Devour Me: An Alpha Beds a Virgin Dirty Chef Romance Page 3

  I scramble to my feet and look left and right. To my horror everyone around is staring at me. Or maybe they’re staring at Ripley because although I just ass-planted myself on the cold concrete, he’s still standing there looking like he’s arrived for a photo shoot in a men’s magazine.

  “Welcome to Vail, sweetheart. Class starts at seven. And by the way, all proceeds go to charity.” He climbs into the SUV and drives away.

  Five

  Maddy

  I stand in the middle of valet parking wondering what the heck just happened? I spent a lovely time getting to know Ripley until I hit a nerve, or he did. I’m not sure who snapped at the other first.

  “Checking in?” The young bell cap picks up my bag and takes it to the curb.

  “Yes, I’m Madison Leclerc.”

  He types something into the computer and tells me to follow him. “You’re in the Conifer Suite. The hotel has four restaurants, room service and a full service spa. You’ve arrived in between seasons, it’s too early to ski, and too cold to golf, but there’s plenty to do around town.”

  By the time we reach my room, I’m out of breath and famished. Nuts, I just realized I let my anger get in the way of my stomach. “Is there room service?”

  “Yes, just dial 27 and they will be happy to help you.”

  He slides the key into the lock and opens the door. The room is gorgeous. Decorated in creams and greens, it has a fireplace in the corner and with a flip of a switch it ignites. I could be happy here if I wasn’t so confused, and starving. “Do they have chocolate croissants?”

  “Yes, they do,” he leans in and whispers, “but between you and me, I’d sneak next door to the bakery and grab one of theirs. Best in the city—probably in the state, but you would know that since Rip gave you a ride.”

  “Do you know him?”

  He walks around turning on lights, “Yeah, everyone knows him. Nicest guy in the world.”

  Nice guy my butt that he wants to spank. Did he really say that to me? What about the comment about my mouth and his cock? I’m not sure if I should be appalled or flattered. Part of me wants to pack up and go back to California, and the other part wants me to get on my knees and see what that would feel like.

  “I’m here for his class, and I’m a bit nervous.”

  “Oh, wow. I’ve always wanted to take that class.”

  There’s the problem. He gets rankled at my high-end luggage, but he caters to my type—people with money. “Too expensive?”

  “No, it’s more about timing.” He places my bag on a luggage rack and stands by the front door. I look at his nametag. His name is Eddie.

  “Eddie, thanks for everything.” I pull a twenty from my purse and slip it into his palm.

  “Anytime, Ms. Leclerc.” He turns and walks out the door, and I run for my phone.

  It takes three rings for Malcolm to answer.

  “What’s up buttercup? How’s Vail?”

  I pace in front of the fireplace and tell him everything. “He told me he wanted to shut my mouth with his cock.”

  Malcolm laughed. “I told you men like tongues.”

  “This isn’t funny. Why are you laughing at me?”

  “Oh my God! Did you just say cock? You say heck instead of hell. Fudge instead of fuck and shoot instead of shit. Couldn’t find an alternative to cock? What about cockadoodle or clam hugger?”

  “You’re being an A hole.”

  “Ooh, bringing out the big guns? Say it, Maddy. The word is asshole.” He baits me.

  I take a big breath and let him have it. “You’re an asshole, Malcolm.”

  “Yes I am, but you love me anyway, and so does Luke. But enough about you. Now it’s time for my news.” The tone of his voice goes from playful to penetrating.

  “Tell me, did you find a surrogate? Start a college fund for my future children?” Malcolm and I have one of those instant friendships. It didn’t take long before we shared our deepest secrets and wildest dreams. His is to live out in the open with Luke and, over the last few weeks, I’ve been prodding him to stand up to his father and do something about his dream. “Holy cream puffs! Did you tell your parents?”

  Silence fills the air.

  “You did.” I dance silently around my room and wait for his answer.

  “After we dropped you at the airport this morning, Luke and I went to city hall and got married, then we marched into my father’s office and announced it.”

