chocolate kisses

Almost 11:30 and he still hasn’t shown.  How typical.  Not even the fact that it’s my birthday matters.  Fuck.  I am so mad right now, not to mention starving.  I’ve been knocking back wine like water, hoping against hope.  But two-and-a-half hours late means that he’s a no-show.  Honestly, at this point I’m not sure I even want him to.  The maître d’ comes by again.  The poor man has been hovering over my table for the last hour as the restaurant went from packed to empty.

He clears his throat.  “Madam, I am sorry to disturb.  The kitchen will be closing very soon.  Perhaps you would like to order and your gentleman friend can order when he arrives?”  But he knows as well as I do that Jonathan is not coming.  The rotten bastard.  I could have been out on the town with my girlfriends tonight.  After dinner I will call up the gang.  Fuck him.  It’s my birthday.  If he is too busy to be around, I will find myself a man who isn’t.

“What would you recommend for a frustrated birthday girl?  I’m in the mood for something meaty and maybe a little bloody.”  I smile so he isn’t frightened off by my bitterness.  Charming gets better service than surly.  Especially since I’m fairly sure the kitchen is already closed and only pity is prompting him to feed me. 

He smiles back.  If he were single and ten years younger, I would have myself a party.  “If you enjoy venison, the chef’s special.  In fact,” he looks around at the now entirely empty restaurant, “we will make it extra special for you.  Come to the kitchen and eat at the chef’s table.”  That would also give them a chance to close down the front of house and send the staff home.  But I don’t mind.  Why make more work for people because my pseudo-boyfriend is an asshole?  A privilege is a privilege no matter which way you slice it.

He helps me out of my seat, holding out his arm.  I smile again, genuinely pleased that this man, recognizing my distress, has gone out of his way to salvage my day.  We walk into the kitchen.  The gleaming steel counters and brilliant white walls are at odds with what I expected.  Though it is the end of the night there is no chaos in this kitchen.  The chef must be quite the taskmaster.  There is no one in sight when we walk in.

“Thank you.  You have been wonderful.”  I trail off when I realize I never bothered to ask him his name.  Normally, I have better manners.  “I’m Genevieve Franklin.”

He places a kiss on the back of my hand instead of shaking it.  Real smooth, he is.  “Daniel Bertrand.  It has been my pleasure.  No beautiful woman should be so sad on her birthday.”  This man broke many hearts in his day, especially when he got married.  A reformed rake, as they say.  Sigh.  All the good ones are taken.

I let him seat me at the mahogany table tucked in the corner.  More excited about dinner by the minute, I have an excellent view of the kitchen.  What a view indeed.  A bear of a man with a curiously delicate touch is sautéing some escarole.  If the food is half as scrumptious-looking I will consider it a birthday well spent. 

I invite Daniel to sit with me.  He looks pleasantly surprised at the invitation while the chef gives me the stink-eye.  Maybe it’s not proper etiquette to hang out with the wait staff but it would be ridiculous to have him standing around at attention when there is no one else here.  It has nothing to do with the accent, old-world charm and baritone voice.  Or, at least, not much.  He’s still married and too old for me. 

“How long have you worked here?” 

The chef chokes off what sounds like a laugh.  When Daniel replies that he is, in fact, part owner, I realize my mistake.  Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again.  I look away, deeply embarrassed. 

Some muffled swearing in the background tells me the chef has managed to burn himself.  Delicious schadenfreude.  That’s what he gets for eavesdropping.  But Daniel is a true gentleman, the kind they don’t make anymore, and moves quickly to set me at ease.

“No, no, you are not to feel bad.  An easy mistake to make.  I started as an apprentice here many years ago.  My sons, they won’t let me in the kitchen anymore.  They say their old man works too hard,” he mused, shaking his head.  “I work the floor sometimes, nice easy work.”  I laugh at that.  Waiting tables and hosting as nice easy work?  I bet those boys regret taking him out of the kitchen now.  When he smiles again I shiver.  Too old or not, he is a fantastically good looking man.

“How else can I meet such pretty women?”  More muttering from the far side of the kitchen has me figuring the chef is one of those sons. 

Daniel reaches across the table and drops another kiss on my hand.  Two seconds later, the chef practically hurls the plate onto the table.  The food smells divine.  His table manners could use some work.  I take it in stride.  It is definitely one of his sons, then, if he is so worried about some harmless flirting. 

Up close, the ursine impression is even more pronounced.  He is huge, easily six-four or six-five, bearded, and practically snarling.  My heart picks up a beat.  If I can swing it, he will be my birthday present.  I catch Daniel’s eye and he nods, smiling slightly.  This is why he brought me into the kitchen.  Nice to know we’re on the level.  I let him take the lead; he will know better than I how to play this.

