Sweet Cravings

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Sweet Cravings

Copyright © 2013 by Eva LeFoy

ISBN: 978-1-61333-491-1

Cover art by Tibbs Design

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Sweet Cravings

By

Eva LeFoy

~Dedication~

Thanks to Anita, Cathy, Haley and Nancy for your comments, support, and cream puffs.

Chapter One

It’s hard to find a good baker. And harder still to find one with a flair for cream puffs. The
pâte
à
choux
—otherwise known as cream puff dough—has to be baked just right, not soggy in the middle, and the tops not overbrowned. And the filling—ah, the filling—has to be lickably, creamy rich, sweet, but not gummy. Finding a chef who can create a cream puff to make every taste bud in my mouth sing an orgasm is trickier than finding a man who doesn’t cut out after the first blind date. In my experience, putting your trust in pastry is the safer bet.

Of the four pastry shops in town, two focus on cookies, one on artisan bread, and another on Mexican delicacies. Not exactly my style. So I headed out to a Chamber of Commerce after-hours event to check out the town’s newest hotel and its new pastry chef’s abilities. The event flyer promoted him as a “European-trained master of desserts,” which boded well. But I’ve been the victim of false advertising before, my taste buds hastened to remind me.

Just in case, or maybe just because I was super excited at the prospect of finding a competent chef and a tasting a fabulous dessert, I went all out, putting my red panties and matching push-up bra and thigh-high nylons on under my favorite little black dress. Well, “little” is a loose term. Nothing about me could be misconstrued as “little.” Size sixteen to eighteen girls are more curvy, more round. We have hips, and we have breasts. We’re not starving fashion models.

I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, focusing on my hair and my eyeliner instead of Mom’s voice in my head. “You eat too much, Violet. That’s why men don’t stick around.” Inwardly, I scowled at my mother’s disapproving visage hovering in my memory and reached for the car keys. It’s my first night out in forever, and I refused to let her ruin this treat.

From the fourteenth floor of the Olympian Tower Hotel, the glittering lights of the city shone like a gazillion tiny candles in the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the view was just as fantastic. Piled high on platters atop white table-clothed rounds, sat an ocean of the finest desserts I’d seen in one place in a long time. I greedily filled my lungs with a deep breath of sugary air and stood there gaping at the scene, wondering where to begin my evening. Mouth already watering, I set my sights and worked my way toward the nearest table.

Irish Cream caramel cheesecake. I licked my lips and studied with intense interest the chocolate-graham cracker crust and the glossy beauty of the smooth caramel topping. The urge to glide my finger through the sticky sweetness and test its consistency beckoned, but I resisted in favor of seeing what the other trays held.

The next table presented strawberry-kiwi tarts. The one next to it, miniature lemon soufflés. The next,
gâteau riche
. Then things got interesting. Toward the rear of the room were clustered an array of high-tiered tables bursting with pastries fit for a king. Surely, there must be cream puffs in residence. I took off at a brisk pace, letting no one delay my mission.

From five feet away I inhaled, and the ambrosial scent transmitted tingles of anticipation all the way to my toes. Where to start when faced with veritable paradise? I smothered a hysterical sugar-induced giggle and headed for the table nearest the bank of windows.

I veered past the crowded display of
Cannelés Bordelais
and hovered over the classic French Napoleons. My tongue ached to lick the thick cream from between the layers of puff pastry and test its flavor. I reached out to snatch up a plate and paused as I caught something out of the corner of my eye that made me squeal with delight. The people around me raised their eyebrows, but I didn’t care. I barreled toward the adjacent table full speed ahead, the promise of ultimate fulfillment in sight.

There, sitting majestically by themselves, proudly displaying their unique flaky tenderness, were my absolute all-time favorites: raspberry cream puffs. I stared and I drooled—my panties growing equally wet—at the rivulets of raspberry syrup cascading over the puff’s cap, drizzling over the sensuous curves of creamy filling, and pooling onto the plate, cushioning the puff in a moat of perfect sweetness. I, at first, wanted to cradle the delicate puff in my hands and care for it like a baby, but before I knew it, I’d grabbed a plate and buried my tongue deep in the almond-colored filling, letting the raspberry sauce coat my lips and chin in the process. Mother would have been horrified at my total abandon, but I’d denied myself this treat too long. Decorum be damned!

I moaned as my mouth filled with the flavors of cream and amaretto custard, and I fell instantly in love. So
good. So perfect. Whoever made these is a god
. With my fingers I scooped the top part of the shell toward my lips, and I dipped my chin to make sure my tongue could lap up every drop of raspberry sauce so nothing went to waste. When I’d devoured all of the puff’s top and bottom, I sucked the last of the syrup off the plate with glee. When I came up for air, the kitchen door popped open and a white-clad figure stepped through. I didn’t process the information at first though, because I was too busy clasping another cream puff.

