Monster mash, p.2
Monster Mash, page 2
“Don’t we all?” Gaston said with a sigh.
“He doesn’t even have to be the best cook,” I said, drawing a hand over my face. “I’ll take someone I can mold into a proper protégé any day of the week over some pompous know-it-all from fucking Le Cordon Bleu.”
“Well, here’s hoping.” He turned his head and got up from the table. “I’ll get the chianti.”
The human chef emerged from the kitchen. My eyes widened and my heart threatened to beat for the first time in ages when I saw what he had in his hands. I grabbed Gaston before he could get away from me. “Forget the chianti.”
Confused, Gaston turned, broad shoulders going rigid as he took in the chef coming our way.
The human had not one bowl, but two, and a bottle of pinot noir. He came to the table and placed an immaculately plated but simply garnished bowl of pasta in front of me, and then the human did something no one else had dared do—not in the two years I had been searching. He put the bowl at the other place setting and sat down across from me.
I fought the urge to smile for the first time in… Oh, who knew how long it’d been? The balls on this chef…
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“My father taught me three cardinal rules when it came to cooking,” he said. “First, season and taste everything. Second, food isn’t a meal until it’s enjoyed with company.”
I glanced up at Gaston. “And the third rule?”
The human—no, Adam—smiled. “Never trust a chef who doesn’t eat his own food.”
I stared at him, amused. Whoever his father was, I hoped I one day got the chance to thank him for instilling such wisdom. “Well?” I barked at Gaston. “Don’t just stand there. Bring another glass and silverware so the man can eat.”
Gaston jumped into action, rushing to grab both from a nearby table. After placing them, he opened the wine and poured a glass for each of us.
“Thank you,” said Adam pleasantly.
You’d think he’d have scratched Gaston’s ears by the way the werewolf grinned. “You’re quite welcome,” Gaston said and shot me a look.
All right, so he’d won over the maître d', and he had the balls to stick to his principals, but could he cook with passion?
“Describe the dish,” I said as plainly as possible while trying to gather an even forkful.
“A simple and rustic spaghetti Bolognese. Please enjoy.”
I scrutinized ever aspect of the dish. It looked good. Definitely rustic, but not without flare. The color was deep red, the consistency perfect and the smell… If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe I was back in Italia in my mother’s kitchen. Across from me, Adam held his breath as I put the first bite in my mouth.
My eyes widened, and I nearly dropped the fork. The first taste was… Well, how does one describe perfection? And it was more than just the flavor that he had nailed. There was something extra in there, an ingredient imperceptible to every palate but mine. What was that? Could it be?
Something in my chest twinged. My left hand went to my chest, and I felt it, the hesitant thud against my ribcage.
It was! His dish was simple, but it was there, undeniably and undoubtedly there, the raw passion I had thought I would never feel again. It was in this Bolognese, in this human, and now that I’d had it, I needed more.
He lowered his fork. “Are you all right, Chef?”
Even Gaston had noticed. He frowned, taking a step toward us.
I realized that I had, indeed, dropped my fork and picked it back up, clearing my throat. “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice was a little strained. “And your spaghetti Bolognese is…” Exquisite? Impressive? The dish I’ve been searching for all my life? “It’s very good.”
“Very good?” Adam asked and finally took a bite. He held his face in deep concentration, allowing him to taste every aspect of his dish before swallowing it and cleaning his lips with the napkin. “All right. How do I make it amazing? I’d love any pointers you have, Chef.”
Give him pointers? Not on my life. This man, this chef, was everything I needed. I’d be mad to let him walk away, especially now that I’d had a taste of who and what he was. I needed more. More food, more passion, more of Chef Adam Northstar in every way that I could get him.
The desire to lunge across the table and sink my fangs into his slender neck to drink the passion from him all at once was nearly all consuming. My hand suddenly shot forward, seizing his wrist. Adam’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, but that was as far as he got before our eyes met and I unleashed my power. For moment, all his passion was laid bare, blazing around him like an aura of white flame. Not just the passion for cooking, but a passion for life.