“Claude, this is Genevieve.  Today is her birthday.  Sit with her while she eats.  Food tastes better with conversation,” Daniel says, still holding my hand.  I can hear Claude spitting venom under his breath.  But he’s not going to gainsay his father, I can tell.  Daniel turns back to me. 

“Do you like chocolate?”  I nod.  “Excellent.  It is time for dessert then.”  With that, he gets up, giving my hand one last kiss, lips caressing my skin a shade too long.  He winks at me, his eyes alight with mischief and delight.  I grin.  Oh, this man is a charmer.  First time in my adult life I wished I was older.

He ignores the mulish challenge in his son’s jade green eyes, brilliant angry replicas of his own, and walks away whistling a lively tune.  That leaves me with Claude, who looks none too happy to be babysitting.  I sit up taller, drawing his eyes to the deep V of my cleavage. 

“Won’t you sit?”  I ask it in my sweetest voice.  Puzzled, he frowns but sits.  Maybe he expected me to run after his father.  It would serve him right if I did, but I’m hungry.  Never one to stand on ceremony, I dig in.  The way into his bed was going to be through my stomach. 

I don’t have to fake my gasp of delight, the venison melting in my mouth, a tangy, bloody, smoky sweet explosion of deliciousness.  The fingerling potatoes are mouth-watering, the herb-crispy skin and golden insides so good I almost didn’t try the escarole, lightly sautéed with butter, garlic and pepper, which would have been a shame.  It is easily in the top five best meals I have eaten in my life. 

“My mother is the better cook,” he says almost grudgingly.  Wrapped up in the food, I had forgotten he was sitting next to me. 

“Did she work here too?”  It’s not politeness.  I am trying to figure out what makes him tick, other than fabulous food.

“No.  She had her hands full with her babies.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Five.  And yes, we’re all boys, and we’re all chefs.  A trial to my mother,” he says lightly.  I sneak a peek.  It sounds like a peace offering.  Sure enough, he’s looking less fierce, almost cuddly.  A mama’s boy, then.  Not a bad thing necessarily.  It means he’s respectful, not one to stand up his girlfriend on her birthday.

“I can imagine.”  I keep eating, which is what I want to be doing anyways, and subtly slide my chair closer to his.  It feels very high-school, in a good way.  “And your father?”

“My father has a heart condition.  He can’t take the stress of being in the kitchen full-time.”  My lips twitch but I don’t smile.  “We’re not the ogres he makes us out to be.” 

He is staring straight at me, a smile transforming his features from intimidating to breathtaking.  My bear has a sense of humor after all.  “Can you tell he misses it?”  I do laugh then.  “Don’t let the charm fool you, he has very exacting standards.  I don’t think anything I’ve ever made is quite as good.  Certainly not with as much élan,” the last said with a self-depreciating smile.  “I’m distracting you.  Eat,” he says, gesturing to the plate.

“I think,” I respond between mouthfuls, “that even if he is the better chef, you’re none too shabby.  You can cook for me anytime.”  I let my voice drop an octave to see if he takes the bait.  His smile widens, tinged with wariness and fascination.  I find I’m the one feeling flustered.  The air darkens with tension.  We are going to be very good together.

“I bring cake.”  Daniel has a tray with chocolate cake, candle and sprinkles, three shot glasses and three lemon wedges dusted with what looks like sugar.  “First we drink.” 

“What is it?” 

It’s Claude that answers.  “Chocolate cake.  Hazelnut liqueur and citrus vodka.”  Then to his father, “I didn’t know you were paying attention.” 

“I always pay attention.  Do you good to remember that,” but he says it with a smile, so I know it’s a friendly long-running disagreement. 

“You have to suck the lemon wedge, and with the juice still in your mouth, drink the shot,” Claude explains.  It is amazing, warm and smooth all the way down.  Who would have thought it, chocolate cake in a glass?

“Can I have another?” 

I know I shouldn’t.  What with the five, six glasses of wine I’ve already had, and my inability to hold my liquor, more is a bad idea.  Even so, I don’t care.  They both laugh at the same time.  There’s a marked resemblance between them, if you know where to look. 

“No, my little one, I think perhaps not.  Next time.”  Daniel walks over to me and busses my forehead.  “I am an old man.  This is too much excitement for me.  I am going home now before my wife kills me.  I leave you in good hands.”  He gathers the glasses and drops them in the sink. 

