7. Ratatouille
Like everything Chef Matis has decided to torture us with over the summer, this week’s challenge has been harder than expected. Ratatouille—a vegan peasant dish that has become synonymous with French cuisine. Unlike the thin slices used in confit byaldi, we are meant to be presenting a colorful array of cubed vegetables in a manner that is somehow elegant and modern. It’s nearly as basic as cooking can be, and I have no idea how Chef Matis is going to pick a winner out of ten dishes of al dente vegetables.
I decide to lean into my first impressions of high-end French cuisine when I came to Paris two years ago—the more a diner is willing to pay, the less you put on the plate. The last restaurant I worked in served five dots of liquid on a white cylinder and called it a culinary experience. It earned them another Michelin star. In an act of rebellious irony, I strive to offer the same sort of edible austerity.
In the end, I plate red bell pepper, yellow squash, zucchini, and eggplant—a single, symmetrical piece of each all lined in a row. My dish has four fucking pieces on it, and for some reason I love it. I add a crescent smear of the tomato, onion, and garlic sauce that the vegetables have been stewing in, a circular drizzle of herb infused olive oil, and a single sprig of fresh thyme. It’s simple, and it’s beautiful. And I hope to God it’s enough to win the challenge because this one is about more than just earning Chef Matis’ approval.
A win gets my golden girl in my bed.
“Nine,” Chef Matis calls, his arms crossed over his chest, prepared as usual to be displeased with whatever he is presented. I put my dish on his table and cross my own arms, mirroring his stance. I’m not afraid of his critique; I hunger for it because it feeds my need to constantly improve my work. He can tear into me all he wants. If he thinks I’m a failure, I’ll just savor the opportunity to prove him wrong.
“Finally, someone has made me something that isn’t a bowl of fucking mush,” Chef Matis says as he examines my dish with a mixture of irritation and approval. I’m still not sure which is meant for me. “Well done, Nine,” he continues after taking a moment to silently critique my plating. “Although, I can’t say you were given much competition this round.”
Even though I’ve probably plated enough for a single bite, Chef tastes each element individually. He gives a deep hum of approval when he tastes the summer squash. “It’s perfect.” He rotates the zucchini with his fork before putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “They’re perfectly cut. Perfectly seasoned. Perfectly cooked.” The eggplant is the last to be tasted, dipped in what remains of the tomato smear and slid through a rivulet of infused oil. “You’ve given me the perfect summer bite, Nine,” Chef announces when he’s cleared the plate. “I’m thoroughly impressed.” He offers me his hand, and I reach out to shake it feeling stunned out of my own skin.
I dismiss myself and walk back to my station with an empty plate. Chef just said perfect five times. That’s his personal record. If I had to guess, I’m at the top of his list for sous at the moment, and I couldn’t be any more thrilled. That is, until I get back to my station and see a pretty little blonde chewing on her red lips. And I remember if I win, she’s fucking mine.
“Ten,” Chef Matis calls out, his tone a little harsher.
Heaving a sigh, Aurélie walks her bowl to the front. I see a little bit of her dress sticking out from the bottom of her uniform, and fuck me, she’s wearing red. It’s like she knew she would be mine tonight, and I can’t wait to paint her skin to match her dress. She puts her ratatouille on the table and takes a step backward with her hands latched behind her back, her nails painted the same color as her dress. When we get out of this restaurant, I’m going to fucking tear her apart.
Chef Matis takes one look at her bowl. “Fucking. Mush.” Without tasting her dish, Chef turns his attention to the entire kitchen. “Nine, you won this one. Now everybody get the hell out of my kitchen and spend the night remembering what it’s like for food to actually have texture. Dismissed.”
Aurélie doesn’t move as everyone bustles around gathering their things. She stands ramrod straight at the front of the kitchen, her untouched dish still on the table in front of her. I can’t be certain if she’s been stunned by Chef’s standard brutality, or if she’s scared of facing the consequences of my win. I linger until the last of the stragglers make it out of the room before walking up to her. Since the room is empty apart from the two of us, I’m brave enough to run my fingers over the small of her back before wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her against my front.
