19. Simmer Down, Chef
Simmer Down, Chef
I park in front of Beatrice and Charlotte’s apartment complex, an unsettling feeling crawling up my spine.
When Beatrice texted this morning, she didn’t say what the issue was. Just that she was sorry to bother me on a Sunday, that something in the kitchen broke down and she needed me to come over at my earliest convenience. It could mean a million things, but I have a sinking feeling I already know.
The damn microwave.
I should’ve just told her I broke it. Should’ve come up with some bullshit excuse instead of getting it fixed myself. But if it’s still not working, if she found out, if she’s pissed?—
I push that thought down as I walk past the usher and take the elevator.
I ring the doorbell, and Beatrice opens it a moment later, standing there in her usual pristine way—straight-backed, expression unreadable, not a silver hair out of place.
She doesn’t invite me in, just steps aside like she expects me to know better than to linger.
“Chef Coleman.” Her tone is all business. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem. What’s wrong?”
“It’s the—” She waves a hand toward the kitchen as she walks ahead. “The stupid burner. It won’t turn on.”
Relief floods through me, and the tension that had been gripping my shoulders falls away. “Oh. Let me take a look.”
I enter the open space and throw a glance at Charlotte, who’s sitting at the table. Headphones on, she’s drawing on her sketchpad, but her gaze meets mine, and she smirks. Trouble. She’s trouble in a sexy blue minidress.
I lower to my haunches, checking the gas valve, then turn the knob and press it until the burner clicks to life. Beatrice watches, unimpressed.
“ . . . Seriously?”
“Maybe the ignition was being fussy. It happens.”
I glance at the fridge, the sink, the half-prepped ingredients on the counter.
It looks like she was in the middle of cooking before the burner stopped working.
Or like a hurricane recently hit her kitchen.
A citrus juicer is out, sticky with orange pulp.
There’s a small saucepan with caramelized sugar cooling near the back, and beside it, a duck breast, skin scored, waiting to be seared.
“I can take care of lunch,” I offer. “Since I’m already here.”
Beatrice’s sharp gaze cuts to me. “Please, I already feel silly for calling you over. You’re not supposed to work for us on weekends.”
“I don’t mind, really,” I say.
She glances toward the counter, and when she speaks, her voice is cooler than before. “No. You do enough for us. How about you stay for lunch?”
I start to shake my head but she turns toward the fridge, already dismissing me.
“I insist,” she says over her shoulder. “Sit down, relax.”
I hesitate, then glance back at Charlotte. This is atypical, isn’t it? Beatrice asking me to stay over for lunch? She’s barely interacted with me for weeks, but I’m now supposed to buy that the woman who made me restart an omelette four times doesn’t want to inconvenience me?
Weird, but I get to sit with Charlotte for a while, so I’ll take it.
There’s that same mischievous glint in her eyes as I walk over, then pull out the chair next to her. With a glance at the drawing of a gown she’s working on, I sit.
“Charlotte.”
“Chef,” she says in acknowledgment.
Nothing else, but I think she sees it in my eyes. That I’ve missed her, that I’ve been thinking about her non-stop. That I’m starting to dislike weekends, because I don’t get to hear her voice and bury my face between her legs.
Beatrice works in silence for a while, and the scent of onions and shallots sautéing in duck fat fills the air, sharp and savory.
She deglazes the pan with orange juice and Grand Marnier, her movements precise.
There’s no sense that she actually enjoys cooking—it’s just something to be done—but she definitely knows her way around the kitchen.
“I’m sure this won’t be anywhere near as good as what you’re used to,” she says.
“I’m not that picky.”
“That’s kind of you to say. But I assume your standards are higher than most.” She stirs the sauce in the pan, its amber sheen catching the light. “Where’d you learn? Cooking school?”
Charlotte is still holding her pencil but she’s no longer sketching. Annoyance flickers across her face, quick but noticeable. Is she bothered that I’m interacting with her mom?
I meet her gaze, trying to silently reassure her that everything’s fine, then say, “Amelie Preston taught me most of what I know, actually.”
Charlotte’s jaw tenses. Not a flinch, exactly—but something cold and unreadable flashes through her eyes.
“Really?” Beatrice hums, spooning some of the sauce onto a tasting dish and blowing on it delicately. “Daisy’s chef.” She glances at me. “She’s mentioned in every cooking magazine possible.”
Charlotte shifts beside me, still pretending to be absorbed in her sketchbook, and just as I open my mouth to tell Beatrice just how special Amelie’s cooking is, her hand lands on my thigh.
I throw her a panicked glance, but she ignores me, eyes stuck to the paper. Her fingers flex and dig into the muscle just above my knee.
Fuck, her touch sends a jolt straight to my groin.
I try to subtly shift away, but her hand follows, sliding higher, grazing my inner thigh.
Beatrice is now reducing the sauce, her back to us. She’s oblivious to what’s happening here, but if I want to keep it that way, I need to say something.
“Her late father was an internationally renowned chef, and she’s pretty much blowing him out of the park. It’s quite—” Charlotte’s hand slides further up. I can’t breathe. “Im-impressive.”
“Yeah. ‘Impressive’ is a way to describe that man.”
Sensing the disdain in her voice, I ask, “Did you know him?”
“Not personally, no. I saw him on TV more than I cared to though.” She smacks her lips. “Distasteful man, I always thought.”
“Sometimes,” I agree, thinking of the way he often blew up at the contestants of The Silver Spoon. “But duck à l’orange? That’s his recipe.”
