17. Chef’s Special
Chef’s Special
H ow long until you’re done?” I ask Roman, Kyle’s cousin.
He glares at me, the kind of look that says I’ve asked one too many times, so I hold up my hands in surrender and turn back to the stove.
The oil in the pan crackles as I let a drop of water test its heat, and when I lay the salmon down, the satisfying sizzle fills the kitchen.
The rich scent of searing seafood rises, mingling with the citrus tang as I squeeze a lemon over the fish, the juice hissing.
I check my phone for the time and notice a missed call from Amelie. Especially after what Charlotte and I did yesterday, I’m desperate to confide in someone, but I can’t talk to her about this. She’d tell Ian, and I’d lose my job.
“A lot more?”
“Jeez, Aaron. Let him work,” Kyle says from the couch.
I fucking told him not to sit on the couch.
I check the time again. Charlotte isn’t home yet but she could be any minute, and the last thing I want is to explain that the two guys in her kitchen are fixing the microwave door she ripped off when I was eating her pussy.
She hasn’t brought any of it up since—in fact, she hasn’t spoken to me at all, or even looked at me all of yesterday, for that matter.
Maybe the second she got what she wanted I became old news.
Boring. Maybe she’s on to the next target and nothing will ever come out of what happened here yesterday.
Hell, in the blur of my paranoia, I even visited her profile on TOP, but she wasn’t there.
But hey, if she did move on, it’s good, right? I mean, the thought of not touching her ever again feels like a lion is feasting on my innards, but it’s good . Or at least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
“Okay, it’s fixed.”
“Seriously?”
Roman opens and closes the microwave door with exaggerated care, proving that it no longer hangs loose. “Seriously.”
“Oh, thank fuck. How much do I owe you?”
He makes a pfft noise. “You’re Kyle’s friend.”
“No, I insist.” I tap my foot. “Send me an invoice. Kyle will give you my email. Now, please leave.”
He gathers his tools, waves, and finally, finally , walks out. I turn back to the salmon just in time to stop it from burning, and when I look over my shoulder, Kyle is still lounging on the couch, watching me with a curious expression.
“Get the fuck out before they come back home, Kyle.”
“Are you okay, man?”
Why is he still here? “Yes.”
“Really? ’Cause you look like shit.”
“Sadie is struggling to sleep through the night.” Not a lie, but also not completely true. If Sadie weren’t keeping me up with her nightmares, my own would.
“Okay. Well?—”
The door opens, and my blood pressure spikes. I can feel it—blood pumping harder, sweat gathering on the back of my neck.
Kyle moves fast, ducking behind the couch like a reflex just as Charlotte steps into the kitchen. She crosses the room without hesitation and stops in front of me, close enough that the scent of her skin and the heat of her body scramble every coherent thought in my brain.
I have no idea what to expect. Did she tell her mom? Is she upset? Is she here to end whatever this is before it fully begins? Will she destroy more appliances?
“I need an orgasm,” she says, voice casual.
“And not just any orgasm—I need one of yours. One that makes me forget to breathe, that hits even harder because you talk me through it using a corny pet name. I need the Chef’s Special.
I need you .” She runs her finger from my throat to the tip of my chin, tilting it slightly.
“So come to my bedroom and get on your knees for me, Chef.”
My heart flatlines.
She turns and walks away, her white sundress swaying with every step.
I’m still frozen in place when Kyle’s head pops up from behind the couch, eyes wide with disbelief and just a hint of amusement.
“I—” My throat is dry. Holy shit, I can’t believe he just heard all of that.
Kyle nods, biting back a grin. “Dude.”
I scrub a hand down my apron. “I have no idea why—what?—”
“Yeah. Sure you don’t.”
“She’s...” His brows rise. “She’s very, um, wild.”
Wrong choice of words.
“Oh, yes she is .”
“Shh, lower your voice,” I whisper. “Not wild—what’s the word...” I turn to the salmon, but it’s well and truly smoking. With a curse, I turn off the stove. “Unpredictable,” I finish as I turn to him. “That’s the word. She’s unpredictable.”
Kyle’s smile widens. “So you’re not?—”
“No,” I say far too quickly. “No, I’m not,” I try again. “I would never. That would be unprofessional—and she’s really young.”
He pauses. “How young?”
“No, she’s . . .” Jesus, I can’t even say it out loud. “Twenty . . . three.”
“Huh.” Kyle’s silence is unnerving. I’ve never been a skilled liar, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. What is it that Charlotte said? No poker face and no poker voice. Kyle points at the microwave. “Interesting.”