“Joyeux Anniversaire, Genevieve.  I hope to see more of you.”  After pulling Claude aside to deliver some murmured instructions he takes his leave.  I am sorry to see him go.  With Daniel gone the kitchen goes eerily silent.  I’m not sure how to go from making small talk at dinner to sweaty sex, and I don’t think he does either. 

“You didn’t have the actual cake.  It’s a secret family recipe.  Very top-secret hush-hush stuff.  If I told you anymore I’d have to kill you.”  His mock seriousness cuts through the awkwardness. 

I bite my laugh to keep from laughing.  It’s a lost cause.  I’ve got a serious fit of the giggles, tears streaming down my face and everything.  I can feel Claude staring at me which only makes me laugh that much harder.  Then I hear a low rumble next to me.  My fit sets off his and for about the next five minutes we proceed to laugh ourselves red in the face.  When I regain a modicum of control I look up at him.  He sits easily head and shoulders taller than me. 

“I’m sorry about that.  I’m not sure I even know why that was so funny.  Long day, I guess.  Can I help with the clean up or…”  The rest of the words dry on my tongue.  Wow.  He’s unleashed the full force of those gorgeous green eyes, watching my lips move as though nothing else existed.  I’m too stunned to move but he’s not.  Claude shifts closer, brushing his arm against my breasts as he reaches for the cake plate.  He brings a spoonful of cake to my lips.

“Have your cake,” he commands.  “What’s a birthday without cake?”  I open up and he slides the spoon between my lips.  This is now officially the best meal I have ever had.  A succulent, moist explosion of cocoa, the cake is a prelude to seduction.  I had to have more.  He leans in closer still, our knees brushing, spoon in one hand and plate in the other.  “You like?”

I sigh with pleasure.  “I love it.  You made it?”  He nods.  I am torn between wanting to tear his clothes off and finishing the cake.  For the moment the cake wins.  “I’d like some more, please.”

“Anything for the birthday girl.”  Putting the plate down, he stands up and lifts me from the chair onto the table.  With the extra lift, I’m now at a perfect height for making out.  But he doesn’t kiss me immediately.  Instead, Claude feeds me another bite of cake, using the other hand to stroke my thigh. 

“Would you like some?  Cake is more fun if you share it,” I say, reaching for the discarded spoon and feeling reckless.  He pulls back from me slightly, eyes darkening.  I spread a thin layer of cake and frosting across my clavicles and down to the V of the dress.  A chocolate cake necklace, so to speak.  “Bon appétit,” I whisper softly. 

He takes his time brushing his tongue across my skin, careful not to touch me anywhere other than the places marked.  I struggle to stay still.  You have to let a man clear his plate. 

“More?” he asks.  I nod.  This time he trails the spoon down the side of my neck after giving me a bite, leaving a sticky chocolate line.  When he bends down to lick the cake from my neck I nearly collapse.  The contrast between the warm cake, his cool tongue, and the soft beard overloads my senses.  My skin is on fire.  “Tasty,” he whispers in my ear. 

“Why don’t you lay back?”  There is just enough room before the table hits the wall for me to lie down.  He moves the chair closer, placing its back against the table.  It gives me a footrest and him a view of the underwear I am not wearing.  “I’m feeling famished,” he growls, slipping a finger under the skinny straps of the dress, “and I love chocolate.”  A little maneuvering on my part and suddenly the dress is pooled on the floor, and I’m splayed across the table, an entrée in thigh highs and stiletto heels. 

“Close your eyes,” he orders, “or you’ll spoil the surprise.”  I feel him move away and begin to panic.  What if this is one of those absurd let’s humiliate someone on camera moments?  “Shh, it’s ok.”  Somehow he has sensed my distress.  He walks back to the table to rub my arms gently.  And for some reason that is immensely reassuring.  I settle down.  “I need a few things out of the refrigerator.  I will be right back, I promise.  Can I trust you to keep your eyes closed?”  I nod.  “Good.  Hold on to the table and don’t move.” 

Claude comes back several minutes later.  “Lift your head a little.”  When I do, he winds a cloth napkin snugly across my eyes.  “So you won’t be tempted to cheat.”  I’m a little afraid.  More seriously, he tells me, “Anytime you want to, say stop, and I will.”

“Anytime?”  I’m not quite sure what little devil prods me to add, “Even if you are balls deep inside me?” 

Another rumble of laughter.  It’s even sexier now.  “Even then.  But do me a favor.  Try,” he pauses to spread something wet and cold onto my nipples with what feels like a spatula, “to stop me before then.”  They tighten immediately. 

“Is that mousse?” 

