A Foodie Romance
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.
Eva Lefoy writes and reads all kinds of romance, and is a certified Trekkie. She’s also terribly addicted to chocolate, tea, and hiking. One of these days, she’ll figure out the meaning of life, quit her job, and go travel the galaxy. Until then, she’s writing down all her dirty thoughts for the sake of future explorers.