TALES OF INSTANT LUST - SHORT READS

Chapter One

Erotic Romance | Contemporary | Forbidden romance | Steamy

My haven has always been the kitchen.

It has a rhythm and a language that only I can comprehend. My church bells are the sigh of a mousse rising in the oven, the metallic whisper of a chef's knife gliding through fresh herbs, and the sizzling of oil hitting a hot pan. I am in charge here. My fingerprint is on every taste, every motion, and every plate that comes off my counter.

On the night she arrived, it began to rain.

It was Thursday, and my regular clients' dinner rush had long since ended. It was quiet in the dining room, and I was cooking a late-night steak with white wine reduction for my pickiest client, Mr. Harper, by myself in the Harper estate's open-plan kitchen.

The warm pendant lights shone on the marble counters. The aroma of pepper, thyme, and melting butter filled the air. I heard gentle, bare feet on the hardwood floor while I was garnishing the potatoes.

At first, I didn't even look up. Perhaps, I reasoned, Mrs Harper had come home early from her charity function that evening. Then she started talking.

"You're running late.”

I halted, the knife hanging in midair, because Mrs. Harper's voice wasn't that. It was younger.

She was leaning against the doorway, framed by the hall light, as if she had just stepped from another world into mine, when I turned to look at her. Lana Harper was her name. The daughter of the Harpers. a student at a university. expected to be gone until the summer vacation, which I thought was still a few weeks away.

Apparently, though, I was mistaken.

She didn't have on clothes for a night out. She was ready for bed, or rather, she was partially naked. bare legs. A big white T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and hung freely. Her hair was a bit scattered as if she had just gotten out of bed or something.

And a smirk that revealed her understanding of the type of problem she was.

I put down the knife and said, "You shouldn't be here."

She walked in as if she owned the place and said, "Neither are you." "Dad hasn't even arrived home yet."

"I'm hired."

I returned my attention to the sauce on the pan. "I need to finish a delivery."

Her voice curled at the edges as she remarked, "When you cook, you look serious."

I didn't respond. Avoiding it was safer.

She stayed. Instead, her nails made a soft tapping sound that followed her like a trail as she walked around the kitchen, sliding her fingertips along the cool marble surface. She moved to watch me from the other side of the counter.

She nodded at the little pot and questioned, "What is that?"

I whisked it and remarked, "White wine reduction."

"Goes nicely with steak." "Does it go well with me too?"

My whisk just paused for a split second. I kept my eyes off of her.

"That's not on the menu for tonight," I stated sourly.

Her lips curled into a gentle smirk as she cocked her head.

"Perhaps I'm an unexpected order.”

She moved again, going around the counter till she was next to me as I turned to get the parsley. Even before she touched me, I could sense how warm she was.

She questioned, "When you cook, do you always wear that apron?"

I tried to sound even as I said, "It's part of the job."

The knot in my hip caught her attention. "Is it ever taken off?"

I held on to the pan's handle a bit too tightly.

"Lana..."

"What?" she enquired, pretending to seem innocent.

I looked at her, truly looked at her, and immediately felt bad about it. The hem of her T-shirt had moved up, touching her mid-thigh. And below, I could just make out the faint outline of lace. My mouth tightened.

My voice was low as I stated, "This isn't a game."

She looked into the pan, leaning closer until her shoulder touched mine. "Are you certain? We might be able to make it one.

I took a sideways step to give us some distance. I couldn't shake the delicious, slightly citrussy smell of her perfume. She wasn't finished.

She nodded towards the sauce and asked, "Can I taste it?"

I paused. "It's not—”

She slipped her finger into the pan and placed it to her lips before I could stop her. In a way that was far too calculated, she closed her eyes and licked the taste from her fingers gently.

She whispered, "Mm." "All right. However, it may be richer.

I forced myself to concentrate on the steak and turned back to the burner.

I said, "You shouldn't be here."

She fired back, "Perhaps you shouldn't be staring at me like that while you're cooking."

I stopped because of that. I put down the spoon and gave her a direct look.

"You assume I'm looking at you?" I enquired.

She grinned as though she had just won a wager.

"You were. Right now.

"You're dreaming."

"Am I?"

She purposefully lowered her eyes down my chest before raising them again to my face. The electrifying awareness that occurs when two people are crossing a line they both know they shouldn't cross changed something.

With her naked legs swaying slightly and her toes grazing the cabinet below, she leaped up onto the counter. Pulling the T-shirt up an additional inch, the marble edge rubbed against her thighs.

She started by running her fingers along the counter next to her and said, "You know. I've always wondered what it's like being here, observing you at work and smelling everything so wonderful.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Lana, it's a kitchen. Not a secret.

For you, perhaps, she said.

It's different for me. I've seen you move around in here like you own it before. So deliberate and commanding.

She was leaning slightly towards me, making me aware of every inch between us, and her tone had lowered.

She went on, "And I can't help but wonder if you're like that outside the kitchen too."

Slowly, I moved in her direction until I could feel her breath fan across my cheek. With one hand on the counter next to her hip, I gripped.

I said, "You don't know what you're requesting for."

"Perhaps I do," she muttered. Before I could stop myself, my gaze fell to her mouth.

She caught sight of it. and grinned.

She whispered, "I came in here for dessert." I had the option to leave. I ought to have.

Instead, I slightly confined her by letting my other hand rest on the counter.

"What gives you the impression that you are on the menu?" I enquired.

She said, "Because I know you're hungry," without doubt.

It was thick enough to taste the anxiety in the air. The steak gave off yet another heady whiff of flavour behind me, and the sauce hissed. It didn't matter, though. The cooker was no longer the source of the heat I sensed.

Lana fixed her gaze on mine, urging me to take action or do something careless.

And even though I didn't want to acknowledge it, I knew I was already in a mess.