  “What did he say? This isn’t standing up news.” I fall into the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace and pull out my pen and paper. Drawing calms my nerves and I’m balancing on a knife’s edge between Ripley and Malcolm.

  “He said it was about time I got the courage to be a man. Can you believe my dad called me a man for the first time in my life right after I told him I have a husband?”

  A whoosh of air leaves my lungs. “That’s wonderful.” I scribble lines on the page. “What about your mom?”

  He pauses a second. “She cried a bit, and then I told her you’d let her be an honorary grandmother.”

  I giggle. “Nothing like putting a bunch of pressure on me.” I lay down the sketchpad, and I grab the room service menu from the ottoman.

  “He wants to put it in your mouth, but I have faith you can get him to go lower. Obviously, he’s attracted to you. Either that, or he’s a total chauvinist pig. I’d say you’ll figure that out in a day or so.”

  “I imagine you’re right.”

  “I gotta go. Luke is taking me to dinner.”

  “Happy nuptials!” I met Luke today when he and Malcolm drove me to the airport, and I have to say, they’re perfect together.

  My next call is to room service where I order a hamburger and a substandard chocolate croissant then I look at what I doodled and nearly fall off the seat. In front of me sketched on the paper are my lips wrapped around a penis.

  RIPLEY

  I have no idea what came over me. One minute we are sharing pleasantries. The next we are in a pissing contest, and then I’m threatening to shove my cock down her throat. All I can think about are her lips wrapped around my dick, but I never should have said it! This is going to be the longest fucking week of my life.

  I shove the car in park and stomp into my house. I have to prep for tomorrow night’s dinner here. It’s my gift to the students. Because the first day of class is always stressful, I have them over to my house to remind them I’m just a regular guy. I fix a simple meal of chicken cordon bleu with rice pilaf. We unwind and get to know each other. That makes the rest of the week easier. But I have a feeling nothing is going to make this week easy when I know for certain that for the next five days my dick will be hard.

  Once I’m done, I prep in a different way. Madison Leclerc is no ordinary girl. She says she looked me up? It’s only right I do the same.

  I type in her name, and pages of information about her populate my screen. Holy hell, she’s everything I hate in a person, but she’s everything I want.

  Six

  Maddy

  It’s fifteen minutes to seven, and I’m standing outside the back door of the bakery freezing my tushie off. I reach for the handle several times then think better of it and stand back. I feel like a shit for accusing him of being a hypocrite.

  “You going in?” An impatient voice comes from behind me

  I whirl around to see a skinny blonde dressed in checkered pants and a chef’s jacket. Am I going in? That’s what I’ve been debating for the last ten minutes. “Yes.” I yank on the door handle and pull it open. Immediately, my senses are on overload. I draw in a deep breath of baked goods, cinnamon and sugar. I hold the door open for the girl who looks like she’s never eaten bread in her life.

  “Welcome, ladies.” Ripley leans against a stainless steel table dressed in a twin outfit to the blonde, and I wonder if she works with him. A thread of jealousy wraps around my insides and pulls tight.

  “Good morning,” I offer first.

  “Good mornin
g,” the blonde says sweetly, and I want to choke her.

  “Have you two met?” He steps forward and hands us both a tied package. “If not,” he points to me and says, “This is Madison Leclerc.” He says my name perfectly. Most people pronounce it laclerk, but it rolls off his tongue with perfection and sounds like an L followed by éclair, just like the pastry.

  “Nice to meet you.” She says all saccharine and sweet. “I’m Paige Trumble.”

  I smile and nod, but I don’t tell her it’s nice to meet her because it’s not. Since she entered the place, all she’s does is eat Ripley up with her eyes. She might be sweet on the outside, but so is a ferret before you step on its tail.

