A Taste of Passion

She didn’t know if it was the situation, his companionship or the mood of the evening but she found it easy to talk with Hart. When he came and stood behind her to watch how she blended ingredients, she didn’t find his presence unsettling. Ordinarily she didn’t like to have her personal space invaded by strangers. But, when his arms came around from behind her, and he gently guided her hands so she was stirring at a more acute angle, Trudy savoured his nearness.

‘Make the strokes broader,’ he whispered. His words touched the lobe of her ear like gentle kisses. ‘The finished result will give more satisfaction if you make the strokes broader.’

She did as he asked.

Savouring the sensation of having his body pressed against hers as he guided her hands to work to his instructions, Trudy lowered her voice and asked, ‘Do we both want to be giving more satisfaction this evening?’

He chuckled softly.

She caught the scent of the Chivas Regal on his breath. It reminded her that she’d not yet taken a sip of her drink. She was suddenly driven by the need to taste the flavour of the Scotch on his kiss. The idea inspired a flurry of dark and desperate urges that sparkled deep in the centre of her sudden need for him.

‘Smells divine,’ he grunted.

She blushed. ‘Thank you, but I was only following your recipe.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the muffins.’

It was as much as he needed to say before she turned to face him. His lips were tantalisingly close and the desire to kiss him was overwhelming. She hesitated for less than a second and then pushed her mouth against his.

Chapter 6

Later Trudy would admit that she amazed herself in the kitchen with her show of restraint. She pulled away from the kiss and, with a promise in her smile, placed a finger on his lips. Saucily, she tilted her hips against him. She could feel the insistent threat of his erection concealed beneath his trousers. The hard flesh bulged between them as desperate as her own swelling need for him. It was a delightful and unexpected reminder that they were both fuelled by the same powerful and demanding urges. She wanted to shiver as she realised what the discovery meant: William Hart finds me desirable.

Then she turned and finished prepping the muffins.

The patisserie was already heady with the scent of the Sri Lankan cinnamon. Her lips needed constant moistening as her nostrils drank in the intoxicating flavour. She had liberated blueberries from the pantry and was looking for an orange when he joined her.

They were alone together in the kitchen.

But the narrowness of the dark pantry meant they had to be even closer.

Trudy trembled.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Orange,’ she admitted. ‘Lime or lemon if you’ve got no orange –’

She was going to carry on listing potential alternatives but he reached for something large and red from behind her and then placed it in her palm.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Rangpur,’ he said simply. ‘It’s sometimes called lemandarin. It’s a hybrid form between mandarin oranges and lemons.’

‘Shut the front door,’ Trudy whispered. She studied the fruit in her hand, incredulous that such a thing could exist – and that she’d never encountered it before. She sniffed the biting zest of its flesh, drinking in the acidic orangey fragrance, and fretful that the powerful flavour might prove too strong for the muffins she wanted to create. Then, realising the rangpur was being offered by a leading chef, she figured she could gamble confidently on the unknown ingredient.

‘Rangpur,’ she repeated, as she stepped past him and back into the kitchen. ‘Haven’t I learnt a lot tonight?’

‘The lessons have barely begun,’ he muttered.

She shivered as her thoughts lingered on the subtext of his words. She didn’t know what else he thought he could teach her in the kitchen but she knew she wanted to learn every lesson he had in mind.

The thought made her pulse quicken.

She grated the zest from the plump and succulent rangpur. Its fragrance was a powerful orange that would have been too bitter to tolerate as a main flavour. Trudy marvelled that she was now on the verge of creating the same divine delicacies she had sampled earlier in William Hart’s restaurant. She hoped, given her own approach to baking, the flavour would have something extra that came from the way she chose to combine ingredients.

If that happened, Trudy knew it would be an incredible accomplishment.

She folded the remaining ingredients into the bowl.

She creamed.

She mixed.

She stirred.

She found an electric whisk and blended. She rubbed her fingers thoughtfully along the brittle, fragile cinnamon quills. Their fragrance was as delicate as all the other mysterious ingredients she had discovered this evening. Reverently, she crumbled half a dozen quills into the mix. After mentally checking her understanding of the recipe, and convincing herself that she had everything in place, Trudy dropped a dozen pretty pastel pink paper cases onto a baking sheet and then used spatulas to place sponge mix into each waiting case.