I could see it then, how it would be if I truly made him mine. How I could hold him down and tease from him those dark and desperate sighs that only I would ever know. How I could mold him into the perfect protégé, the perfect lover, the perfect man. How quickly he would learn to love every sweet lesson in pain and pleasure, and how eagerly he would beg me for more!
I saw myself changing, too. Heart beating, blood pumping. Alive again, sustained by one man’s bottomless passions.
But no. I couldn’t. It would be selfish to keep him for myself, like caging a songbird. Brimstone needed him, and he needed Brimstone and I… Well, that would make me his boss. It would be improper, the power imbalance too great. I was a monster, but even I was not monstrous enough to take advantage of him, and I could not rob him of the place he had rightfully earned in Brimstone’s kitchen. This was his dream, the source of that endless passion. I couldn’t turn him away just because I wanted him.
But perhaps I could savor him just a little without him knowing. If he stayed.
I released his wrist, and he slumped in his chair with a groan so delicious, it left my hungry cock twitching beneath the table, urging me to go against my better judgement. No, Inzo. This is not the old country. You’re a civilized monster now. He must be savored.
“What was that?” Adam put a palm to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, eyes still dilated, breathing still fast.
Did he know what I had done? I scanned the faces of my staff, who were all looking on with varying degrees of worry. Did they know?
Perhaps I was playing with fire, choosing to keep him so close and hoping I could somehow resist this tasty morsel of a man, but what choice did I have? My new head chef would have to be the ultimate test of my self-control.
I cleared my throat and flashed a fanged smile at the human across from me. “When can you start?”
Brimstone
A Culinary Creatures Novella
L Eveland
I dipped my tasting spoon in the marinara and peered through the rising steam at the incubus on the other side. World famous chef Inzo Amorosi’s pointed tail flicked in irritation as he looked over my proposed changes to tonight’s menu. He was going to reject them again; I just knew it.
I wished I could be angry about it—and I would be later—but in the moment, I was too distracted by the way the cuffs of his white chef jacket clung to his muscular red forearms, and how nice his ass looked in those plain black pants. It should be a sin to look so delicious and be such an asshole. If it was, then I’d never stop being a filthy, lowdown sinner.
He turned the page over, perfect, kissable lips shifting down into a flattering frown.
And here it comes, I thought, and shoved the spoon into my mouth. After three years of working for the incubus, I could predict exactly what was about to fall out of his mouth.
His lip curled, perfect aquiline nose twitching as he revealed a single fang, an expression that I frustratingly found incredibly attractive.
Chef Inzo turned toward me and held up the modified menu. “Look around you, Northstar. What do you see?”
I considered not humoring him for a moment, knowing all too well where this was going. Yet that would only piss him off more. As sexy as he was when he was angry, I didn’t want to deal with the fallout, which would be yet another day of him raging through the kitchen, threatening to fire me.
I gave the kitchen a furtive glance, taking in the polished stainless steel, the top end appliances, the finest ingredients. Harold the kraken was at his station chopping vegetables with his tentacles faster than any human could manage, and Bobby the minotaur fed pasta dough through the cutter with flawless ease. Damien the werewolf ground fresh spices at his station while Nadia the nyad dumped a fistful of sea salt in the pasta water, her dark eyes darting between me and Inzo.
“Does this look like a fucking pizzeria?” Inzo snarled.
“You asked me for something new,” I started. It was apparently the wrong thing to say.
Chef Inzo crossed the space between us in a blink, suddenly towering over me, filling the air with his sweet, charred red pepper scent and sending my heart fluttering. His broad shoulders squared in irritation and his jaw clenched. Strong fingers, the same color as the marinara I had just tasted, gripped my chin, forcing me to gaze up into his fiery red eyes. Black fingernails dug into my soft human flesh, and I bit my lip to keep from letting out a shuddering sigh of satisfaction.
“Does this look like a fucking pizzeria? Yes or no, Northstar!”
