Cooking Up A Storm

"Oh, sugar, can you cook," the woman purred as she thrust narrow hips off cream satin sheets and up his driving cock.

Storm Dupre chuckled low in his throat, though he'd heard the joke so many times he was tempted to roll his eyes. Yes, he was a chef whose hobby was making love to women, but couldn't any of his partners be original?

Unaware that she'd made a misstep, the woman lifted her arms and gripped the pale wooden rails of his headboard. The bed was a queen-sized futon, low to the ground and very firm. He and the woman filled it nicely. Storm had to admit she was lovely. The thighs that clasped his hips were long and muscular. The breasts that cushioned his chest were as full and firm as science could make them. Her skin was spa-perfect, with an all-over tan that suggested regular jaunts to European beaches.

Forgetting his annoyance, he nuzzled her professionally depilated underarm. His cock hardened a fraction more at her shiver of pleasure. He would have trailed his tongue over the sensitive skin but for the fact that she reeked of antiperspirant.

Zut alors. What was wrong with the women of Los Angeles? Either they refused to shave at all or doused themselves in scent until a man could hardly smell the woman beneath the stink. Storm loved a woman's natural perfume—the musk under her arms, between her legs, the way it changed not just with her arousal, but with her emotions. Nothing got him harder faster than the smell of a woman who wanted him—although a perfectly grilled plate of garlic shrimp came close.

He slowed his thrusting, ashamed of his lack of focus. This woman was who she was. No one had forced him to accept her advances. The least he could do was coax her body through its full range of pleasure. Aside from preparing soul-delighting food, helping women explore the true depths of their sensuality was his gift—his mission in life, he sometimes thought.

Storm smiled at his own hubris and shifted angles to catch the top of her cunt. The woman sighed with pleasure as the bulb of his cock massaged her hidden sweet spot. His smile broadened. He'd warm her up this way, nice and slow, then pull out and coax her up the slope again. He'd ply her with kisses and strokes, with pinches and whispers, with the sights and sounds of his own arousal. He'd show her how sweet delayed gratification could be.

But the woman had other ideas. She crossed her ankles behind his gently rolling buttocks. "Harder, darling," she demanded, arching her long, tanned throat. "I'll never come unless you do it harder."

Storm sighed to himself even as he obliged. Lately it seemed they all wanted it harder: harder and faster. Why did people treat sex like a cheap burger they had to wolf down between appointments—or, worse, a notch on the bedpost of their self-esteem. To his mind, sex was a feast, and orgasm a treat best savored after much anticipation. The palate, he believed, should be teased slowly, lingeringly, with an ever-changing assortment of hors d'oeuvres. Each bite should be allowed to melt in the mouth, this bite tangy, that bite sweet, each one worthy of appreciation. When it came to sex, hunger was a gift, not an inconvenience. It should be stoked to excruciating heights, not sated as soon as it rose.

Why was everyone in LA in such a goddamn hurry?

The woman groaned, picking up still more speed. Her hands slid up and down his back. Her long nails pricked his buttocks. Her cunt gripped his cock like a blood pressure cuff. "Ooh, you're so big and hard. Oh, yes. Ram it home, darling. Ram it hard."

Storm rammed, his body delighting despite his philosophical disapproval. Since he knew he wouldn't last long at this pace, he slipped his hand between their bodies. Her clit was a wet, hard berry swimming in cream. He should have been rolling it against his tongue. He should have been suckling it to screaming, jangling longing.

"Harder," she said as he rubbed the slippery jewel. "Harder!"

Fine, he thought. I'll give you harder. He jammed his thumb over her clitoris and slammed in full force, full speed. She began to wail in a way that sounded practised, though he didn't doubt the genuineness of her body's response. A flood of juice washed his churning cock. He closed his eyes and put all his awareness into his penis, into the tight hug of her body, the warmth, the pre-orgasmic flutters. His glans squirmed happily against the hot, wet folds of her sheath. He could smell her now, tangy and rich. The pressure in his balls increased, the sense of impending crisis. His thigh muscles tightened.

Yes, he thought, ready to catch the wave. Yes.

"Yes," she screeched, distracting him. "Yes, darling, yes!"

