King of the Kitchen (25 page)

Beck choked on the bite of napoleon Duncan had given him. The double entendre had been perfectly timed for his swallow. Duncan grinned innocently at him and handed Beck the bottle of water a stagehand tossed him.

“Thank you,” he choked out after he’d swallowed down a drink. “Despite the fact that it went down the wrong pipe, I did like it. The tart sweetness of the pickled prunes complemented the smoky chicken, though you’re never going to convince me meat should be pureed.”

Duncan laughed. “It’s all about subverting expectations. Your brain expects certain foods to have certain textures, and when we play with that, you experience taste on a different level.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that, given you’re the one with multiple science degrees,” Beck said. The director gave him a cue, and Beck pointed downward, knowing the voting information would be popping up on the viewers’ screens. “Sadly, you don’t get the chance to taste these, but you do get to vote on your favorite. As we have in weeks past, we’re letting you vote with your wallet. You have the numbers and URLs to call, text, or donate online. To vote for Duncan’s napoleon, use the information here to donate to the Healthy U. To vote for my stuffed quail, use the information over here,” he pointed toward the left side of the screen at the director’s cue, “to vote for Waste Not, Want Not.”

“No matter which of us wins this week’s challenge, the big winners are these two amazing charities. The work they do is so important, and we’re humbled to be working in support of their efforts,” Duncan said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love a win. Because this napoleon, come on. Clear winner.”

Beck rolled his eyes and shook his head fondly, looking at the camera. “That’s it for today’s challenge episode, but Duncan and I will be back in an hour to announce the winner. That means you only have until eight Central to get your vote in by calling or going online to donate to one of these charities. Thanks for inviting us into your kitchens, and we’ll see you after
Cooking with Joy
is over in an hour!”

They both smiled at the cameras until the blinking light went out. “That’s a wrap!” the director called.

Beck jumped when Duncan grabbed his ass, the unexpected contact making him spill his bottle of water.

Stagehands rushed forward to help him clean it up, and Beck’s cheeks flushed hotly. “You’re an ass,” he whispered to Duncan, who’d danced out of the way of the spill. Beck’s kilt was now wet down the front, making the heavy wool stick to his boxers and frame his cock uncomfortably.

It hadn’t lessened his erection, which was a problem in its own right, now that the kilt provided nowhere to hide.

“Well, my work here is done,” Duncan said with a shit-eating grin. He gave Beck’s groin a pointed look and winked. “See you later.”

Beck grabbed one of the kitchen towels he’d used to sop up the counter and held it over his crotch, hoping anyone who saw him would think he was embarrassed about the wet patch.

Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about the show, though, so he wasn’t able to follow after Duncan. It took him a solid ten minutes to work his way through all the teasing about the kilt and the congratulations for a successful filming.

Not having Christian on the set today had everyone’s mood elevated, it seemed. Beck could hear the boisterous laughter from the sound stage fade as he made his way down the corridor, blood pounding as he thought about Duncan naked underneath his kilt. It had killed him to be waylaid by crew members who needed things from him while Duncan had slipped off the sound stage, but he knew Duncan would be waiting for him somewhere. He’d been just as affected by the hour of teasing as Beck had, so there was little chance he’d leave without Beck.

He’d gotten through the show by focusing on the cooking and banter. Now, though, he had nothing to distract him, and his erection grew full force, despite the discomfort of his wet underwear.

The locker room would be busy this time of day, so Beck ran up the two flights of stairs to his office. As he’d thought, Duncan was there waiting for him. Beck made sure to lock the door behind him so there was at least the illusion of privacy. Half the staff had a key, so it wouldn’t actually keep anyone out.

“I can’t believe you were freeballing that entire time,” Beck said, breathless from the run up the stairs and his anticipation.

He crowded Duncan up against his desk, kissing him and bringing a hand up his leg and under the kilt. True to his word, Duncan was completely bare. Both Beck and Duncan groaned as Beck’s hand slid over soft skin.

Having sex at the network seemed to be becoming a habit, and it was terribly unprofessional. All of the work Beck had put into his reputation didn’t hold a candle to how desperate he was to get more than his hands on Duncan’s bare ass, though.

