He strums a few cords and glances up. “My lips are sealed.”
I pout, but it does no good.
“And I still think you could have just told Ryan the truth.”
“Shut up and make me a sandwich,” I tease, once again to deflect.
He grins, one of those charming one-sided whammies. “What kind do you want?”
“I’m kidding.” Or am I? “But if you do it, I’ll make you a pot.”
“How about this...I’ll teach you how to make my signature sandwich, and you teach me how to make a pot?”
A swapsie. “I’m in.”
I shouldn’t be, but I trail after him to the kitchen like a puppy, anyway.
“Before we get started, I’m going to show you something I’ve never shared with you before now,” he says, splaying his hands on the counter and pinning me to the spot with his dark eyes.
“Okay.”
“It’s big.”
“How big?”
“Enormous.”
I swallow. For argument’s sake, if it’s his penis, am I allowed to look at it? I wouldn’t touch. That’s probably way inappropriate.
He reaches in the cabinet above the fridge and removes a white pillowy hat. “This is the first chef hat I ever owned.” He crosses to me and places it on my head. “Now we can start.”
He moves around the kitchen, collecting ingredients and lines them up on the counter.
“I’m going to train you like I do newbies at the restaurant. With no mercy.”
I smile at his seriousness. “Oh, okay.”
“What do you think is the most important part of a sandwich?” he asks.
“Meat.”
“Wrong,” he says so loud, I jump. It all feels very Hell’s Kitchen, except its heaven being this close to his world. Usually I’m lazy and watching him cook, and how silly of me to not take part.
“There are rules to sandwich building. Did you know this?”
“I did not,” I say with shame. “I thought it was a free-for-all type thing.”
“Chloe,” he says, tilting my chin up with his finger, “you disappoint me.”
“I promise to do better,” I barely get out with his finger of fire searing my skin.
“Try again. Really try.” He crosses his arms. “Don’t half-ass it. What’s your answer?”
Stern Austin is intimidating, and I’m doing my best not to imagine this is his handcuff voice. “Condiments.”
“No,” he booms. “Bread is most important. Do you know why?”
“Well, since I didn’t guess bread, I’m gonna say the chances I know are slim to none. But since I’m afraid you’re going to spank me with a spatula if I don’t try—” I stop when Austin’s eyes widen. Seconds tick by in silence and I attempt to dispel my spanking comment, “Because it holds everything together?”
“Yes. It can’t be any bread. It needs to be relative to what’s inside. Would you put something thick and heavy in something soft?”
Yes, I absolutely would, but I can’t even look at him right now because who knew the details of sandwich making sound so sexual. I keep my eyes trained on the loaf of French bread. “Sounds like a terrible thing to do.”
“The meat has to fit perfectly. You’re building something, ya know? Imagine you’re this loaf of bread.” He runs his hand along it, fondling the outer crust. “You’d be selective about what goes inside you, right?”
My eyes are burning a hole in this bread. I mean, come on now. “Definitely.”
“Would you put bologna in here?”
“Yuck.”
“Exactly. You’d want the best meat in you, right?”
“Absolutely. I mean...unless I’m on a budget.”
“Chloe, no.” He shakes his head. “Then you just put nothing inside you. You’re better than that. How can you not want the best? You deserve the best.”
“Okay, yes. You’re right. No budget bologna in me. Only worthy meat.”
“Only the best, remember that.” He takes out a knife and slices the loaf in half, then slides his blade lengthwise to open it. “First, we spread you open. Now we fill you up. We’re gonna fill you so full, you’ll barely be able to take it all, but you will.”
This was a bad idea. I could cut this bread with my nipples. How was I to know when I accepted the trade I’d be whore bread, stuffing meat in me? I could not know, therefore the feelings rambling through me do not count and cannot be held against me. Stop judging me.
Austin lays out ham along with sticks of salami and pepperoni. “We’re going to stuff you.”
“I’m going to need about eight inches of meat,” I say, eyeing the length. “I can handle that.”
His gaze darts to me before he slices salami and pepperoni and all the fixings. Cheese, too. Everything is fresh and laid out on the cutting board.
“Okay, arrangement is key. You want it layered correctly so every flavor and texture hits your tongue differently.”
“Once it’s all together, it kind of tastes the same.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Chloe.” Oh God, that’s the last thing I want to do. “Close your eyes. I have an experiment for you.”
I close my eyes and my heart thunders in my chest when he says, “Open your mouth.”
When I do, he pops something in it. Not his penis, thankfully. “What do you taste?”
“Pepperoni?”
“Good. Open again.”
We repeat the process and this time I taste ham and cheese.
“Now together,” he says.
This time there is a flavor explosion. Spicy, crisp, salty, tangy. I savor it and open my eyes to meet his dark stare. “Oh, I see what you mean. It kind of built up and exploded in my mouth.”
He swallows and then turns away. “A drizzle of olive oil on the bottom is important.”
I’m grateful he doesn’t say to get me wet. Cause…I don’t need that oil. I’m going to hell. Legit hell with fire and brimstone and horns, and I don’t want to go there. Air conditioning is crucial to my survival. I need to move out.
“So meats first, then cheese, lettuce, tomato,” he continues. “Condiments on top.”
I follow his instructions until I have a professional sandwich.
“That looks pretty damn perfect,” he says, admiring my handiwork.
I take a bite. “Tastes even better.”
Once we’ve finished our food, it’s my turn to teach him. I try to keep it clinical, but there is just no way. If I thought sandwiches were sexual, pottery is next level erotica.
“Pump faster,” I say, standing behind him, watching over his shoulder as he fondles the clay. “Keep your hands moving and glide them up and down.”
His clay collapses. “Damn,” he says. “I was so close.”
“Once more,” I say, doing my best to ignore what he said.
I put on my teacher persona and lean in a bit, peering over his shoulder. His pot forms but wobbles and without thinking I reach in and place my hands on his, guiding the wet clay. My breasts brush against his back, and it’s all very Ghost and all very wrong. My heart, stupid heart flips and flops. I sniff him and step away. “You did it,” I say.