“Are you okay?” I ask in concern when Aurélie doesn’t melt into my touch like I expect. I reach for her chin and tug her face to the side to look at me. Her cornflower eyes are glossy, and there’s a sick part of my head that likes the sight of her unshed tears.
“Please don’t look at me,” she pleads, trying to free herself from my grasp. “I’m not supposed to cry.”
Her struggle merely makes me hold onto her tighter. “Who the fuck told you that?” I ask, about ready to murder whatever cunt told her she should hide her tears. “I love your tears. They make me fucking hard.”
She laughs, the sweet sound of it like music in the silent kitchen. “Of course you do, espèce d’idiot. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s perverse to get turned on by tears and blood?”
I scoff before flipping her around to face me and slowly forcing her back until her ass collides with Chef Matis’ judging station at the front of the kitchen. She screeches when I grab her by the hips and hoist her up onto the table, careful not to disturb her untouched bowl of ratatouille. I bring my palms up to either side of her face, cradling her delicate bones in my strong hands. She looks so small in my grasp, so breakable. Maybe that’s why it’s the first time I find myself longing to mend someone after I’ve wrecked them.
“There’s nothing perverse about it at all,” I defend. “Blood and tears are a delicious combination. Anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t tried it yet.” I stroke my thumb over her bottom lip and unlatch it from the grasp of her teeth. “Break this lip with your damn fretful teeth, and I’ll be tempted to lick every inch of you while I fuck you on this table.”
Her eyes flutter briefly as her breath hitches. There’s a moment of charged silence. Then she smiles at me like that is exactly what she wants to happen. And she bites down on her bottom lip. Hard.
I rile at her recklessness, my fingers instinctively digging into the hollows of her cheeks. “You dirty girl,” I scold. “So keen to get fucked in the middle of this kitchen where anyone could see?” The look in her eyes is anything but a plea to stop, so I keep going. “You want me to strip you down and lay you out on this table like a ten course feast?” I rip open the front of her white uniform, sending buttons scattering over the floor. The front of her strappy red dress barely covers her tits, and my empty threats are going to turn into real ones very quickly.
“Fuck, golden girl. Did you wear this just for me?” She nods, her teeth still nibbling on her bottom lip. “Say it out loud, Aurélie. Tell me what a desperate slut you are for me.”
“I wore red for you,” she whispers, her periwinkle eyes fixed on mine. “When I put my dress on this morning, I imagined what it would feel like when you ripped it off me. And I hoped—” she pauses as she deliberates whether to reveal more details from her morning fantasy, “I hoped you might hurt me a little too.”
Holy fuck. She’s goddamn perfect for me. “We’re leaving,” I growl, grabbing her wrist and jerking her off the table and onto unsteady feet.
“Why?” Her bright eyes are wide with concern.
“Because the disgusting things I want to do to you right now would get me arrested if someone were to catch us.” I start to drag her toward the kitchen doors. “I’m taking you home where you belong.”
Now she looks panicked, all her previous bravery draining from her face. Her heels start to drag against the marble as she pulls against my hold on her arm. “Stop. Wait?—”
“No,” I interrupt, cutting off whatever excuses she was about to offer. “I won. And I’m taking you home. You can go willingly, or I can throw you over my shoulder and let your fighting and screaming get my cock even harder than it is right now. What’s it going to be?” She remains silent, refusing to choose either fate. I reach for her waist with the full intent of following through on my threat of kidnapping.
“Fine,” she shrieks, putting her arms out in front of her like that will save her if I wanted to take her. Which it won’t. “I’ll go home with you. No need to start acting like a wild animal.”
A wicked smile paints my lips as I stare down at her. She’s got no fucking idea of what she’s in for. “Glad you’re being sensible.” I take her hand in mine and walk toward the exit.
“At least one of us should be,” she mutters, even as she interlocks her fingers with mine.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to fuck the sense right out of you.”