My heart skipped a beat for entirely the wrong reason. Chef Inzo could destroy me with little more than a word. He was a supernaturally powerful creature, practically immortal, with enhanced senses and strength. I was nothing but a twenty-something human man. Sometimes, I jogged in the mornings. I struggled to lift seventy-five-pound sacks of flour. I should have been terrified.
Instead, under Inzo’s thumb, I was as pliable as overcooked pasta. All I wanted every time he touched me—even when the touch was severe and chastising—was to melt, to fall to my knees and beg for him to destroy me further, body and soul. It was the only reason I’d put up with this treatment for three years at Brimstone. That and working there was my dream.
I swallowed, fully aware of how his gaze snapped to the knot bobbing in my throat. “No, Chef.”
“Then why did you put a fucking pizza on my menu?” Even as he snarled at me viciously, he drew the pad of his thumb over my cheek in an almost tender gesture.
I didn’t know how to interpret it. Fear pulsed through me, followed by a near unbearable tsunami of desire. Maybe it was his power at work, or maybe I was just that pathetic and desperate.
I had wanted Chef Inzo from the moment I saw him on television all those years ago, extolling the virtues of Italian cuisine on a morning talk show. It was foolish to want someone I didn’t even know, to pursue cooking, to invest thousands of dollars in a culinary education, to make attaining the unattainable my life’s goal. I could never have him, especially not now that I was his head chef. Sleeping with the boss was the worst possible decision I could make, especially since I was sure he hated my guts.
I licked my dry lips, trying to find words. “I thought…”
“Speak up,” he growled in a low tone that sent shivers through me. “You thought what?”
“Well, Xavier’s has a pizza on the menu, so I thought—”
“Xavier’s?” Chef Inzo snorted and released me. “Fuck Xavier. How many Michelin stars does he have? Only one? Well, he can fucking keep it. This is a three star establishment, Northstar! Three!”
I swayed in place, head floating, cock throbbing against my zipper, drunk on the shadow of his presence. All I wanted was for him to touch me again.
Chef Inzo folded his hands behind his back, raising his voice to address the entire kitchen. “In this kitchen, what do we make?”
“Elegant classic Italiano cuisine,” replied the staff.
“And who do we make it for?”
“Discerning customers of the highest caliber!”
Chef Inzo pinched two fingers together. “Customers come to Brimstone to indulge in the sinful luxury of taste. They do not come here for pizza!” He pitched my menu in the trash.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of fresh garlic, onion, and crushed tomato all around me. “Then what do you want for an appetizer tonight, Chef?”
He made a disgusted sound and waved his hand. “I don’t know. Put the langoustines back on.”
“I thought you said you wanted something different.” Never mind that the pizza I had proposed was no simple pepperoni pie. It was made with black garlic, white truffle, heirloom tomatoes, fresh herbs, pancetta, burrata, and an aged balsamic vinegar. I had made a test pizza the night before and everyone in the kitchen agreed it was to die for. Every Italian place in the world had langoustine on the menu. If he wanted to stand out, we had to do something other than the same old thing.
Inzo gave the kitchen doors a longing look and sighed.
I swallowed and turned to Jerard, my half-orc sous chef. “Get the langoustines.”
Jerard nodded. “Yes, Chef!”
When I looked back to where Chef Inzo had been standing a moment ago, the space was empty, the kitchen doors swinging. I scowled at the empty air and threw my tasting spoon down, peeling the hand towel from my shoulder. One of these days, I was going to have enough of him belittling me in front of the staff, dismissing my ideas, and sending confusing signals.
Working at Brimstone had been my life’s dream, next to marrying Chef Inzo. I’d been a fool to want either of those things. A dumb child, drunk on ambition. Once upon a time, I thought I could win his approval, and perhaps his heart.
But Chef Inzo didn’t have a heart. He was cold, callous, and full of nothing but spite for me. I wondered if it was because I was human. It was a common rumor that human palates just weren’t suited for fine dining. I had proven that false when I passed Chef Inzo’s cooking gauntlet, securing my place as his head chef, but he’d never forgiven me for it. After three years at Brimstone, he’d never warmed to me, never treated me with an ounce of kindness.
