Tasty (7 page)
Authors: Bella Cruise
“Sorry,
Cal,” I mumble as I slide inside and buckle my seatbelt around
me, as if it could protect my aching heart. “See you around.”
He stands there for
a moment in the darkness. But my gaze is hard and determined, and at
last, he relents. He steps back and closes the door behind me. I fire
up the engine and drive off into the night.
I
gun it all the way home.
The
night is black and inky as I speed home along the Overseas Highway.
The stars seem to jangle in the sky, but maybe it’s only the
remnants of the most glorious orgasm I’ve ever had that makes
them seem to tremble. When I get back to the shop, I park my car in
back and then stalk up to my apartment.
I
was so thrilled when I found this space after my grandmother died. A
shop to rent below and an apartment above. It even has a roof deck.
Maybe someday, I’ll be rich like Cal and able to buy my own
luxury home, but for the time being, my cozy two-bedroom is more than
enough for me.
No,
stop thinking about Cal, damnit. I stop in the doorway and take a
deep breath, trying to push him out of my mind.
It
doesn’t work.
I
keep the place spotless, of course. And even though the landlord
doesn’t let me paint the walls, I’ve decorated it exactly
to my tastes. Mid-century furniture, half from estate sales, half
smart reproductions, is artfully arranged all around the apartment. A
few choice art pieces hang from the walls, bought at times when
business below was going a little better. But my apartment is my
oasis away from all of that, my safe place. Tonight, especially, it’s
a relief to come home to it.
Because
I need to chill out, but I can’t get the taste of Cal’s
lips out of my mind. His body was so damned perfect as he leaned into
me. His cock was so damned hard. His hands were firm, but gentle.
They seemed to anticipate my every desire, first clutching my hips,
then working their way down. I felt my body open to him.
God,
I hate that I like him so much. The fact that Mecca Cakes is only a
pop-up shop doesn’t change anything, not really. I have bills
to pay, employees to feed. I have to worry about rent, about
supplies, flour and sugar and butter and electricity. A month in the
weeds could still kill my business. Besides that he’s a
chef
,
the worst kind of dangerous. Every chef that I’ve ever met,
from culinary school to the kitchens where I worked to the guys I’ve
argued with online, has been a smarmy cheating asshole.
I
need to get Cal out of my head. And there’s only one way to do
it.
I
grab my laptop from my bag and head into my bedroom. Sitting up
against my tufted headboard, I boot it up. And looky here:
cupcakecasanova seems to have been waiting for me. He IMs me before I
can even tab over to his window.
Thought you had plans tonight.
They didn’t pan out. They sucked, actually.
Sorry to hear that, muffin.
I’m
already grinning at the nickname. God, he’s so
cute
.
I wonder what he looks like in person. I imagine that he’s
thin, with dependable hands and a serious gaze. Not my type
at
all
.
But it doesn’t matter. He’s a stranger. I can imagine
that he looks however I want him to look.
I
can imagine that he looks like Cal.
Disheveled,
dark hair. Stubble. Strong chin, with a dimple at the center. Muscles
for miles. Veins down his forearms. Those white undershirts and
slouchy jeans. The curve of his ass through denim, and the trail of
dark hair that leads down from his navel and into the waistband of
his jeans. In my head, cupcakecasanova is tall, Scottish, and
perfect.
Thanks. Anyway. What are you up to?
Cooking, naturally.
Trying
out some new recipes?
An
old one, in fact. My mother’s scones. Comfort food. I wouldn’t
be a baker if it weren’t for those scones.
I
wrinkle my nose a little. He’s so
cute
.
Well, I guess it could be worse. Already my tension is diffusing. But
not the tension between my legs, not entirely. I can still taste Cal
on my lips, still feel the faint burn of his stubble against his
cheeks.
A
mama’s boy, huh? Well. You should come here and give mama some
sugar. I want you inside me, Cupcake.
There’s
a long pause. God, I hope he’s still there. I need him tonight.
Need this. Tonight, I need to get Cal McKenzie out of my head.
Luckily,
cupcakecasanova doesn’t seem to mind.
I
crawl over to you. I’m putting my hand on your bare ankle, and
run it up the length of your leg.
It’s
almost like he
is
here with me. I can feel goosebumps working their way toward my
thighs.
That feels good.
You’re
into it, aren’t you? I can see how you cast your head back. I
kiss your neck. You taste so sweet.
I’m
wearing a red lace thong. God, I’m so fucking wet already.
Actually,
I’m wearing a pair of pink cotton briefs under my jeans. But
the wet part is true. I kneel on the bed and wriggle out of my pants.
I
slide my hand between your legs. I can feel how wet you are through
your panties. I kiss your breasts, biting into those sweet little
cherries you call nipples.
My
hand is under my T-shirt now. I’m pinching myself, my breath
hot and heavy. The best part of a guy who is half fantasy is that he
knows exactly how I like to be touched. My back arches in pleasure
and anticipation.
You
still there, muffin?
Sorry. Typing with one hand. :)
That’s
okay. I’ll type enough for both of us. I press my cock against
you. It’s nine inches long, rock hard. It rubs you straight
through those little red panties. You’re grabbing at my ass,
riding me, and I haven’t even taken your underwear off yet.
