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He walks to a cabinet where he pulls another chef coat from the rack. While he puts it on, he gives us a tour of the classroom. There are stand mixers, hand mixers, and whisks of every size. One wall is a pantry that contains everything from the finest cocoa to cocoa butter.
“The first day starts with a challenge. In order for me to see what your skillset is, I want you to make a cake. You have two hours to finish it. Once the cakes are done, we will offer samples to the patrons of Sinfully Delicious.”
The other students hop into action grabbing table mixers and eggs and flour. I stand still not sure where to begin. I read for hours about basic baking ingredients. I know that egg whites should be at room temperature before being whipped. I know that flaky crust requires ice water and cold butter. What I don’t know is how to make a cake.
“Lost already, sweetheart?” While I watch the other chefs at work, Ripley watches me. “I thought you had experience.” He leans on the stainless steel table too close to me. “Was that a lie?” He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “That makes me want to paddle your ass harder.”
A jolt of electricity powers through my body. I pull a full sentence from somewhere. “I don't lie. I’ve made cupcakes.”
He laughs. “From scratch?”
My shoulders sink. “No, from a box, but it was still hard for me.” I burned half of them before I figured out there was a difference between regular heat and convection.
“Sweetheart, I can think of something else that’s hard for you. You don’t know what hard is until you’ve been with me. Let’s get you started.”
Was that a threat or a promise? “Maybe I should go back to my room. I’m completely out of my element here.”
He pulls a stand mixer from the shelf. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up already. I didn’t take you for a quitter.”
I throw my chin forward. “I’m not a quitter.”
“Good girl. Then show me you can take everything I give you.”
Is he actually implying something, or is my mind racing there because this man makes my libido dance? “I’m all yours.”
He pulls several measuring cups from the drawer beneath the table. In a voice loud enough for only my ears he says, “You bet that fine ass of yours. Now go get the flour.” He points to a shelf of dry goods and I hustle to do as he says. On the way, I realize this man must have an ass fetish—a large ass fetish.
“What kind of cake am I making?”
“You tell me.” He opens the parcel he handed me when I arrived and pulls out an apron and a net of some sort.
“Lemon.”
“Lemon it is, but first things first.” He wraps his hand around my hair and twists it tight. Then he brings the net up and tucks it all inside. “There’s a perfect place for that hair to hang loose, but this isn’t it. I’d be happy with it draped over my body, but I don’t want to find it in my cake.”
“Do you talk like that to all your students?” I glance forward to see the back of everyone else. He put me in the back of the room for a reason, and I don’t think it’s because I don’t know how to bake.
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I want you to measure out two cups of flour.” He walks away and visits the other stations. I pull out my notebook and turn to a blank page to write down the recipe.
He moves from table to table with confidence. Even the men in class look up to him like he’s a god, and Ms. Skinny Britches turns into a wanton slut each time he passes. I see the way her eyes get all soft when he talks to her.
Twenty minutes later he’s back, and I’m standing at the mixer with two cups of flour and nothing else. He rattles off several more ingredients and I rush around to find them. Once back at the notebook I write things down, but he stops me.
“A good chef never needs a reminder.” He flicks the cover, but it doesn’t close. To my horror the pages flutter and fall open to the sketch of a mouth around a cock. Just the thought of that word brings heat to my cheeks.
“Give me that!” I swipe at the page, but he’s too quick.
“Is that me?” He holds it back and tilts his head in the same way an art expert would. It’s like he’s judging the quality of the sketch. “No, it can’t be. The dimensions are all wrong.” He looks forward to make sure no one is watching then he rubs his thumb across my lower lip. “I’d be happy to model so you can get it right.”
“Quit it.” I grit out the word between clenched teeth.
He shakes his head back and forth. “I’m no quitter, sweetheart.”
I shove my notebook back in my bag and go about dumping the ingredients in the bowl. To my surprise, a yellow batter takes shape. I zest a lemon and add the juice, then pour the batter into two pans and pop them into the oven.
When it comes time to make the frosting, I have it under control, and thank goodness because any further interaction with Ripley and I’ll explode. The issue is I’m not sure if I’ll combust from embarrassment or desire. Each sexual innuendo ripples through my body like a live current and settles between my thighs where it arcs and flares each time I hear his voice.
He moves forward to the remaining four students while I grab butter from the counter. How nice he has it at room temperature for me already. Although, all I need to do is hold it next to my body, and it will melt from the heat that man stirs in me.