Before we make it out of the kitchen, something small and brown scurries across the marble floor in front of us and darts into the food pantry. Aurélie screams and clutches onto me even tighter. It’s her first scream of the night, and I’m pissed it doesn’t belong to me.
“Jesus Christ,” I swear, looking in the direction of where the little creature bolted. “Was that a fucking rat?”
My apartment is small, even by Paris standards. Living in the center of Paris has its drawbacks, but the location and the view of the city lights from my Juliet balcony is not one of them. On the weekends, I like to open the full length windows to let in the fresh morning air and watch the sun rise while enjoying a café crème or two before walking a couple minutes to Le Fournil to get my usual croissant aux amandes. It may be small, but this apartment is the first slice of heaven I’ve ever known.
In the kitchen, there’s a small gas stove that works pretty well, an oven with a grossly inaccurate temperature dial, and a fully stocked fridge and liquor cabinet. In spite of my meager state of living, I’m not destitute, and I do not skimp on quality ingredients or good bourbon. There’s hardly any counter space, so I bought a kitchen cart that serves as an island and takes up most of the room in the kitchen. It’s a tight squeeze when it’s just me cooking, so it will be more than cozy with the two of us.
“What do you think?” I ask as Aurélie surveys the space with an upturned nose and a furrow of distaste between her brows. “Is it everything you imagined of my sweet little hovel?”
To make the best use of space and money, I opted for a record player I found at a local friperie rather than a flat screen. I put on one of my old Edith Piaf records and lean against the kitchen counter.
“It’s small.” She makes herself at home in my kitchen, unavoidably brushing against me as she starts testing out the equipment and looking in the cabinets and fridge. “But the stove works, the water in the sink comes out hot, and the fridge is full. I’ve lived in worse.”
I scoff as I look over at her tailored red dress and her designer shoes. “Not recently, I’d imagine,” I retort, unable to keep a pinch of bitterness from my tone.
“No, not recently,” she agrees, self-consciously rubbing her hands over the material of her dress.
Guilt instantly bites into my heart. I don’t usually shame people over money. And I don’t know why I’m lashing out at her over it now. Edith croons “La Foule” in the background as I walk the few steps to where Aurélie is standing and drag her into my arms. “So, what does my golden girl want to eat?” I sway to the music as I tug her around the kitchen, my feet moving in the pattern of a lazy sort of waltz.
“Hmm, what are my options, chef?” She has a smile on her face as she stares up at me, her blue eyes sparkling in the light. My heart squeezes painfully, and I don’t know if it’s from the way she says chef or from the unfamiliar look of adoration in her eyes. Or both.
“Anything you want, chérie,” I say, dipping her to the side so dramatically that we’re both laughing. “You’ve got one of Paris’ most promising chefs at your beck and call.”
“Is that so?” she asks with a sly smile. “So what if I asked you to skip dinner and go straight to dessert?” She arches one of her perfect brows to suggest that she’s not exactly referring to food.
“Usually I hate sweet things, but I’d eat you for dessert.”
The seductive glimmer fades from her eyes and turns to horror. “What do you mean you hate sweet things? Who the fuck hates dessert? That’s the best part! Now I know you’re deranged.”
“All the wanting to hurt you and bleed you and tie you up and fuck you in public places wasn’t enough for you to figure that out?” I rasp as I push her toward the wall. Her back runs into the wooden cabinets with a small thud. “If you still came home with me, maybe you’re the crazy one.”
“I believe I was threatened with kidnapping if I resisted.”
“Hmm,” I sigh, pretending to take a moment to think it over as my hands slowly inch the material of Aurélie’s red dress up her thighs. “I suppose you’re right. I wasn’t going to risk you running away from me like you always do.”
“I don’t run,” she answers with a pout.
I wrap my hand around her cheeks and squeeze her lips together. “Oh yes you do. Don’t let this lying mouth talk you into a punishment you wouldn’t enjoy.” I lower my lips to the base of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of cherries before running my tongue down into the hollow of her throat. “So, what’s it going to be my little captive? Am I going to feed you or eat you?”
