Cooking up a Storm (8 page)

Abby was amazed. He didn’t ask. He didn’t beg. He said what he wanted and abruptly she wanted it, too. ‘Do it,’ she said.

He caught his breath as though her answer surprised him.

‘Do it,’ she said, and intensified her stroke.

His eyes squeezed shut for a second. She knew she hadn’t hurt him because he began to thrust into her grip, began to breathe faster until his stomach moved in and out like a bellows. His cock grew longer, redder. He grunted and gritted his teeth. Soon, she thought, hardly able to wait. At last, with a curse of impatience, he let go of her pussy, covered her hand and aimed himself at her belly. His shaft swelled within their clutching fingers. The muscles in his chest tightened.

‘Abby,’ he gasped, and shot her with a warm, thick spray of come.

She watched it spurt in ribbons of white. She felt the spasms through her fingers; heard his quick chuffs of pleasure. Beautiful, she thought. She was sorry to see it end, but glad when he rubbed his cream into her skin, massaging it over her belly and into her muff. She loved the glorious sticky feel and then the tightening as it dried. She wouldn’t be able to forget it was there. She’d think about it all day long.

His fingers slipped lower, curled over her clit and made her come again, this time in a series of spangling contractions strung together like a daisy chain.

‘Good,’ he said when she’d settled. He withdrew his hand and stuck his longest finger in his mouth. Tongue swirling, he sucked it clean of their juices.

Abby’s jaw dropped.

‘Remember,’ he said with a small, knowing smile, ‘you must not wash it off. I have marked you. Today you are all mine.’

She should have been offended, but instead she started counting the minutes.

Storm could hear the hum of customers all the way in the kitchen. He’d been serving the new menus for a week now. Already the dining room was full for dinner and nearly full for lunch. Abby credited Storm’s cooking skills but, given the number of single males in attendance, Storm doubted the improvement was entirely — or even mostly — due to him.

Apparently, Abigail Coates was the belle of the Cape. Her newly unattached status drew men like the roses on her cottage drew bees. Storm was amazed that Bill had managed to keep the competition at bay for so long, but perhaps their respect for Abby’s sense of propriety was responsible.

In any event, the local bachelors were beginning to have to double up, since there weren’t enough tables to seat them all in solitary splendour.

Of course, there would have been enough tables if the upstairs dining room hadn’t been in dire need of replastering. Abby’s sheepish expression when she admitted that had spoken volumes. She knew she’d misled him. The Coates Inn was hardly the ‘thriving family concern’ she’d claimed in her ad. That’s when he realised she’d sunk everything she had into paying his salary. The move was a bold gamble, and a fortunate one for him, since he hoped to use her dependence on him as leverage for his buyout.

Giving his conscience a quieting kick, Storm threw a handful of spring onions into the clam chowder that was simmering on the stove. He’d made the soup the day before — chowder required ageing in order for its flavours to blend — but he always added something fresh on the day of serving. This evening the something fresh was onions and a dash of white wine. Crude though some of them were, the local bachelors were bound to love it. Storm vowed that, while they might have come for Abby’s sake, they’d come again for the food.

In the meantime, he wavered between annoyance and amusement. One thing was certain, the last thing these bucks needed was a steady diet of his all-aphrodisiac menu. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up with a riot on his hands.

‘It’s a madhouse out there,’ Abby said, returning with another handful of orders. Her cheeks were pink with happiness, her eyes bright with excitement. Storm wondered if she’d noticed all the cock-heads wagging as she passed. Not consciously, perhaps, but the testosterone in the air was having an effect on her. She looked radiant.

‘Come here,’ he said, shifting a skillet of shrimp off the burner.

‘Oh, no.’ She backed away, her flush deepening. ‘Not again.’

She’d been helping him in the kitchen all week and he’d coaxed her into as many mutual grope sessions as he could manage. They’d traded hand jobs in the supply room, dry-humped on the workstation cutting board, and kissed each other numb in the herb garden under the moon. What they hadn’t done was engage in full intercourse or oral sex. Storm wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait for either. Abby made him unconscionably impatient.

‘Just a kiss,’ he said, puckering his mouth to prove his sincerity. ‘I need a pick-me-up.’

Abby’s eyes slid to his groin. Even through his apron, the bulge of his erection was evident. His cock had been rising ever since he’d heard her light, quick footsteps advancing down the hall. The weight of her attention stiffened him up the last possible millimetre.

‘You look plenty picked up to me,’ she said, ‘and we don’t have time to, um, get you laid down again.’

He curled his tongue out and touched his upper lip. Beneath her soft cotton sweater — sherbet green tonight — Abby’s nipples popped to attention.

‘Oh, God.’ She quickly buttoned the matching cardigan. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘But you like me that way,’ he said.

