promised as she sent a waiter off to find a spare table. ‘His cooking is not to be missed.’
* * *
Something small and red barrelled into Storm’s leg just as he was flipping a crepe.
‘No, no, no!’ it squealed and latched on to his calf.
Storm caught the crepe, barely, and looked down. A little boy was clinging to his leg as if the hounds of hell were after his chubby, red-corduroy tail. The boy’s flight was followed by a tall man with thick, black-framed spectacles and a weary smile.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing the lenses up his nose. ‘I’m Richard, Abby’s brother-in-law, and Milton here is afraid of urinals. My wife always takes him to the ladies.’
‘Ah,’ said Storm, though the challenges of child rearing left him completely at sea. He dropped his hand uncertainly to the child’s silky brown head. ‘Perhaps you would like to visit the chef’s private bathroom? I assure you, there is nothing scary in there.’
The boy looked up at him, thumb in mouth. ‘OK,’ he said around the soggy obstruction.
To both men’s surprise, Milton insisted on managing his business himself.
‘Kids,’ said the man, in a tone most men reserved for women.
‘Have an oyster,’ Storm offered, nabbing one hot from the pan.
Richard accepted absently and rested his elbows on the counter as he chewed. He sighed when he was done, and not the way most people sighed over Storm’s cooking. Storm poured another crepe and stirred the big pot of clam chowder. It was ready for the white wine. ‘Trouble?’ he asked, reaching past the man for the bottle.
Richard shifted out of his way. ‘You ever try to keep up with a woman who just turned forty?’
Storm had, and enjoyed it immensely, but it would have been impolite to say so. ‘You probably need more sleep,’ he said. ‘Or more exercise. Circulation is important, you know. And, of course, you must eat lots of Oysters à la Storm.’
The man snorted. ‘At this point, I doubt a boatload of oysters could stiffen my mast.’
Storm turned out the last crepe for his order. ‘Never underestimate the power of zinc. It’s a testosterone building-block. Besides, these oysters are my secret recipe. Add a nice dark green salad, a glass of wine, a pecan crumble for dessert, and I guarantee you’ll see things in a different light.’
‘You guarantee it, huh?’
Storm laid his hand over his heart. ‘ Je jure de ma bonne foi. I give you my word, or I’ll pay for your meal myself.’
Richard stared at him as if wondering what his game was. Storm could almost read his mind. Was he a huckster? A lunatic? In the back of his weary brown eyes, however, a spark of belief flickered. ‘Maybe,’ it said. ‘Just maybe.’
Storm loved moments like this. He felt like Tinkerbell being clapped back to life.
‘Just promise me one thing,’ said the man.
‘Yes?’
‘That you won’t serve the oysters to my wife.’
* * *
Marissa had two fifteen-minute breaks a night. She spent the first sampling Storm’s clam chowder — which even she had to admit was disgustingly good — and the second in the ladies’ room, working off the thigh-clenching horniness that had been creeping up on her all evening. She didn’t know if it was inspired by her frustration over Abby or her memories of what she’d done with Jack, but she literally couldn’t wait to get home. She grabbed the first stall, put the lid down, thrust her new black trousers to her knees and burrowed impatiently between her legs.
Her head fell back on a sigh of relief as her middle finger found the hard, pulsing knot of her clit. God, there was nothing like frigging yourself when you were really turned on. The sensations were so intense, so deep. She cupped herself closer, kneading all the soft flesh of her mons, then slipped her other hand between the buttons of her starched white blouse so she could pinch one nipple. Her knees began to tremble. This wasn’t going to take long, which was
* * *
Something small and red barrelled into Storm’s leg just as he was flipping a crepe.
‘No, no, no!’ it squealed and latched on to his calf.
Storm caught the crepe, barely, and looked down. A little boy was clinging to his leg as if the hounds of hell were after his chubby, red-corduroy tail. The boy’s flight was followed by a tall man with thick, black-framed spectacles and a weary smile.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing the lenses up his nose. ‘I’m Richard, Abby’s brother-in-law, and Milton here is afraid of urinals. My wife always takes him to the ladies.’
‘Ah,’ said Storm, though the challenges of child rearing left him completely at sea. He dropped his hand uncertainly to the child’s silky brown head. ‘Perhaps you would like to visit the chef’s private bathroom? I assure you, there is nothing scary in there.’
The boy looked up at him, thumb in mouth. ‘OK,’ he said around the soggy obstruction.
To both men’s surprise, Milton insisted on managing his business himself.
‘Kids,’ said the man, in a tone most men reserved for women.
‘Have an oyster,’ Storm offered, nabbing one hot from the pan.
Richard accepted absently and rested his elbows on the counter as he chewed. He sighed when he was done, and not the way most people sighed over Storm’s cooking. Storm poured another crepe and stirred the big pot of clam chowder. It was ready for the white wine. ‘Trouble?’ he asked, reaching past the man for the bottle.
Richard shifted out of his way. ‘You ever try to keep up with a woman who just turned forty?’
Storm had, and enjoyed it immensely, but it would have been impolite to say so. ‘You probably need more sleep,’ he said. ‘Or more exercise. Circulation is important, you know. And, of course, you must eat lots of Oysters à la Storm.’
The man snorted. ‘At this point, I doubt a boatload of oysters could stiffen my mast.’
Storm turned out the last crepe for his order. ‘Never underestimate the power of zinc. It’s a testosterone building-block. Besides, these oysters are my secret recipe. Add a nice dark green salad, a glass of wine, a pecan crumble for dessert, and I guarantee you’ll see things in a different light.’
‘You guarantee it, huh?’
Storm laid his hand over his heart. ‘ Je jure de ma bonne foi. I give you my word, or I’ll pay for your meal myself.’
Richard stared at him as if wondering what his game was. Storm could almost read his mind. Was he a huckster? A lunatic? In the back of his weary brown eyes, however, a spark of belief flickered. ‘Maybe,’ it said. ‘Just maybe.’
Storm loved moments like this. He felt like Tinkerbell being clapped back to life.
‘Just promise me one thing,’ said the man.
‘Yes?’
‘That you won’t serve the oysters to my wife.’
* * *
Marissa had two fifteen-minute breaks a night. She spent the first sampling Storm’s clam chowder — which even she had to admit was disgustingly good — and the second in the ladies’ room, working off the thigh-clenching horniness that had been creeping up on her all evening. She didn’t know if it was inspired by her frustration over Abby or her memories of what she’d done with Jack, but she literally couldn’t wait to get home. She grabbed the first stall, put the lid down, thrust her new black trousers to her knees and burrowed impatiently between her legs.
Her head fell back on a sigh of relief as her middle finger found the hard, pulsing knot of her clit. God, there was nothing like frigging yourself when you were really turned on. The sensations were so intense, so deep. She cupped herself closer, kneading all the soft flesh of her mons, then slipped her other hand between the buttons of her starched white blouse so she could pinch one nipple. Her knees began to tremble. This wasn’t going to take long, which was
Similar Books