Her skin is hot as she throws her arms around my neck and drags my head down further, smothering me against the curve of her neck. And if she never let me come up for air, I’d die a happy man. Her hands dig into my overgrown hair, her nimble fingers running through my dark strands at the roots. A deep rumble sounds in my throat at her touch, the gentle caresses lighting up nerves along my skull that I didn’t even know existed. I groan when she takes fistfuls of hair and pulls just hard enough to send a tingling shoot of pain down my spine. And I want more.
“You have five seconds to decide before I throw you over that table and fucking decide for you,” I growl, her touch igniting the madness in my blood. I’m about ready to tear her open and devour her from the inside out.
“I want,” she breathes against my ear, “you,” I shudder when I feel her wet tongue skim across my earlobe, “to make me,” her teeth sink deeply into the soft skin of my earlobe and tug hard before releasing, “dessert.”
Fuck me, this girl. She is such a fucking cocktease, and I’ll make sure she pays for it with my dick deep down her throat before the night is over. I tear her vicious teeth away from me before grabbing her hips and hoisting her onto the kitchen cart. She cries out when her ass meets the hard wooden surface with a thud. That’s her second scream of the night. I’ll make sure the third is actually worth it.
“You want dessert?” I scoff, my hands slapping down harshly on her skin before I force her creamy thighs apart and situate myself between them. She now has a bright red handprint on each thigh. Her short dress has ridden up so much that I can see she’s matched her panties to her dress, and it just makes me want to rip them off her. “Of all things, that’s your demand?”
“Uh-huh,” she answers, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip. Her blue eyes are locked on mine as she spreads her legs even wider, and I can see a wet spot soaking through the center of her panties.
Fucking hell, I want to taste her. All of her.
“I want Chef Grey to make me the best dessert I’ve ever eaten,” she purrs while stroking her fingers up and down her thighs. “And as a reward,” her fingers trail up to her panties and pull them to the side, letting me have a peek at the bare, pink cunt that’s already weeping for me, “I’ll let you eat me.”
I slide my hands over her thighs, her skin warm and slick with sweat. When I reach her hips, I tear her panties down her legs and throw them on the floor. Now that she’s bare, I dip one hand between her folds and slide a single finger into her entrance. She’s so fucking wet and ready for me already. I slide my finger in and out slowly, loving the squelching sound of her cunt being fucked on my hand. She keens when I add another finger, driving into her faster. Her hands fly to either side of the table to keep herself from falling off.
“You know,” I say, twisting and spreading my fingers inside her and watching her needy hole gape for me. “I think you’ve gotten quite enough of my mouth lately, golden girl. So how about—I win, and you give me yours?” I slam a third finger inside her, appreciating the sight of her squirming to take what I give her and not fall off the small table.
“Okay,” she gasps out. I can already feel her start to clench around my hand. “Make me the best dessert I’ve ever had, and you can fuck my mouth to your heart’s content.”
“You sure about that, chérie?” I ask, continuing to pound into her as her hips rise off the table. I move my other hand to her mouth, trailing my fingers over her cherry lips. “I would ruin this pretty mouth.” My hand slips down to her neck, and I grab her tightly, pressing against her windpipe. “I would fuck this throat so hard you’ll have bruises reminding you of the exact size of my cock with every swallow.” I grasp her jaw and force her to look me in the eyes. “And when I come, I’ll feed you every drop of it.”
Her eyes flutter shut and I squeeze her cheeks just hard enough that she opens them again. “Look at me,” I command. “Is that what you want, Aurélie?”
She swallows hard before nodding slowly in response. “Yes, chef.”
Fuck, those two little words are about to be my undoing. I feel a wolfish smile tug at my lips as I pull my hand from Aurélie’s wet cunt and wipe my cum-smeared fingers over her lips. “Best dessert you’ve ever tasted—coming right up.”