  “Come meet the others.” Ripley turns around and walks us through a door to a classroom. Not your average classroom, but a large room lined with wall ovens and refrigerator units. Six stainless steel tables shine like diamonds under the fluorescent lights. This room doesn’t smell like donuts and chocolate frosting. It smells like intimidation and hard work.

  Standing in front of the tables are three men—all decent looking in their own right, but when in a room with Ripley they are invisible.

  “Gentlemen, this is Paige, she works as a sous chef in Atlanta. This is Madison, and she won this class at a fundraiser.” He points to the men and introduces them one by one along with their cooking pedigree. There’s Chad, Grayson, and Cliff and by the time the introductions are made, I’m ready to turn and dash out the door.

  Ripley must sense this because he walks behind me and settles his hand on the small of my back. “Let me show you to your work station.” He takes me to the back of the room where two empty tables sit. His hand never leaves my body. The flat palm reminds me of his threat to spank me, and I shudder. “Cold?”

  “A bit.” I lie which isn’t a thing for me, but it’s quickly becoming a habit around him.

  He unbuttons and pulls off his chef jacket placing it on me. “This should keep you warm.” I button up the front while he rolls up my sleeves. The room is silent and only he and I exist. I drop my head forward and breathe deeply. I’m surrounded by his smell, his energy, his presence. He is so nice, and then he is gone, and all that’s left is the heat of his touch and his autumn spice cologne.

  He walks to a cabinet where he pulls another chef coat from the rack. While he puts it on, he gives us a tour of the classroom. There are stand mixers, hand mixers, and whisks of every size. One wall is a pantry that contains everything from the finest cocoa to cocoa butter.

  “The first day starts with a challenge. In order for me to see what your skillset is, I want you to make a cake. You have two hours to finish it. Once the cakes are done, we will offer samples to the patrons of Sinfully Delicious.”

  The other students hop into action grabbing table mixers and eggs and flour. I stand still not sure where to begin. I read for hours about basic baking ingredients. I know that egg whites should be at room temperature before being whipped. I know that flaky crust requires ice water and cold butter. What I don’t know is how to make a cake.

  “Lost already, sweetheart?” While I watch the other chefs at work, Ripley watches me. “I thought you had experience.” He leans on the stainless steel table too close to me. “Was that a lie?” He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “That makes me want to paddle your ass harder.”

  A jolt of electricity powers through my body. I pull a full sentence from somewhere. “I don't lie. I’ve made cupcakes.”

  He laughs. “From scratch?”

  My shoulders sink. “No, from a box, but it was still hard for me.” I burned half of them before I figured out there was a difference between regular heat and convection.

  “Sweetheart, I can think of something else that’s hard for you. You don’t know what hard is until you’ve been with me. Let’s get you started.”

  Was that a threat or a promise? “Maybe I should go back to my room. I’m completely out of my element here.”

  He pulls a stand mixer from the shelf. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up already. I didn’t take you for a quitter.”

  I throw my chin forward. “I’m not a quitter.”

  “Good girl. Then show me you can take everything I give you.”

  Is he actually implying something, or is my mind racing there because this man makes my libido dance? “I’m all yours.”

  He pulls several measuring cups from the drawer beneath the table. In a voice loud enough for only my ears he says, “You bet that fine ass of yours. Now go get the flour.” He points to a shelf of dry goods and I hustle to do as he says. On the way, I realize this man must have an ass fetish—a large ass fetish.

  “What kind of cake am I making?”

  “You tell me.” He opens the parcel he handed me when I arrived and pulls out an apron and a net of some sort.

  “Lemon.”

  “Lemon it is, but first things first.” He wraps his hand around my hair and twists it tight. Then he brings the net up and tucks it all inside. “There’s a perfect place for that hair to hang loose, but this isn’t it. I’d be happy with it draped over my body, but I don’t want to find it in my cake.”

  “Do you talk like that to all your students?” I glance forward to see the back of everyone else. He put me in the back of the room for a reason, and I don’t think it’s because I don’t know how to bake.