This time she didn’t deny it. She sighed in surrender. ‘One kiss. A quick one.’

He backed her into the counter, clasped her face in both hands, and plunged his tongue inside her mouth. Abby made a strangled kitten noise and kissed him back. She gripped his buttocks with an enthusiasm that suggested she might have a thing about his rear. Hoping this was so, Storm clenched his cheeks and savoured her anguished groan.

‘It’s been hours,’ she said, breaking free with a gasp. Her little hand crept over his erection and gave his shaft a testing squeeze. He noticed she did that a lot. Perhaps she needed proof of her effect on him. As far as he was concerned, she was welcome to it. It was certainly easy to give. She had to be one of the most responsive women he’d ever met; a soft, squirmy, cuddly little handful. Her shyness made her all the more fun to play with.

With one eye on the stove, he ran his hands up her front and cupped her hard-tipped breasts. She moaned through closed lips. He eased his thigh between her legs. She immediately began to ride it up and down. He grinned. How delightful she was.

‘I have something special planned for tonight,’ he said, his voice gone smoky with pleasure.

‘Please don’t tell me what,’ she said. ‘Not when I have to go back into that dining room full of people.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised and gave her breasts a slow, deep squeeze. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. I will tell you one thing, though.’

‘What?’ The word was a shallow pant. She rolled harder against him. In a minute, her skirt would be wet — and maybe his apron, too. ‘What one thing can you tell me?’

‘I’ll be inside you,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll shove my cock in your cunt, as deep as it can go. You’ll feel the shape of me inside you, the pounding of my blood, the hardness. You’ll be soft and wet. Your folds will move around me, stroking me, clutching me. We’ll hold there like that, locked tight, until neither of us can stand another second without moving.’

Her hand contracted involuntarily on his shaft, a delicious death grip.

‘I want that,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how much.’

He was about to kiss her again when the clatter of the busboy’s cart broke them apart.

Later, he promised, with silent lips.

She blushed hard and quickly left the kitchen.

*   *   *

Still fanning herself, Abby found Francine and Richard and their two little monsters in the lobby. They had circled the beleaguered hostess like natives inspecting a nervous pilgrim. Francine was in full warpaint tonight. As short as Abby, she’d inherited her deep bosom from their father’s side of the family. Her stylish, chin-length hair was red this week, a red echoed by her fluttery tunic and skirt. Her husband Richard was a tall, thin, serious man. Unlike his wife, he had no flash whatsoever, though he did look handsome in his black business suit. Francine was always after him to get fitted for contact lenses, but Abby loved his Buddy Holly-style spectacles. They were sexy, she thought, in a nerdy scientist kind of way.

‘There you are,’ Francine said, as if Abby were late for an appointment. ‘Tell this woman there’s always a table for family.’

The hostess turned pleading eyes to her employer. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Coates. We’ve no tables for four open right now.’

Francine heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘I told you, we don’t want a table for four. We want a table for two.’

‘And what,’ Abby asked, ‘do you propose to do with little Mary and Milton?’ Her niece and nephew, six and four respectively, goggled up at her, both wearing their best innocent faces.

‘Leave them in the kitchen with you, of course,’ Francine said. ‘You know they love that.’

Both kids nodded energetically.

Abby smiled, for once not feeling the least compulsion to comply. Breaking up with Bill had started a new chapter in her life, and Storm’s flattering pursuit was rapidly flipping the pages. Hiring him had been one of her brighter decisions. Soon she’d be able to repair the upstairs dining room, with or without her sisters’ grudging help. Of course, she still had the second mortgage on her cottage to pay off, but everything would work out. Her life was on an upswing now. She was going to think positive. I’m a new woman, she thought, or at least I’m beginning to be: a new, more sensual woman, who puts her foot down now and then and doesn’t let people treat her like a doormat — not even people she loves. She ran her tongue over her lips for courage and tasted Storm.

‘I’m afraid the kids will have to stay with you,’ she said, her secret places shimmering in remembrance. ‘I’m not cooking tonight. The new chef is, and I sincerely doubt he’d take the same view of children in the kitchen that I do.’

‘But–’ Francine exchanged a look with her husband ‘–Richard and I were so looking forward to an evening alone.’

Richard cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Abby suspected Francine had been looking forward to the evening alone more than he had. Her big sister had just turned forty and, from the comments she’d let slip lately, Richard was having trouble keeping up with her. Abby pinched her lower lip in indecision. She didn’t necessarily believe Storm’s claims about his food, but maybe a platter of oysters was just the inspiration Richard needed.

‘Tell you what,’ she said. Her sister’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ll set up a table in the herb garden. You can watch the kids while they run around, but you’ll still have privacy to talk.’

‘Are you sure it isn’t too much trouble?’ Richard asked.