She turns around, shoulders stiff. “Excuse me?”
“That’s, uh...that’s what you’re doing, right? Duck à l’orange?” For a moment, I’m afraid she’ll throw a knife at me. “You used Grand Marnier—that was one of his staples.”
Charlotte makes an amused “hm” sound, and just when I think Beatrice will walk over and shove a duck breast down my throat, she grins. “I had no idea.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s in most recipe books about French cuisine.”
“I’m really looking forward to eating at Daisy,” Beatrice says, her voice casual. “But not until Amelie’s back. I refuse to eat anything from a backup chef.”
Charlotte’s fingers are inching closer to the danger zone, massaging and caressing, and all I can fucking think about is her hand—how her thumb is pressing into the flesh of my leg, how her nails are just barely scratching at my jeans.
“Yeah, no, you should definitely wait,” I manage to grind out. Fuck, she’s so close to my dick now I can feel the heat radiating from her palm. My balls tighten, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. “There’s no one quite like her.”
“Mm. Well, I can tell you’ve been trained by someone exceptional. Your food speaks for itself.”
“Thanks. Really.” I try to move Charlotte’s hand away, but her grip tightens. Fuck, she’s killing me. “I was—lucky,” I choke out.
Beatrice’s eyes linger on me for a moment too long before she turns back to the stove.
Charlotte takes that as her cue to go full throttle. Her hand moves again, and this time her fingers are right there, cupping my dick through my jeans, her palm pressing into the length of it.
She’s not even fucking touching me directly, but after five days of eating her out, it’s enough to make me want to explode.
Beatrice’s phone buzzes loudly, cutting through the silence. She wipes her hands on a dish towel before pulling it from her pocket.
“Oh, damn it.” She gives her silver hair a quick fluff. “I forgot about this meeting. It’ll probably be fifteen minutes,” she says, tapping to accept the call. She turns off the burner. “Lunch is ready. Serve yourselves if you’re hungry, all right?”
She steps away, voice dropping as she answers, her words trailing off as a door shuts somewhere in the penthouse. The second she’s gone, I turn to Charlotte, my hand snapping to her wrist to remove it from my leg.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss. “Your mom is right there .”
Before I can react, she swings a leg over mine, straddling my lap with the kind of confidence that makes my cock throb. Her weight settles over me, her pussy pressing on me through our clothes. Fuck—she’s warm. Soft. So soft. “She said fifteen minutes.”
My hands fly to her waist in an attempt to push her off, but she just grins down at me, her lips curling into a devilish smile.
“What’s the problem?” She says into my ear, her fingers trailing up my chest. “I thought you could handle a little pressure .”
She rolls her hips against mine and I choke back a groan. My erection is trapped between us, aching and desperate, and when she rocks forward again, I can’t stop the sound that escapes me—a low, guttural noise as her teeth sink into the side of my neck.
“Charlotte,” I breathe. “Beatrice could walk back in any second.”
“Then we better enjoy it while we can.” Her hands slide up my chest, her fingers splaying across my pecs as she grinds down on me again. “Or would you rather think about how amazing Amelie is?”
Amelie? Is that why she’s doing this?
I thought she was annoyed her mom was talking to me, that this was just another act of rebellion and I was caught in the crossfire. Is she jealous? Is that the problem? Because she’s never reacted that way to Josie, but this isn’t the first time she’s seemed annoyed at Amelie.
The friction is maddening, the heat of her pussy burning through the thin fabric of her panties. My hands tighten on her sides, but the fight in me is melting faster than ice cream in a heatwave as I pant hard and fast.
“You feel so tense. Does this help?”
“Fuck, Charlotte.” Unable to hold back, I press my lips to her neck. I feel the pleasure building, crawling up my spine, mixing with the taste of her skin, with the sound of her little gasps as she works herself up. “Amelie is just a friend. You know that.”
“Stop thinking about her then.”
“Your mom?—”
“Stop thinking about her too.”
“We can talk, you know. Me and you,” I say as she tugs at my hair. I try to focus, to picture anything but her expression every time I make her orgasm. “About your feelings? You don’t need to do this.”
Through her chuckle, she rasps, “Feelings? Afraid that’s not part of the deal, Chef.” Her tongue licks up my neck. “But this is.”
“Wait, Charlotte?—”
It’s too much. Too. Much.
My hand tightens at her waist, hard enough that she’ll wear the proof of it tomorrow. I grind her down over my lap, thrusting up to meet her, desperate friction sparking through every layer between us. The other hand slides into her hair, twisting, forcing her to look at me.
“Don’t look away,” I growl.
Her lashes flutter. The next time her thighs clench around mine, the tension snaps. An orgasm crashes over me in waves so intense I can’t stop it. It’s been too fucking long and she’s been teasing me too mercilessly.
A ragged groan rips from my throat as I bury my face in her shoulder and hold her flush against me. My cock jerks, spilling hot and helpless into my jeans, the damp heat spreading as she strokes my back.
Shit.
Shit, I just came inside my pants.
Did she notice? She definitely noticed. This is fucking embarrassing. What if Beatrice comes back now? What if it’s visible through my jeans?
Charlotte strokes my hair, and though my ears are ringing, I can hear her mom talking on the phone in the other room. I look up at her and meet her gaze. It doesn’t look mocking—maybe she didn’t notice after all.
“Of course,” she says sweetly, one hand cupping my face. “I should have known.”
Known? “What?” I force out.
“That you’d look so pretty when you come...” Her smile widens. “Cole.”