  “We’ll talk about that later. Right now I want you to measure out two cups of flour.” He walks away and visits the other stations. I pull out my notebook and turn to a blank page to write down the recipe.

  He moves from table to table with confidence. Even the men in class look up to him like he’s a god, and Ms. Skinny Britches turns into a wanton slut each time he passes. I see the way her eyes get all soft when he talks to her.

  Twenty minutes later he’s back, and I’m standing at the mixer with two cups of flour and nothing else. He rattles off several more ingredients and I rush around to find them. Once back at the notebook I write things down, but he stops me.

  “A good chef never needs a reminder.” He flicks the cover, but it doesn’t close. To my horror the pages flutter and fall open to the sketch of a mouth around a cock. Just the thought of that word brings heat to my cheeks.

  “Give me that!” I swipe at the page, but he’s too quick.

  “Is that me?” He holds it back and tilts his head in the same way an art expert would. It’s like he’s judging the quality of the sketch. “No, it can’t be. The dimensions are all wrong.” He looks forward to make sure no one is watching then he rubs his thumb across my lower lip. “I’d be happy to model so you can get it right.”

  “Quit it.” I grit out the word between clenched teeth.

  He shakes his head back and forth. “I’m no quitter, sweetheart.”

  I shove my notebook back in my bag and go about dumping the ingredients in the bowl. To my surprise, a yellow batter takes shape. I zest a lemon and add the juice, then pour the batter into two pans and pop them into the oven.

  When it comes time to make the frosting, I have it under control, and thank goodness because any further interaction with Ripley and I’ll explode. The issue is I’m not sure if I’ll combust from embarrassment or desire. Each sexual innuendo ripples through my body like a live current and settles between my thighs where it arcs and flares each time I hear his voice.

  He moves forward to the remaining four students while I grab butter from the counter. How nice he has it at room temperature for me already. Although, all I need to do is hold it next to my body, and it will melt from the heat that man stirs in me.

  I take my frustrations out on powdered sugar, butter and vanilla. Then I add a dash of bitterness with lemon rind for my embarrassment. I turn the mixer on and let it whirl until it’s creamy and smooth.

  “Don’t beat it too much. That makes it soft.” He calls to me from Paige’s table.

  “From what you describe, that’s not possible. Did you lie?” He knows I’m not talking about the darn frosting. I’m
trying to get some control of this situation, and with men like Ripley, the only way to win is to play their game, and I’m no quitter, and I don’t intend to lose.”

  Less than an hour later, all the cakes are frosted and sitting in a row. There’s a white cake, a chocolate cake, a carrot cake, a spice cake, and my lemon cake. Mine doesn't have handmade flowers, or a chocolate ganache frosting. It’s plain and simple like me.

  We take our cakes to the front of the retail store where a table is set up for display. Then Ripley sits us down at a nearby table and feeds us a lunch of fresh baked baguettes with deli meats and cheeses.

  We watch as samples are cut and customers are treated to a taste. Colored poker chips are placed in front of the cakes and tasters are asked to choose their favorites.

  After lunch we enter the classroom for clean up. The four seasoned chefs chat among each other while I clean by myself. Ripley has disappeared into a room to the right. He emerges with five cookbooks and a printout.

  “Here’s a copy of my latest book. Tomorrow we’re going to cook a soufflé, but you will do it my way. The recipe is on page sixty-nine.” He says the number and looks straight at me. “Memorize it and tomorrow I’ll tell you a little secret to making it the perfect experience.” He walks from table to table and hands a book to each of us along with a print out that looks like a map. “Per tradition, dinner is at my house tonight. Here are the directions. Be there at six.” He smiles at everyone then turns toward his office. Without turning around he says, “You’re dismissed.”

  I gather my things and race to my room because I know for a fact that my book is different from the rest. When I throw open my door, I drop everything but the book. I flip to page sixty-nine and gasp.

  In his precise handwriting it says:

  It’s not how you fold the cream. It’s the cream in the folds. I bet yours is delicious.