The possibility of being discovered only added to the excitement. Beck had heard illicit trysts were intoxicatingly exhilarating, but he’d never been with anyone who was worth the risk before Duncan. He managed to get under Beck’s skin in a way no one else ever had.

Duncan squirmed out of his hold and turned around. “I thought you might like it if I bent over—” He rested his elbows on the desk, planting his feet as far apart as he comfortably could. “—and did this.”

He reached back, flicking the rough material of the kilt up and exposing his ass. Beck hissed out a breath at the sight. He brought his hands up and glided his palms over Duncan’s skin, tracing the curve of his ass. The skin was reddened and irritated from the rough wool, and Beck did his best to soothe it with soft, gentle strokes.

“Yes,” Duncan breathed, his head dropping to the messy, paper-covered desk as he pushed his ass farther into the air.

Beck wished they had time for more than a quick romp. He’d like to keep Duncan splayed out over his desk like this, eating him out until he begged and moaned, and then fucking him open right there.

They hadn’t done that yet, but Beck’s office in a busy building wasn’t the place to try it.

Beck ignored his own throbbing cock, focusing on the teasing caresses making Duncan shiver and twitch. Each sweep of his hands dipped a little lower until finally his thumbs brushed up against Duncan’s sack, making Duncan cry out softly.

“Shit, we shouldn’t be doing this. We have to go back on the air in forty minutes,” Beck muttered. “I can’t believe you talked about blowjobs on the air. This is your fault.”

Duncan turned around and smirked. “I did not. I talked about loving all your food. You should thank me.”

Beck gave Duncan’s ass a firm tap with his palm. “Did you say thank you or spank you? Because I don’t think thanks are in order.”

Duncan laughed and wriggled against Beck’s palm. “I’m open to a spanking.”

Christ.

“We’ll table that,” Beck said, his voice hoarse. He’d never experimented with anything other than run-of-the-mill sex, but he was learning nothing about Duncan was average.

“You should table
me
,” Duncan said, pushing back against Beck’s groin suggestively. “Except without the kilt, because wet wool is not sexy.”

“Your puns aren’t sexy either,” Beck sniped, but he stepped back to comply anyway. He pushed his wet underwear down over his hips and stepped out of them, following with the kilt.

He aligned his hips with Duncan’s exposed ass, pleasure skating through him as his clammy skin came into contact with Duncan’s warmth. Duncan rocked back obligingly, grinding against him.

Duncan tilted his head, looking back at Beck. “I don’t suppose you have any lube?”

“This is my office! Of course I don’t have any lube.”

Duncan made a
tsk
ing sound and shook his head. “Well, it would come in handy right about now, wouldn’t it, Judgy Judgerson?”

Beck leaned forward and buried his face against Duncan’s T-shirt, muffling his laugh. Encouraging Duncan would only make things worse.

“You’re a celebrity. Surely you have something. Eye cream? Can’t have bags on national television.”

Beck nipped at Duncan’s back through the thin material. “I do not wear eye cream. And I’m not a celebrity.”

“You just play one on TV?” Duncan teased, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

Usually talking in bed turned Beck off, but going back and forth with Duncan was actually a turn-on. Who knew?

Beck pressed forward, silencing Duncan’s giggles by easing his cock into the cleft of Duncan’s ass. Duncan wiggled his hips encouragingly.

“Lotion? Expensive olive oil from advertisers trying to woo you? Anything?”

Beck huffed out a laugh that turned into a moan when the head of his cock slid against Duncan’s ass. “No one tries to woo me. Check the top drawer. Lindsay gave me some kind of lotion last winter because she said my cuticles were atrocious, whatever that means.”

Duncan leaned forward and eased the drawer open. “Like you don’t get a manicure every week. I know your type,” he said, shimmying in triumph when he found a bottle of lotion. “It’ll do.”

“The kitchen is murder on french tips,” Beck said, grinning when Duncan burst out laughing again.

He took the bottle from Duncan and squirted a generous amount in his palm. At least Lindsay had had the foresight to give him something unscented. He lubed his cock up well with it and without warning thrust forward, dragging his cock along the underside of Duncan’s sack.

“Shit,” Duncan whined.