The way I’m breathing, I’m shocked I managed the question.  He ignores me, focusing on dripping more onto my stomach, using his left hand to coat and knead my skin.  I can smell the chocolate mingling with my arousal.  Strong hands on this man, though he’s being nothing but gentle.  I jump when the spatula dips lower still, sliding in between my nether lips and pushing it into my cunt the slightest bit.  He doesn’t linger there, drawing it out to spread chocolate goodness on my inner thighs. 

His hands tighten on my hips.  It’s not painful, just enough to stop my squirming.  “It’s the batter.”  I had forgotten all about my question.  The answer makes me laugh.  Of course it is.  My birthday cake.

“I have the frosting too,” he says. 

I’m not sure I’ll survive being frosted.  He laughs again, and I realize I said that out loud.  I’m too aroused to be embarrassed.  Maybe tomorrow.  “Later, then.”  I’m going to ask him what he plans to do now, though I have a fairly good idea, but he interrupts. 

“Shush.  I’m going to sit you up.  Will you keep still,” the latter phrased like a question though it’s a command.  My insides go soft.  Claude knows and I know I will do anything he tells me.  I nod anyways.  Once up, I instinctively move to the edge of the table.  Better access that way.  It always pays to be prepared.

“More cake?”  I make sure to lap at his fingers with my tongue as he feeds me the rest of the cake, bit by bit.  The other hand he places at the small of my back, holding me upright.  A hitch in his breathing tells me I’m having the desired effect.  He bends down to takes little nips at my neck until I’ve eaten all the cake. 

“Good?”  But he doesn’t give me a chance to respond, diving tongue first into my mouth.  He tastes like herbs and red wine, birthday wishes and chocolate kisses.  What I want is to bury my hands inside his hair and pull him onto me.  I keep my hands firmly on the table though, because I am pretty sure he will stop if I do. 

Soon, I’m not even managing thoughts that coherent.  Claude is extremely diligent, not missing a beat or an inch in licking and sucking the cake batter from my skin.  “You taste delicious.”  When he dips his tongue in my belly button I almost leap off the table.  I am half dozen licks away from coming and we haven’t even gotten to the good stuff.  Then he slides a finger inside me and I do come, bucking and crying his name.  He has a gentle stroke.  I ride out the orgasm, clenching hard.

“Open wider,” he says.  My cunt is throbbing, famished.  I haven’t had an orgasm this great in ages, least not with anybody else.  I spread my legs.  He sits on the chair between them, probably a more comfortable position considering how tall he is.  Then his hands are on my breasts, kneading, and his mouth is suckling the hard nub of my clit.  I am shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.  Heat washes through me, sharp and painful.  I dissolve into a blinding flash of lightning pressure, an orgasm so powerful I literally see stars.

“My favorite part of making cake when I was a kid was licking the bowl clean,” he says a while later.  The hairs of his beard tickle slightly as he slides up onto the table next to me and removes the blindfold.  “I was a smart kid, obviously.”

I laugh at that, stroking his beard.  “Obviously.”  He gathers me up, sticky mess that I am, into his lap.  My head barely reaches his shoulder.  I lay it there, crazy content, and sigh.  He is rock hard all over.  To tease him, I give an experimental wiggle.

“Genevieve…”  He falters, the first hint of uncertainty I have seen.  His hands are hard on my hips.  If this is the part where he says it’s been nice knowing you, I don’t want to hear it.  I don’t even think about the repercussions.  Jumping in head first without checking if there’s water in the pool, as my mother would say.  Stupid, is more like it. 

“Thank you.”  I’m still in his lap, that’s got to be a good sign.  “And your father too.  Although how I’m ever going to face him after this, I don’t know.”  I hope I don’t sound as despondent as I feel.

“As he would say, it was my pleasure.”  I risk looking up into his eyes.  He’s good; he sees the worry and kisses me softly on the mouth.  “We will make this a very happy birthday, Genevieve.  For as long as you like.  And then a happy after-birthday.”  Not a one night stand then.  I breathe out in relief. 

“We’ll try the ice cream next.  Chocolate, vanilla, caramel.  All home-made.  How do you feel about waffles for breakfast?”  I nod, too choked up to speak.  “It’s good batter,” he deadpans, startling a laugh from me.  He winks and puts me back down on the table.  “I have to lock up.  Wait here.”  Leaning my head against the wall, I smile. 

“On second thought…”

“What?”  Something tells me I am going to like what he says very much.

“Just thinking how beautiful you’d look laid across the bar,” he comments offhandedly, walking out into the dining room.  I can hear the smile in his voice.  What a beautiful, outrageous man.  I wrap myself in the tablecloth and follow him.