Episode 18: Hot Soup
Sugar returned to her bedroom and climbed back into bed, nestling among her blankets and pillows, but comfort eluded her. Over the sound of the television, the clatter of cabinets, pots, pans, and running water filled the air as Chef familiarized himself with her kitchen. The house soon became saturated with the mouthwatering aroma of his cooking, making her stomach grumble in anticipation.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Sugar feigned interest in a soap opera disguised as a reality show about a luxury yacht crew. She nodded at the screen, focusing on two crew members bickering over unfinished chores. From the corner of her eye, Chef appeared in the doorway, carrying a green bowl and a spoon.
“Dinner is served,” he announced, stepping into the room with a saunter.
Sugar finally shifted her attention to him, blinking as if just noticing his presence. After clearing her throat with a light cough, she sat up against her pillows and accepted the bowl.
“Thank you,” she said, licking her lips at the sight of chopped egg noodles, vegetables, chicken chunks, and spices swimming in a delicious broth.
She took a spoonful, closing her eyes and moaning softly in satisfaction. Another spoonful quickly followed. The soup worked its magic with every bite, her cold retreating inch by inch, like a glacier under the sun. Her throat felt less sore, her nose less stuffy, and the urge to cough subsided.
Chef watched her from the bedside, arms crossed. “Verdict?”
“It’s,” she paused, “alright.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Why is it always hard to get a compliment outta you?”
“Why are you fishing for one?”
“I need to know what you like so I can keep givin’ it to you,” he replied. “That’s my only goal, honey.”
Sugar took another spoonful, feeling a pang of guilt for being difficult.
“It’s very delicious,” she admitted. “Compliments to the chef. It’s so good that if you had a ‘kiss the chef’ apron, I... might have obliged.”
Chef lifted his shirt, revealing a tattooed torso—a gallery of various symbols inked on pale skin. Dark chest hair scattered across his chest in just the right amount. He pointed to a tattoo on his left pectoral: a red heart wearing a chef’s hat with the words ‘kiss the chef’ in bold cursive.
“Didn’t bring an apron, but will this do?”
She stared, dumbfounded and utterly aroused.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “That’ll... do just... fine.”
Chef chuckled, lowering his shirt.
Sugar cleared her throat and focused on finishing her soup, keeping her mouth busy before temptation won.
“I’m gonna clean up the kitchen,” he said, nodding toward the door.
“Okay,” she replied, her mouth full of chicken and noodles.
She leaned to the side, watching his glorious backside as he left the room and walked down the hallway. “God help me,” she whispered before shoving another spoonful into her mouth, dealing with the frustration building inside her.
The worst kind of frustration: pent-up sexual kind.
It didn’t take long to finish the rest of the soup. Feeling better but still battling her cold, she got out of bed and headed to the kitchen, where Chef worked quietly. His back turned to her, unaware of her presence.
He muttered to himself, “Be a good boy and behave. She’s sick, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t want you pawin’ all over her, but... she’s... fuck if she ain’t...”
A curious Sugar bit her lower lip as his words trailed off.
“Fuck if I ain’t what?” she asked, making herself known.
He glanced halfway over his shoulder, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You like bein’ nosey?”
A sly smile curved her lips. “Mm hm, especially when it’s about me. So, fuck if I ain’t what, Chef?”
“I thought you were supposed to be in bed,” he said, tilting his head.
“That’s not an answer,” Sugar teased, strolling over to the dishwasher. She opened it and leaned down to place the empty bowl inside.
The hem of her nightie crept upward as she bent over, revealing the bottom half of her silky peach panties. It wasn’t accidental, and she immediately relished her effect on him.
Chef’s eyes darkened with want, painting a vivid portrait of all the things he wanted to do to her. She liked what she saw—it felt incredible to know that even though she was sick and had seduced no one in years, she still had it.
Closing the dishwasher, she straightened, swallowing the tickle in her throat. “Kitty cat caught your tongue?”
“I haven’t caught my tongue inside a kitty cat in a while.” Chef swiped his tongue across his lips, voice laced with a hunger. “But please feel free to throw an old dog a bone to remind him how good it can taste.”
“I have a cold,” she reminded him.
“And I’ve got a hardy immune system,” he countered.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll get sick from doing... that.”
“I’ve got a better chance of gettin’ sick from you coughin’ on me. Only one way to find out, though.”
Sugar’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re actually serious.”
“As serious as a heart attack,” he said, grin widening. “And it fits your conditions—adventurous, uncommitted, no-strings-attached fun, right? What better way than me eatin’ you out?”
A shocked laugh escaped her, half gasp, half disbelief. It was the most arousing thing anyone had ever said to her. A flood of heat rushed through her.
“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” she breathed, but it sounded more like admiration than a complaint.
“I think you like my filthy mouth, don’t you, Sugar?”
She swallowed hard, a shaky breath leaving her lips. “I—”
The sudden ringtone of her home phone cut through the tension.
Sugar almost leaped to answer it, grateful for the interruption, and snatched the cordless phone from the dock.
“Hello?” she stammered.
“I was passing by our old apartment today and thought of you,” Lance’s voice came through the line. “Brought back a lot of memories. Mostly good, some bad, but the good ones count, right? Happy birthday, by the way.”
Sugar blinked at the sound of her ex-husband’s voice. “Ah, yes. Just what I needed today: a happy birthday from the man who forgot to say it the last six years of our marriage. You’re so kind, Lance.”
“I was a busy man, Shug,” he said.
Before she could respond, Chef strode over and took the phone from her hand.
“Never call this number again,” he said in a cool, commanding tone.
Lance erupted, “Who the fuck is thi—”
Chef hung up, placing the phone back on the dock.
“That was unnecessary,” Sugar frowned.
“Him callin’ is unnecessary. We were havin’ an important conversation,” Chef replied gruffly, a hint of jealousy creeping through his words.
“Talking about you going down on me isn’t exactly important.”
“Speak for yourself, honey.”
The phone rang again.
Chef snatched it up, answering with the same cool authority. “I said, never call this number again. What’s not clickin’ for you?”
A smirk played on his lips as Lance’s bickering continued. Her ex’s insults were barely audible from where she stood.
“Who the fuck am I? I’m the guy hangin’ up. Last warnin’,” Chef said before ending the call once more. He returned the phone to the dock, eyes locking on hers. “Now, where were we?”
“Um...” Sugar stood frozen, still processing what had just happened.
“Oh, right,” Chef said, his tone thick with desire. “Could you please take off your panties for me, honey?”
Sugar gasped. “That isn’t where we left off.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
“I might have fast-forwarded our conversation a bit,” he admitted with a mischievous grin.
“A bit?” she echoed, incredulous.
He stepped closer, trapping her against the counter, his body a wall of heat. “I ain’t above beggin’, honey.”
Oh, shit.
She was in deep trouble. Big, big trouble. And she had no one to blame but herself.
Chef knew her terms—twisted them to his advantage—and the terrifying part wasn’t his skill.
It was the fact that she was going to let him.
