“You can’t look at it like that.”
“Yes, I can,” I half-shout, agonized.
“No.” She holds the sides of my head. “Besides, it’s both of us that create the magic. You’re not sending me out to strangers, you’re sendingusout. Me wrapped in you.”
A furrow etches itself between my brows. “How so?”
“Because I only taste so good becauseyoukiss me,” she whispers, stroking her fingers through my hair. “I only taste so good between my legs becauseyoumake me wet. It comes from both of us.”
“It’s a good argument, I’ll give you that,” I say, smiling against her pouty mouth. “But I know when I’m being maneuvered.”
“Think of what we could do with our secret.” She rubs our lips together. “If you ever wanted to move on from Tartine…and the guilt you can’t seem to escape here…people will follow you.” She teases the seam of my mouth with the tongue, rubbing her cunt against my arousal at the same time. “We make magic, Daddy. We should use it.”
“Claire…” I say, hoarsely, shuddering. Overwhelmed by lust and love and everything in between. “Thank God, I found you.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she whispers, her eyes wet. Heavy with feeling.
For me.
How did I get so lucky?
Slowly, her legs drop from around my waist, but she remains pressed against me on her tiptoes. “Make a new sauce. I’ll meet you in the pantry when it’s time for the final touch.”
She saunters away, those fuckable ass cheeks twitching on her way back to the sink.
Damn, I can still feel those smooth buns sliding up and back against my stomach, the way they did early this morning. This day cannot end soon enough.
I put the sauce together faster than I ever have in my life. I melt butter and add herbs, combining it all with chicken stock and red wine. Mushrooms, onions, garlic. All the while, sweat is building inside of my chef’s coat, at the edge of my cap. By the time the sauce has begun simmering, I’m laboring to breathe. Turning away from the stove, I meet Claire’s eyes on my way to the pantry, closing myself inside and beginning to pace.
Claire enters behind me a few seconds later, closing the door behind her. I lunge for my obsession with a desperate moan, our mouths fusing while I yank her skirt up to her hips, scrubbing the heel of my hand down the mound of her pussy. Gripping and fondling her soft heat. The rush of flavor from her mouth nearly knocks me over, but somehow, I remain coherent. Coherentenough not to fuck her up against the shelves laden with goods. I can’t do that here, as much as I need it.
“Put your big fingers in my pussy, Daddy,” she purrs, biting her lip. “Take some juice. After all, you’re the one who makes it.”
Horny as a bull, her baby talk filling my head and rearranging what I thought I knew about myself, I rip her panties down and shove my middle and index fingers into her wet cunt, spend leaking from the tip of my cock when I find her drenched as hell. “Tell me you’re soaked because you want my sperm. Tell me you’re soaked for breeding.”
Wide-eyed, she searches my face. “W-what’s that?”
At first, I think she can’t possibly mean the question. She’s playing her part. But when I realize she’s being authentic, I’m awed by her genuine innocence. And I vow to protect it. From everyone but me. “It means I want to get you pregnant,” I explain, my composure unraveling. “It means I want to pump my come into this little hole and watch your belly swell for nine months.”
“Oh,” she breathes, beginning to tremble. In a good way. With passion that I can see, feel, taste. “You’re going to make me a wife and a mother in one day?”
“You’re goddamn right I am,” I growl, consuming her with a kiss—and we refuse to come up for air, our lips greedy and growing greedier by the second, as my digits continue to fuck her between the legs, the tempo picking up until I’m pressed in deep as I can go and jiggling that little G-spot for broke, doing my best to swallow her mewls with my mouth, but I can’t catch them all and I’m positive everyone knows what we’re doing in here now. I’m also positive I don’t care about anything but Claire and finishing her, my own cock beginning to jerk and convulse in my pants. I’m going to pop as soon as she does, I guarantee it.
“Go ahead, little girl. Put that liquid gold in Daddy’s hand.” I move my fingers faster, and she stiffens, her eyes going big as saucers, pupils in a full eclipse. “Everyone is waiting to eat.”
“Oh! Oh my!”
Her walls twist around my fingers, her essence pouring forth, and I lose my grip on self-control, soaking the fly of my pants with molten hot jizz, my balls squeezing and releasing so violently, I choke her out of pure revenge with my left hand, and she loves it, the momentary lack of breath, her pussy shrinking up and creaming all over again the deeper I dig my fingers into her throat. Until finally, we’re both shaken and drained and I slip my dripping right hand fingers out of her miracle cunt and tap them on her tongue, collecting from both sources.
“It’s going to be your best sauce yet,” she whispers in between pants of breath.
And she’s right.
We have to bar the doors at the end of the night to stop people coming in after hours, demanding more of Tartine’s now-famous offering. Finally, after what seems like a millennium, I am able to carry my fiancée out the back door.
Neither one of us sees the cigarette glowing in the dark.
Or the speculative eyes peering at us through a cloud of smoke.