I let out a short, disbelieving huff. “Kyle, you’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, of course. She’s...” I breathe out, then laugh. It comes out all high pitched, so I quickly stop. “You could say she’s been flirting.”
“You could.”
“And—and she’s been . . . after me, I guess?” I’m sweating. “But I would never . . .”
I watch his expression and know there is just no fucking way he’s ever going to buy any of this.
Shoulders deflating, I admit, “It happened once.”
He holds up a hand with a revering smile. “Respect, Coleman.”
“I’m not going to high-five you, Kyle.” I dry the sweat off my forehead. “We just...fooled around. Once. And it’ll never happen again.”
“Of course, because that’d be really wrong, and nobody likes forbidden sex. Yuck.” He tucks his hand into his pocket, pointing at the corridor with the other. “You know what you should do? You should go tell her. Right now.”
Though there’s something in his tone that makes me nervous, I nod. He’s right, I have to tell her. Especially after what she just said. I need her to understand that though I don’t regret it, what we did yesterday can never happen again.
My heart hurts at the thought.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll talk to her.” He pats my shoulder, and it looks like he’s smothering a grin. “Kyle, you can’t?—”
“I won’t tell a soul.” He walks toward the foyer. “Have fun.”
“What?”
“I said ‘Good luck,’” he calls as he closes the door behind him.
That’s definitely not what he said, but it doesn’t matter.
I take my apron off and drop it on the counter, then walk to Charlotte’s room.
The hallway is long and sleek, lined with polished wood floors and abstract art that probably cost more than my car.
This is the first time I’ve ventured this far into the penthouse, and I really hope Beatrice doesn't come back in time to see it.
I knock at the door, then feel like an idiot and open it.
I immediately recognize the dimly lit room from our calls, catching new details, like the floor-to-ceiling windows draped in beige curtains.
A velvet chaise lounge sits in the corner beside a cluttered vanity, and the air smells faintly of her perfume—sweet and heady.
Charlotte’s lying in bed, scrolling on her phone. Meeting my gaze, she drops it beside her. “Finally.”
She reaches under her dress and pulls her underwear down, and I get lost in the movement for a second—on the green silk sliding down her perfect thighs.
Quickly, I recover. “N-no, don’t—don’t take off, uh, anything.”
She stops, panties halfway down her legs. “Why not?”
“Because...” Focus, Aaron. “Because everything I said is still true. I still work for your mom, and if this were to come out?—”
She waves me off. “I won’t say anything.”
“And I’m so much older than you, Charlotte.”
“Trust me, experience plays in your favor. I don’t wreck appliances every time I orgasm.”
I smile, then inwardly curse myself and stop.
Her words feed my ego in a way I wasn’t prepared to sustain.
It’s like she’s fucking healing me, telling me that I can make sex pleasurable for someone.
That it’s not entirely my fault my wife refused to touch me for years. That I’m not completely broken.
She slides her underwear down to her ankles. “Remind me to breathe, Chef.”
Though it’s hidden by her dress, I can see her pussy as if it’s engraved in my brain. I can smell her, taste her. I’m hard before I can shake my head again.
“My brother, Charlotte. My boss is counting on me, and I—” Her legs spread. “You’re off-limits.”
She pulls her dress up to her hips, uncovering her glistening pink pussy. “Good thing I’m not one to follow recipes.”
I groan into my hand, my erection straining against my jeans and painfully pulsating.
What was I saying? I’m sure it was important.
“Your reluctance has been noted, Chef.” Her hair is like a fiery halo on the pillow as her legs spread wider and her dress bunches at her hips.
I can smell her—sweet, musky, fucking intoxicating.
Her lips are wet, swollen, and begging for attention, with a single bead of arousal clinging to her slit, daring me to taste it.
“You’re a Good Guy. Capital G s. Now, should I start without you? ”
My breath comes in shallow gasps as I watch her tease herself, her hips rocking into her own touch. She’s a fucking goddess, and I need to worship her.
Just once more. Seriously, what’s one more time? It won’t change a thing.
She must see the decision forming in my mind, because with a commanding voice, she says, “Close the door.”
As if in a trance, I slam the door shut, then cross the room.
“On your knees, Chef.”
I drop my knees to the floor, a roaring sound coming out of my throat.
“Now make me come on your tongue.”
I dive forward and waste no time, burying my face between her legs. My beard is drenched even before I open my mouth and begin lapping at her.
“Oh, fuck,” she whimpers, her thighs clamping around my head as I work her clit with my tongue. “This is perfect, Chef. Perfect.”
Wrong.
She’s perfect.
The most perfect mistake.