My
hands pause in their motions over my skin. Moving quickly, almost
frantically, I lean over and reach into my nightstand. My rabbit’s
there, perfect, purple, my old friend. I bought it just after I fled
Miami and swore off chefs forever. It’s served me well so far.
I turn it on. It hums against my thigh.
You’re
riding me, your pussy tight against me. God, I almost can’t
take it anymore. I turn you over. Your ass is perfect and tight. I
run my cock over your rear. I’m aching to get inside of you,
dripping wet. I can see how wet your thighs are, too, muffin.
I barely manage to march a hand over to the keyboard.
Oh god, please fuck me.
I tug my underwear down and fix my vibe against my clit. Pleasure
spreads through me. I cast my head back.
I
tug those panties down. You’re tight, wet. But I don’t
put it in you, not yet. I rub the head against that gorgeous pussy of
yours. I feel your clit pulsing against me. You want me so bad. You
want me inside you.
I
rub the length of the vibe along my lips. I can’t remember the
last time I was this wet. College, maybe. My body is open and aching.
I
do
want him, deep inside. My eyes are closed. I’m imagining Cal,
his big hands still on my hips as he rubs his cock against my pussy
again and again.
You’re
moaning, and so open, and so wet. I can’t take it anymore. I
put my throbbing cock against you, and then I push it in. You’re
so tight that I’m almost afraid it won’t fit inside, but
you take every inch of it, your body shuddering.
I push the vibe inside of me. I
am
shuddering, as I bury the rabbit in my body straight up to my clit.
My thighs tremble. God, I’m close.
I
pull out slowly, watching you whimper as I do. You want me inside of
you, fast and hard. So I start plowing into you over and over again.
My
body moves the way he’s commanded. I plunge the vibrator into
me, once, twice, three times. Then I can’t take it anymore.
Everything’s exploding, blood rushing from my clit into my
belly. I’m warm with pleasure. My back is arched, my breasts
aching in the empty air. I come and come and come, my body pulsing so
hard that I can hardly breathe.
It
seems to last forever. At last, I feel the cool night air on me
again, hear the mechanical hum of my vibe. I turn it off, then slowly
slide it out of my body. I still feel like I’m faintly shaking
when I sit up and grab my keyboard again, my hands moving swiftly
over the keys.
God,
thank you. That was fantastic.
You are
fantastic, muffin. Your beautiful ass made me cum so hard that I
almost let my scones burn.
Oh no! :( They’re okay, aren’t they?
I saved them. Had to run halfway across my apartment
with my shorts down.
I would have liked to see that!
I would love to see what you look like right now,
too. Hair a mess. Panties tossed aside.
I
glance around my dark room. He’s not wrong about the way things
look, but I’m sure it’s not half as glamorous or sexy as
he imagines. After all, in my head, he’s Callum McKenzie,
getting sleepy in a king bed with silk sheets tangled around him, his
boxer briefs around his ankles.
But
I don’t have to tell him that. I don’t think
cupcakecasanova and I are under any illusions. We know this is just
about sex, just about letting off a little steam. It’s fantasy,
as far from the
real
Cal
McKenzie as you can get.
Actually,
I put on some lingerie. A corsette . . .
I
type, and I reach for my vibe again. I hit send and then his answer
comes right back.
Oh, Muffin, tell me more!
A
week later. The store is as dead as slab of month-old pound cake.
I’ve already sent Summer home three times this week. Today, I
told her not to bother coming in. This isn’t good, not at all.
I haven’t even seen Mrs. O’Gilligan. I got worried enough
yesterday that I gave her a ring at the nursing home—she’s
not dead, at least. When she answered, she told me this convoluted
story about how she’s been busy cruising with her homies. But I
know the truth. This is all Cal McKenzie’s fault. His damned
pop-up shop is killing Rock N Roll Cakes, and I’m powerless to
do a thing about it.
It’s
almost noon and I haven’t had a single customer when I flip
open my laptop and meander over to my Gmail, hoping that
cupcakecasanova is online. I figure if I can’t make money, I
can at least get hot and bothered under the counter. But no dice,
he’s nowhere to be found. There’s a message from Ginny,
though, sent about fifteen minutes earlier.
Which of these invite styles do you like better?
I
click between the links she’s sent. They’re hardly any
different. One is a design full of loops and curlicues in blue and
grey. The other is more loops and curlicues in green and silver.
Neither does a thing for me, but then, I’ve never had much of
an eye for this sort of thing. Give me flavors over Pantone shades
any day.
They both look fine.
You must have a preference!
Honestly, Gin, my mind’s on other things.
Uh oh. Is this about Cal again?
I
roll my eyes. Of course Ginny called me after that disastrous double
date at Lenny’s to get the dish on what happened. And while she
did her best to listen sympathetically, at the end, she insisted that
Cal couldn’t have meant anything by it.
It’s
not like his business is an evil plot to take
your
business down,
was
what she’d said, which stung a little. I never said it was! Cal
McKenzie is no Lex Luthor, plotting to take down Superman. I think
what’s happening is a lot more mundane than all of that. He
just doesn’t think about who he’ll stomp on on his way to
world domination. Okay, so maybe I
do
think he’s a little bit like Lex Luthor.