut-and-dried decision. Pastry always won, hands down.
But the shape of the soft, delectable dessert on my plate and the chef’s Guy Fieri-esque, thick-and-meaty outline were yummily similar. And for a moment in my mind’s eye, the image of the puff itself was superimposed over the one of the chef’s naked body slathered with raspberry syrup for my licking and nibbling pleasure. The two images merged into one sizzling-hot fantasy. A puff-chef combo that was hard in all the right places and soft in all the right places. Man and dessert, joined in one perfect union. My jaw dropped. Holy shit. I want them both .
Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve been with a man and to be honest, I’ve never equated food with sex on such blatant terms before, but a pleasant vibe of rightness rushed through me at the thought. Why the hell shouldn’t sex and dessert go together? I mentally shook my head at my own slowness and stupidity. Way to smarten up, Vi.
He must have sensed my gaze on him because his soon connected with mine, before glancing away for second. When his eyes shifted back to me, his eyebrow arched, as if gauging me. I had the presence of mind to close my mouth and smile, and he gave me a double take. Encouraged, and riding a sugar high, I swiped some of the creamy goo from around my mouth and dipped between my lips. I sucked on it suggestively. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a half smile, his full attention glued to my
I moaned as my mouth filled with the flavors of cream and amaretto custard, and I fell instantly in love. So good. So perfect. Whoever made these is a god . With my fingers I scooped the top part of the shell toward my lips, and I dipped my chin to make sure my tongue could lap up every drop of raspberry sauce so nothing went to waste. When I’d devoured all of the puff’s top and bottom, I sucked the last of the syrup off the plate with glee. When I came up for air, the kitchen door popped open and a white-clad figure stepped through. I didn’t process the information at first though, because I was too busy clasping another cream puff.
But as I brought the new dish into my line of sight, I paused and took a good look at the man at the back of the room. Did he look foreign? French maybe? No, not really. But the dark, short hair and light olive complexion told me he might be Italian or Latino. I struggled to remember the name of the new chef from the flyer but couldn’t. However, I was sure the man wearing the white shirt must be him, because…well, because he was so damn perfect. And any chef who could make a cream puff this good had to be perfect.
Pastry on hold, I stared at the man. Broad shoulders and a solid stance. A strong jaw under generous lips made for kissing. Skin a natural tan amaretto and walnut-brown eyes. My knees weakened. On top of that, he exuded a patient confidence, a trait I found enormously sexy. I wanted to lick him from the tip of his swarthy black head to his toes to see if he tasted as good as he looked.
In a daze, my gaze traveled to the cream puff and back to the sexy chef. Cream puff. Sexy chef. I licked my lips as my breath came faster. All the sudden, I wasn’t sure which one attracted me more: man or dessert. It was normally a cut-and-dried decision. Pastry always won, hands down.
But the shape of the soft, delectable dessert on my plate and the chef’s Guy Fieri-esque, thick-and-meaty outline were yummily similar. And for a moment in my mind’s eye, the image of the puff itself was superimposed over the one of the chef’s naked body slathered with raspberry syrup for my licking and nibbling pleasure. The two images merged into one sizzling-hot fantasy. A puff-chef combo that was hard in all the right places and soft in all the right places. Man and dessert, joined in one perfect union. My jaw dropped. Holy shit. I want them both .
Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve been with a man and to be honest, I’ve never equated food with sex on such blatant terms before, but a pleasant vibe of rightness rushed through me at the thought. Why the hell shouldn’t sex and dessert go together? I mentally shook my head at my own slowness and stupidity. Way to smarten up, Vi.
He must have sensed my gaze on him because his soon connected with mine, before glancing away for second. When his eyes shifted back to me, his eyebrow arched, as if gauging me. I had the presence of mind to close my mouth and smile, and he gave me a double take. Encouraged, and riding a sugar high, I swiped some of the creamy goo from around my mouth and dipped between my lips. I sucked on it suggestively. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a half smile, his full attention glued to my
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