Francine punched his upper arm. ‘Of course it isn’t too much trouble. We’re family.’

The statement was so typical of her and Abby was feeling so happy, she burst out laughing. The sound startled Richard into a rare, slow smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said, because he really was a nice man. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘You’ll like the new chef,’ Abby promised as she sent a waiter off to find a spare table. ‘His cooking is not to be missed.’

*   *   *

Something small and red barrelled into Storm’s leg just as he was flipping a crepe.

‘No, no, no!’ it squealed and latched on to his calf.

Storm caught the crepe, barely, and looked down. A little boy was clinging to his leg as if the hounds of hell were after his chubby, red-corduroy tail. The boy’s flight was followed by a tall man with thick, black-framed spectacles and a weary smile.

‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing the lenses up his nose. ‘I’m Richard, Abby’s brother-in-law, and Milton here is afraid of urinals. My wife always takes him to the ladies.’

‘Ah,’ said Storm, though the challenges of child rearing left him completely at sea. He dropped his hand uncertainly to the child’s silky brown head. ‘Perhaps you would like to visit the chef’s private bathroom? I assure you, there is nothing scary in there.’

The boy looked up at him, thumb in mouth. ‘OK,’ he said around the soggy obstruction.

To both men’s surprise, Milton insisted on managing his business himself.

‘Kids,’ said the man, in a tone most men reserved for women.

‘Have an oyster,’ Storm offered, nabbing one hot from the pan.

Richard accepted absently and rested his elbows on the counter as he chewed. He sighed when he was done, and not the way most people sighed over Storm’s cooking. Storm poured another crepe and stirred the big pot of clam chowder. It was ready for the white wine. ‘Trouble?’ he asked, reaching past the man for the bottle.

Richard shifted out of his way. ‘You ever try to keep up with a woman who just turned forty?’

Storm had, and enjoyed it immensely, but it would have been impolite to say so. ‘You probably need more sleep,’ he said. ‘Or more exercise. Circulation is important, you know. And, of course, you must eat lots of Oysters à la Storm.’

The man snorted. ‘At this point, I doubt a boatload of oysters could stiffen my mast.’

Storm turned out the last crepe for his order. ‘Never underestimate the power of zinc. It’s a testosterone building-block. Besides, these oysters are my secret recipe. Add a nice dark green salad, a glass of wine, a pecan crumble for dessert, and I guarantee you’ll see things in a different light.’

‘You guarantee it, huh?’

Storm laid his hand over his heart. ‘
Je jure de ma bonne foi.
I give you my word, or I’ll pay for your meal myself.’

Richard stared at him as if wondering what his game was. Storm could almost read his mind. Was he a huckster? A lunatic? In the back of his weary brown eyes, however, a spark of belief flickered. ‘Maybe,’ it said. ‘Just maybe.’

Storm loved moments like this. He felt like Tinkerbell being clapped back to life.

‘Just promise me one thing,’ said the man.

‘Yes?’

‘That you won’t serve the oysters to my wife.’

*   *   *

Marissa had two fifteen-minute breaks a night. She spent the first sampling Storm’s clam chowder — which even she had to admit was disgustingly good — and the second in the ladies’ room, working off the thigh-clenching horniness that had been creeping up on her all evening. She didn’t know if it was inspired by her frustration over Abby or her memories of what she’d done with Jack, but she literally couldn’t wait to get home. She grabbed the first stall, put the lid down, thrust her new black trousers to her knees and burrowed impatiently between her legs.

Her head fell back on a sigh of relief as her middle finger found the hard, pulsing knot of her clit. God, there was nothing like frigging yourself when you were really turned on. The sensations were so intense, so deep. She cupped herself closer, kneading all the soft flesh of her mons, then slipped her other hand between the buttons of her starched white blouse so she could pinch one nipple. Her knees began to tremble. This wasn’t going to take long, which was fortunate. The way the itch had been riding her lately, she’d need a few good gos before she could comfortably return to work. Even then, she might want another trip to Jack’s place tonight.

The sound of someone coming in startled the grin from her face.

‘Lock the door,’ said a husky female voice.

A male voice muttered a protest and was silenced by a loud, wet kiss. Clothing rustled, a belt rattled, and two pepper-red heels were kicked a short distance across the grey and black tiles. A man’s black jacket plopped to the floor.

Interesting, Marissa thought, and drew her feet as quietly as she could on to the seat. Just in time, too, for the man broke free and hissed a warning that there might be someone there.

‘There’s no one,’ said the woman. ‘No one but us.’ Marissa heard the distinctive squeal of a zip being yanked to its lowest limit. ‘Oh, sweetums, look how big you are. I can hardly hold you in my hand.’ A deep, masculine groan echoed through the room. ‘It’s been so long. I can’t wait. I’ve got to have your big old thing inside me now.’