But as I brought the new dish into my line of sight, I paused and took a good look at the man at the back of the room. Did he look foreign? French maybe? No, not really. But the dark, short hair and light olive complexion told me he might be Italian or Latino. I struggled to remember the name of the new chef from the flyer but couldn’t. However, I was sure the man wearing the white shirt
must
be him, because…well, because he was so damn perfect. And any chef who could make a cream puff
this good
had to be perfect.

Pastry on hold, I stared at the man. Broad shoulders and a solid stance. A strong jaw under generous lips made for kissing. Skin a natural tan amaretto and walnut-brown eyes. My knees weakened. On top of that, he exuded a patient confidence, a trait I found enormously sexy. I wanted to lick him from the tip of his swarthy black head to his toes to see if he tasted as good as he looked.

In a daze, my gaze traveled to the cream puff and back to the sexy chef. Cream puff. Sexy chef. I licked my lips as my breath came faster. All the sudden, I wasn’t sure which one attracted me more: man or dessert. It was normally a cut-and-dried decision. Pastry always won, hands down.

But the shape of the soft, delectable dessert on my plate and the chef’s Guy Fieri-esque, thick-and-meaty outline were yummily similar. And for a moment in my mind’s eye, the image of the puff itself was superimposed over the one of the chef’s naked body slathered with raspberry syrup for my licking and nibbling pleasure. The two images merged into one sizzling-hot fantasy. A puff-chef combo that was hard in all the right places and soft in all the right places. Man and dessert, joined in one perfect union. My jaw dropped.
Holy shit. I want them both
.

Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve been with a man and to be honest, I’ve never equated food with sex on such blatant terms before, but a pleasant vibe of rightness rushed through me at the thought. Why the hell shouldn’t sex and dessert go together? I mentally shook my head at my own slowness and stupidity.
Way to smarten up, Vi.

He must have sensed my gaze on him because his soon connected with mine, before glancing away for second. When his eyes shifted back to me, his eyebrow arched, as if gauging me. I had the presence of mind to close my mouth and smile, and he gave me a double take. Encouraged, and riding a sugar high, I swiped some of the creamy goo from around my mouth and dipped between my lips. I sucked on it suggestively. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a half smile, his full attention glued to my mouth. I glanced down at his inseam, to see if I could spot the outline of an erection, and was gratified when he began to shift from foot to foot.

Seeing his interest made me feel brazen, and my desire for both the dessert and its maker intensified. I simply had to get more. Of both.

Not letting go of my plate, I marched toward him with what I hoped was a seductive grin plastered on my face. A few feet in front of him, I stopped and fished for something to say besides, “Hi, can I slather you with custard and lick you all over?” but I found myself at a total loss for words. I’d never seduced a man before. The name stitched on his uniform was Max. Short for Maximillion maybe? Maximo? Maxwell? Hell, as far as I’m concerned the name ought to be Property of Violet Cunningham. Aka
Mine
.

Max glanced from my plate back to my face, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Did you enjoy the cream puff,
mon cher
?”

His voice drizzled out rich and sexy like warm caramel. I went gooey on the inside, heat building up at a rapid pace. Oh, I so needed this. I pried my finger out of my mouth and pushed my breasts out a little more for good measure. “Mmm, this sauce is really good. Do you have any more…” I gave a small nod toward the kitchen door, “…in the back?”

Max blinked once, twice, and then glanced away with an utterly disarming, shy half smile tugging at his lips before reconnecting with me, looking hesitant but bemused. He caressed his chin with his fingertips as he swept another assessing glance over me. “I think I might.”

Well, okay then. Let’s get this show on the road
. His meaty hand pushed open the door, and my knees went weak. I wondered how warm his fingers would be against my skin and remembered how my father always said, “Never trust a skinny chef.” I smiled at my secret knowledge and followed him through the door and into the Promised Land.

Once inside, he sent me a nervous glance as though I might be dangerous around knives, or maybe part crazy. I half wondered about my sanity, as well, but the image of his firm body spread with fluffy cream, slathered in raspberry sauce for my licking and sucking pleasure, made me breathe faster. Made me bolder than I’ve ever been before. Driven by an insane internal need, I sucked on my finger again and moaned.

He grasped my hand, sidestepped a waiter carrying a tray of fancy petit fours, and dragged me deeper into the kitchen. Less people there. Much quieter. Only the hum of the ice maker broke the silence. He paused and looked around, possibly checking out the space, before turning back to me. While he was distracted, I glanced down at his pants and grinned, pleased by the evident bulge pushing against his zipper. I was glad I had that effect on him, as he certainly had the same effect on me. I smiled and hoped it looked sincere instead of predatory.