She sounded like a starlet auditioning for a pornographic film, rather than the successful caterer she was. In direct contrast to his usual pattern, he lost the urge to come entirely as she climaxed. Mindful of her needs, he continued thrusting until her shudders died, then pulled out and discarded his empty condom. The woman followed him to the edge of the bed.

"Mm," she said, rubbing her naked front across his naked back. "You're every bit as good as Sheila said."

How the hell would you know? he wondered, less than impressed with his own performance. He eased her roving hands off his chest, consoling them with a gentle kiss. The last thing he wanted was for her to discover his erection and suggest a second round. He grabbed his silk robe off the sand-coloured chaise lounge and tied it, careful to keep his back to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, struggling not to let distaste creep into his voice. "But I've got to be at work in an hour and I need to shower."

"Oh, sure." She sounded disconcerted. "You won't forget my offer, though, will you? I think we'd work well together."

He looked back over his shoulder. She was pulling her bra on, a filmy green stretch-thing. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the show, but now he felt empty—not to mention a little grimy. He was reasonably certain the bump and grind they'd just shared had been his real job interview.

"I've been thinking of opening my own restaurant," he said, though until this moment the thought had been no more than a daydream.

"Oh," she said, startled again. She wriggled into her matching green panties and smoothed her flat stomach with an air of satisfaction. "Well, you definitely should, darling. You're much too gifted to be languishing at that dinky place on Melrose Avenue. Spago's I could see. Of course, everyone is in Wolfgang's shadow there and you're not the shadow-standing type, are you?"

"No," he said, amused by her combination of name-dropping and insult. For the past eight years that 'dinky place on Melrose' had paid him a salary so astronomical he could almost afford his own place—not in LA, he supposed, but somewhere.

The woman cocked her head at him, clearly gauging his prospects. He was personable, he imagined her thinking—charming as well as talented, determined, self-disciplined. She knew his boss and had probably heard stories of how Storm occasionally strong-armed Jimmy into letting him have his way—always to the eventual benefit of the restaurant. Storm's culinary flair had put Jimmy Dee's on the must-visit map. Producers ate there now, starlets, agents, people who mattered.

The woman fluffed her tastefully streaked hair and smiled. Storm knew the verdict had come out in his favor.

"I'll leave my friend Nancy's card," she said, no doubt hoping to ingratiate herself with a man whose name might be worth dropping in the future. "She's an estate agent. When you're ready to scout locations, she'll be happy to take care of you."

I'm sure she will, he thought, pasting a fake smile over the queasy feeling this conversation was giving him.

To his relief, the woman was gone when he emerged from his shower.

Rubbing his dark, shoulder length hair with a towel, he paced to the open window and looked out over busy Santa Monica Boulevard. The ubiquitous palm trees wavered behind a haze of car exhaust. Fronds drooping, they looked more like weary drabs than harbingers of paradise. The same smoggy, salty breeze that set their fronds swaying blew sheer white fabric against his naked chest.

His decorator had chosen these curtains, along with the beige Berber carpets and the sleek modern furniture. Serenity, she'd intoned, minimalist earth- and sand-toned serenity. The end result was serene and uncluttered and even, to a certain extent, him. But his flat felt more like a picture in a decorating magazine than a home.

He'd assumed a professional would do better than he could. With his upbringing, he didn't know how a home was supposed to look. He only knew it didn't look like this.

Something on the bedside table caught his eye, a glossy magazine. He picked it up. Restaurant Monthly. The woman must have left it. He hoped she wouldn't use it as an excuse to return. He paged idly through the issue, calmed by the pictures of gourmet cuisine. A flaming banana rum cake made him smile like a woman at a particularly adorable baby. He'd made his first flambé at the age of thirteen. How Mrs Kozlakis had clapped. A favorite recipe is like a trusted friend, she'd said, and she'd been right. Flipping ahead, he admired the presentation of a fan of char-grilled chicken breasts. Then, near the back, where the cheaper ads clustered, a black and white photograph caught his eye. It showed a woman standing in front of a quaint two-storey house.

Without warning, his heart gave a great pound and his face flashed hot, as though his blood were rushing to his extremities. Love at first sight, he thought, one finger rising up the clapboard siding to the picturesque widow's walk on the roof. He smiled at the overflowing window boxes, at the fat brick chimney, at the bird-filled bird's nest in the shady oak.

Now this was a home.