Beck pressed forward again, biting his lip when Duncan responded by squeezing his thighs together and making the friction even more delicious. Beck gritted his teeth, steadying himself by placing a hand against the rough wool kilt that covered Duncan’s lower back, and struggled to angle his thrusts upward ever so slightly so he maximized the contact with Duncan’s balls. Duncan bucked back against him, groans muffled by the pile of paperwork he was resting his head on.

“Shh,” Beck hissed. When Duncan quieted, Beck started to move again, thrusting at an almost frantic pace. He couldn’t reach Duncan’s cock from their awkward position, but he could feel Duncan stroking himself, his body jerking against Beck’s as he pleasured himself.

Beck squeezed his eyes shut, hand fisting in the fabric of Duncan’s kilt for leverage. Duncan’s breathing was loud in the small office, and it went particularly ragged for a second before it stopped, Duncan’s body tensing as he came.

Beck pulled back, and fisted himself roughly for a few strokes before coming across Duncan’s reddened ass cheeks, perfectly framed by the kilt.

“I wish you could see this,” he said, dragging a hand through the mess. Duncan looked so perfectly debauched, legs spread wide, Beck’s come dripping down the curve of his ass, ridiculous kilt still hiked up.

“Maybe next time. How much longer do we have?”

Beck looked at the clock hanging by the door. “Twenty minutes, and we still have to get through makeup.”

He was pretty sure the crew would know exactly what they’d gotten up to on their break, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Beck grabbed some tissues from the box on the desk, wiped the come off Duncan’s ass, and cleaned himself up too.

“For the love of God, please put your boxers on before we go back to the studio,” he said.

“And if I said I didn’t wear any today?”

Jesus. Duncan was killing him. “I have a spare pair in my gym bag. You can wear those.”

Duncan groaned. “Wearing your underwear on national television seems like a good way to end up back here in another hour. I have mine,” he said. He dug through a pile of clothes on Beck’s chair and shimmied into them under the kilt.

“Hey,” Duncan said as they were hustling out the door. “Remember our bet?”

“Our bet?”

“Winner gets to ask for a sexual favor?”

How had Beck managed to forget about that? “Yeah?”

Duncan grinned. “Nothing. Just reminding you,” he said, palming the front of Beck’s mostly dry kilt as he moved through the doorway.

Chapter SEVENTEEN

DUNCAN STILL
couldn’t believe he’d lost today. Beck’s food had been good, but his had been
amazing
. And to make matters worse, even though they were technically tied on number of challenges, Beck had pulled ahead in the money, so Bob had proclaimed him the overall winner.

“Are you still pouting?” Beck pressed his fingers into Duncan’s cheeks and forced his lips up into a smile. “Face it, Middle America just wasn’t ready for pickled prunes and pureed chicken.”

“But it was inspired! And the texture was perfect.”

Beck dropped his hands and pressed a kiss to Duncan’s forehead. “It was pretty awesome. Maybe if they could have tasted it, you’d have won.”

Duncan wrinkled his nose. “Don’t pander.”

“You’d rather I tell you my food won on merit? Or should I tell you the truth, that even though your food was very well thought out and impeccably executed, it wasn’t something that could be recreated in home kitchens, which is what viewers are really looking for?”

Duncan’s lips twitched up on their own this time. “Who even says things like ‘impeccably executed’? What are you, a
New York Times
food critic?”

“I could be. You never know. Critics usually go in disguise,” Beck said, tilting his nose up into the air.

“Trust me, you’d never make it as a food critic.”

Beck frowned. “Are you insulting my palate?”

“No, I’m paying you a compliment, asshat. You’re too pretty to be forgettable. You wouldn’t be able to blend, and I bet you get special treatment because of that jaw.”

Beck looked affronted. “I do not get special treatment because of my
face
.”

“Are we seriously arguing about your level of hotness? Is that a thing we’re doing? Because you’re going to lose.”

“Of course we’re not, because that’s stupid!”

Lindsay breezed into the break room and poked Duncan in the side. “He’s right, it’s stupid,” she said. She fed a handful of quarters into the machine and did a little dance when the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos dropped into the bin. Beck wasn’t sure why she ever worried they’d be out of stock—she was the only one who ate them because the rest of the building had actual functioning taste buds. “And Duncan’s right too. You’re just too beautiful for words, Beck.”