Lester Harbor, August 20.
God, I hated cooking.
“Put me in a cooking class, and you’ll get a recipe for disaster,” I told my best buddy, Sapphire Blake, who signed us up for Italian Cooking with Matteo De Luca.
Here we were, tucked in an intimate cooking studio that could pass as a country kitchen in a quaint cottage straight out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine. The scent of oregano and bay leaves assaulted my nostrils when I looked up at a crack running along the ceiling.
Fucking shit, is it too late to run?
“You know, Vera,” Saph began, flashing her baby-blue eyes. “Matteo is the head chef at a Michelin star restaurant.”
“Unless he’s packing a meaty Italian sausage, I couldn’t care less,” I groaned.
“Vera!” Saph burst into laughter. “Is cock all you think about after all the years you spent in law school?”
“You’re damn right that’s what I think about,” I shot back with a smug smile.
“We need to douse you with a good serving of holy water!” Saph chuckled, shaking her head. Loose strands of chestnut hair framed her oval face.
“I like pussy too,” I teased, running my tan fingers along her alabaster arm. She glanced at me, smiled, and lowered her dark eyelashes.
Tease me, babe. Tease me.
“That’s why I love you, Vera. You’re not ashamed to admit that you swing both ways,” Saph replied.
We were five minutes early, thanks to my older brother, Julian, who drove us to our evening class. Instinct told me that he only did it to check out Saph’s tits. Oh, believe me, I noticed his shifty eyes travel down her blouse in the car—dirty shit.
I ran my fingers through my long, wild caramel hair and blew out a gust of air while waiting for our mystery chef. I toyed with the rolling pin on the bench, only to hear a thud, coinciding with an immediate blinding pain on my left foot.
"Oww!” I yelped, rubbing my throbbing foot, which hurt like hell.
“Oh, sweetie!” Saph winced, then picked up the rolling pin and placed it on her side of the bench, far from my curious fingers.
A giggle emitted from a couple at the next table, only to be silenced by my death stare. Both women wore leather miniskirts, knee-high socks, and bright, tight tank tops. With their candy-pink hair, they could pass as street fashionistas in Japan’s Harajuku district. The other couple, donned in dark, solemn business suits, remained tight-lipped and stone silent.
“I told you this would be a disaster,” I hissed at Saph as we waited for our chef to arrive.
“It sounds like the birthday girl is a tad bit ungrateful,” she replied, biting her quivering smile.
I wasn’t ungrateful. I just didn’t like cooking. Besides, I couldn’t cook to save my life. “No one wants slop, Vee,” Julian once remarked when I turned risotto into a slush of mush.
“Buona sera!” A deep voice boomed from the door.
I looked straight at the gray eyes of a very fit, dark-blond Bacchus, the Roman god of the grape harvest, winemaking, and religious frenzy. The fruit of my loins succumbed to a state of ecstasy, ripe for the harvest!
“My name is Matteo, and we’re going to cook up quite a storm tonight,” Mr. Hot ‘n’ Spicy, carved out of marble, hummed. He glanced at us with playful eyes, and he wore a player’s smile, alright. I wondered how many women or men he tasted and if I would get a chance to lick, nibble, and suck on him too.
“Now, here’s a few tips on making a good crust. Firstly, I suggest that you use sifted flour to avoid lumps. Also, strong flour allows the dough to rise with fine structure.”
“What kind of oil should we use, Matteo?” I asked while undoing one button of my silk blouse due to the rising heat.
“Always use olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil will give a more fragrant crust.” His eyes flickered at me before turning away.
All of a sudden, I was hungry, and the kitchen was where I wanted to be. I straightened my shoulders and stuck my chest out, giving the chef a smile that would melt the North Pole.
Hell yeah, I wanted Matteo tonight.
“Let’s start with my special pizza dough,” Matteo began, winking at me. “Forget the rolling pin. When we make dough, it’s best to stretch it with your fingertips.”
“Oh, goodness, Saph! He’s delicious!” I hushed a low tone under my breath.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered.
That evening, we got down and dirty to make pizza dough. Feigning the role of the damsel-in-kitchen-distress, I required a little special attention, and Matteo was at my beck and call.
Saph raised her right eyebrow as our teacher began to knead my fresh dough. I watched Matteo’s hands work on the dough ball and pictured him sensually massaging my ass cheeks while grinding his dick inside me.
“Here. Just like this. Knead the dough until it’s smooth and elastic,” Matteo advised, as he stood a breath away from me so I could take over from him. Our fingers touched for a brief moment, sending an electric pulse of excitement that traveled down to my knees.
I inhaled his seductive scent, which was a rich blend of black current and Italian bergamot. A pool of heat rose from my core, igniting a sensational wildfire that spread across every vein in my body.
“Honestly, Matteo, you’re the best chef Lester Harbor has ever had,” I gushed à la Marilyn Monroe when she sang Happy Birthday to President John F. Kennedy.
“Erm...thank you.” Matteo blushed a shade of peach-red as I smiled, lightly tapping his muscular forearm.
“Cover the dough and let it rise. In the meantime, we’ll make some of my special sauce. You’ll want it thick with plenty of seasoning,” he hinted, then walked to the front of the studio.
I watched his ass move when he turned to grab a ladle. He sure had a nice, firm butt, and I wasn’t the only one to notice. The Harajuku girls followed his ass with their widened eyes, twirling their fluorescent hair.
When Matteo turned around with his spoon, all sorts of wicked thoughts conjured in my head.
Oh, spank me with your stick, Signor! Spank me hard!
I planned to have the sweet and scrumptious Mister De Luca for dessert tonight.