A sane chef would have left. A sober chef.
I was neither. I was addicted to Inzo’s cruelty, his insults, his lovely face and the flick of his tail, the shape of his ass as he walked away, fists clenched at his sides. In bed and at home, I was haunted by his phantom touches. Inzo was the itch beneath my skin. Twice in three years I had attempted to scratch that itch with someone else, taking other lovers to my bed, but none of them could sate me. I wanted him even more after, despite his disdain for me. Every touch from him, every heated breath across my skin was a blessing, even if his words stung.
Inzo was my god, Brimstone’s sweltering kitchen my temple, and I was called to worship.
Jerard returned with a white plastic bin full of langoustine lobsters, placing them on the seafood prep station. “What are we making?”
I squared my jaw and glanced over my shoulder at him. “Langoustine risotto, just like yesterday.”
I put my back to my office door and let out a shuddering breath. You’re going to scare him off, Inzo. Would it really have been so bad to put the pizza on the menu for one night?
It sounded delicious, but then I would have eaten shit on toast if Adam served it to me. He was such a gifted chef that sometimes I could scarcely believe my luck at having him at Brimstone. The books didn’t lie either. His recipes were always a success, drawing crowds and critics. Brimstone was booked out for months, and not because of anything I had done.
Yet if I kept pushing him, I was going to lose him. I knew all too well that loyalty was fragile, and I had done nothing to foster his aside from the weekly paycheck. Generous as it was, Adam would eventually realize his dignity had a price, and I wasn’t paying him near enough.
I would pay him anything to remain, I thought, not for the first time, and it was true. It was disgusting the lengths I would go to keep him within reach, and selfish.
I lifted a shaky hand, dragging my clawed fingers through my dark, sweaty hair, and scowled down at my insistent, throbbing cock. At least I’d gotten away before it became too noticeable. I didn’t know what I’d do if Adam ever figured me out. Die of embarrassment, probably. He thought of me as a culinary god, not some pervert who got hard-ons from yelling at his head chef.
With a sigh, I locked the office door and opened the top drawer of my desk to retrieve the bottle of lube I kept there. Three years ago, before Adam started working for me, I hadn’t needed to keep a bottle of it hidden in my desk, but it had become quickly apparent that I couldn’t make it through most days without jerking off. The days I didn’t, I was only meaner to everyone, and much more difficult to deal with. Not that it helped, either.
Still enraged, I sank into my plush executive office chair and tore open my pants, fisting my cock with a lube-soaked hand the second it was free. How dare he look at me that way when I couldn’t have him? Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have hired him, knew it would lead to this. If only I’d known how dangerous it would be for the both of us. Yet I had chosen to dangle him in front of myself on the daily, the one person who could sate my hunger, and the one person I could never have.
My anger and frustration built to a fever pitch as I furiously fucked my fist. My insides were at war, my need to care for him and protect him at odds with my nearly overwhelming desire to make him mine. I wanted nothing more than to shower him with lavish gifts, to fly him around the globe on my arm and introduce him to the most exotic food and drink. I wanted him so spoiled, so pleased he couldn’t lift a finger to do anything but lie in my bed for days on end and scream my name into the pillows like a muffled prayer.
But if I did, if I acted even once on the lustful impulses driving me to seek out his presence every day, I would destroy us both. I couldn’t risk him. This maddening frustration was better. If only it didn’t make me such a mean bastard.
Why doesn’t he say anything? Why doesn’t he object to the way I treat him? Some small part of me already knew the answer. I hadn’t failed to notice that he sometimes got hard as I stood over him, shouting at him over small infractions or menu changes. That only made it more difficult to resist him. Earlier, as I berated him over the pizza, the look of raw lust in his eyes had been so tantalizing, so tempting, that I nearly lost all self-control and dragged him back to my office with me to bend him over my desk.
