mouth. I glanced down at his inseam, to see if I could spot the outline of an erection, and was gratified when he began to shift from foot to foot.
Seeing his interest made me feel brazen, and my desire for both the dessert and its maker intensified. I simply had to get more. Of both.
Not letting go of my plate, I marched toward him with what I hoped was a seductive grin plastered on my face. A few feet in front of him, I stopped and fished for something to say besides, “Hi, can I slather you with custard and lick you all over?” but I found myself at a total loss for words. I’d never seduced a man before. The name stitched on his uniform was Max. Short for Maximillion maybe? Maximo? Maxwell? Hell, as far as I’m concerned the name ought to be Property of Violet Cunningham. Aka Mine .
Max glanced from my plate back to my face, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Did you enjoy the cream puff, mon cher ?”
His voice drizzled out rich and sexy like warm caramel. I went gooey on the inside, heat building up at a rapid pace. Oh, I so needed this. I pried my finger out of my mouth and pushed my breasts out a little more for good measure. “Mmm, this sauce is really good. Do you have any more…” I gave a small nod toward the kitchen door, “…in the back?”
Max blinked once, twice, and then glanced away with an utterly disarming, shy half smile tugging at his lips before reconnecting with me, looking hesitant but bemused. He caressed his chin with his fingertips as he swept another assessing glance over me. “I think I might.”
Well, okay then. Let’s get this show on the road . His meaty hand pushed open the door, and my knees went weak. I wondered how warm his fingers would be against my skin and remembered how my father always said, “Never trust a skinny chef.” I smiled at my secret knowledge and followed him through the door and into the Promised Land.
Once inside, he sent me a nervous glance as though I might be dangerous around knives, or maybe part crazy. I half wondered about my sanity, as well, but the image of his firm body spread with fluffy cream, slathered in raspberry sauce for my licking and sucking pleasure, made me breathe faster. Made me bolder than I’ve ever been before. Driven by an insane internal need, I sucked on my finger again and moaned.
He grasped my hand, sidestepped a waiter carrying a tray of fancy petit fours, and dragged me deeper into the kitchen. Less people there. Much quieter. Only the hum of the ice maker broke the silence. He paused and looked around, possibly checking out the space, before turning back to me. While he was distracted, I glanced down at his pants and grinned, pleased by the evident bulge pushing against his zipper. I was glad I had that effect on him, as he certainly had the same effect on me. I smiled and hoped it looked sincere instead of predatory.
I took a step closer, and his large hands surrounded my hips, pulling me to him as his butt backed against a stainless steel table. With his warm breath bathing my chin, I leaned closer, wanting to touch him. I traced my fingers down the placket of his white chef’s blouse, pausing at the buttons, impatient to undo them. My hands craved to tear past the material and caress the warm male skin underneath. My teeth yearned to take a little bite. After all, if he could make a cream puff that good, logic dictated he must taste heavenly.
A loud noise sounded behind me, and I whirled to see a riot of cooks carrying steam trays rush past us. He flinched at the intrusion, looking cross. Two servers followed, with the sommelier bringing up the rear. Suddenly the place seemed too damn crowded for a tête-à-tête. I sent him a resigned look. Our impromptu tryst would have to wait. He shook his head, frowned, and pulled his arm tighter around my back.
Pressed up against his shirt, I inhaled flour, sugar, and an unknown exotic spice in one heady rush and sighed into the dreamy scent of him. This was a
Seeing his interest made me feel brazen, and my desire for both the dessert and its maker intensified. I simply had to get more. Of both.
Not letting go of my plate, I marched toward him with what I hoped was a seductive grin plastered on my face. A few feet in front of him, I stopped and fished for something to say besides, “Hi, can I slather you with custard and lick you all over?” but I found myself at a total loss for words. I’d never seduced a man before. The name stitched on his uniform was Max. Short for Maximillion maybe? Maximo? Maxwell? Hell, as far as I’m concerned the name ought to be Property of Violet Cunningham. Aka Mine .
Max glanced from my plate back to my face, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Did you enjoy the cream puff, mon cher ?”
His voice drizzled out rich and sexy like warm caramel. I went gooey on the inside, heat building up at a rapid pace. Oh, I so needed this. I pried my finger out of my mouth and pushed my breasts out a little more for good measure. “Mmm, this sauce is really good. Do you have any more…” I gave a small nod toward the kitchen door, “…in the back?”
Max blinked once, twice, and then glanced away with an utterly disarming, shy half smile tugging at his lips before reconnecting with me, looking hesitant but bemused. He caressed his chin with his fingertips as he swept another assessing glance over me. “I think I might.”
Well, okay then. Let’s get this show on the road . His meaty hand pushed open the door, and my knees went weak. I wondered how warm his fingers would be against my skin and remembered how my father always said, “Never trust a skinny chef.” I smiled at my secret knowledge and followed him through the door and into the Promised Land.
Once inside, he sent me a nervous glance as though I might be dangerous around knives, or maybe part crazy. I half wondered about my sanity, as well, but the image of his firm body spread with fluffy cream, slathered in raspberry sauce for my licking and sucking pleasure, made me breathe faster. Made me bolder than I’ve ever been before. Driven by an insane internal need, I sucked on my finger again and moaned.
He grasped my hand, sidestepped a waiter carrying a tray of fancy petit fours, and dragged me deeper into the kitchen. Less people there. Much quieter. Only the hum of the ice maker broke the silence. He paused and looked around, possibly checking out the space, before turning back to me. While he was distracted, I glanced down at his pants and grinned, pleased by the evident bulge pushing against his zipper. I was glad I had that effect on him, as he certainly had the same effect on me. I smiled and hoped it looked sincere instead of predatory.
I took a step closer, and his large hands surrounded my hips, pulling me to him as his butt backed against a stainless steel table. With his warm breath bathing my chin, I leaned closer, wanting to touch him. I traced my fingers down the placket of his white chef’s blouse, pausing at the buttons, impatient to undo them. My hands craved to tear past the material and caress the warm male skin underneath. My teeth yearned to take a little bite. After all, if he could make a cream puff that good, logic dictated he must taste heavenly.
A loud noise sounded behind me, and I whirled to see a riot of cooks carrying steam trays rush past us. He flinched at the intrusion, looking cross. Two servers followed, with the sommelier bringing up the rear. Suddenly the place seemed too damn crowded for a tête-à-tête. I sent him a resigned look. Our impromptu tryst would have to wait. He shook his head, frowned, and pulled his arm tighter around my back.
Pressed up against his shirt, I inhaled flour, sugar, and an unknown exotic spice in one heady rush and sighed into the dreamy scent of him. This was a
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