The mixture stood stiff but she could sense its lightness in every scoop that she ladled into a case. The blueberries came next, to then be topped by a quarter more of the remaining sponge mix. She finished the muffins with a layer of the citrus rinds from the rangpur and a small handful of the remaining blueberries.

William Hart watched with a scowl of good-natured approval.

‘Are you happy with them?’

She placed them, not on the middle shelf, but on the shelf below. The trick to get the best from muffins, she had found, was to bake one shelf lower in the oven. It produced a result that remained thoroughly cooked and properly risen but with an improved sense of moistness that made the sponge all the more succulent. Pressing the door closed she said, ‘I’ll be happy if they turn out half as good as those your pâtissier made for me.’

She stood up and replaced the oven mitts on their hook. Swiftly, she pulled her smartphone from her pocket, and used a timer app to set a fourteen minute alarm.

‘Very efficient,’ he muttered. He sounded grudgingly impressed. ‘And what do you propose doing whilst you’re waiting for the muffins to rise?’

Ordinarily she would have used the time to clean her kitchen. She had messed up a modest collection of utensils, bowls and spatulas and the counter needed to be wiped down. However, it had taken a tremendous effort of will power to resist William Hart for this long and Trudy was adamant that she wouldn’t torture herself with unnecessary abstinence for a moment longer.

She stepped back into his embrace.

‘I thought we could continue with that kiss, Mr Hart.’

‘Call me Bill, for this evening, and I might let you.’

‘Bill,’ she repeated, testing the name on her lips and finding it sat pleasantly there. ‘Bill.’

He placed a finger on her lips and shook his head. ‘It’s Bill for tonight,’ he said. ‘It won’t be Bill on every occasion.’ And then he had his arms around her. One hand held her waist, pulling her closer to him and clutching tight. The other hand rested in the middle of her back. The fingers there crept slowly upwards, tiptoeing up the ridges of her vertebrae on a lazy dance to the nape of her neck. She wanted to melt in his embrace and yield to the animal desire he so effortlessly evoked.

His kiss was all she had hoped it would be.

Their mouths met in an exploration of raw and ravenous passion. His jaw was unshaven, making his kisses scratch lightly against her soft lips and adding a frisson of delightful discomfort with every caress to her face.

Trudy could feel her nipples hardening, as though they were straining to get close to him. Because their bodies were shielded by the barriers of his shirt and jacket, and her apron, blouse and bra, it felt as though there were too many layers between them.

She began to pull his buttons open, exposing his muscular chest and its coating of curled grey and white hairs. When she moved her mouth away from his, then pressed her kisses against his chest, her arousal grew even more profound.

‘I want you,’ he grunted.

‘I’m yours.’

She didn’t know where the admission had come from. But she was sure that she meant the words. She had never needed anyone more than she currently needed William Hart. The longing for him heated between her thighs like a beacon of sultry, broiling need. Her heartbeat raced at such a panicked speed she felt lightheaded with the swell of desire.

They staggered through to the adjacent head chef’s office, neither seeming willing or able to break the embrace, each battling to keep hold of the other as they struggled to find somewhere convenient so they could develop their intimacy.

Trudy didn’t take any time to study the room.

She realised Bill was guiding her towards a leather settee that stretched along one wall. She figured that would be a sufficiently comfortable spot for what she hoped they could do together. But, beyond that idea, her thoughts hadn’t progressed any further than the simple animal desire to be intimate with him.

She longed to have Bill’s naked body pressed against her own.

The wetness between her thighs was sudden and excessive. Her body felt so hypersensitive she was acutely aware of the rasp of the cotton crotch of her panties drawing against the moistened centre of her sex.

The music blared more loudly in his office.

Ella had stopped singing but the music remained light jazz: a smooth combination of piano, bass and sax. The sounds were pleasant and undemanding. They were familiar and yet somehow nameless. The music was slightly discordant and yet somehow perfect. She could feel the pulse of her arousal beating in time to the bass’s swelling rhythm. She could feel the urgency of her need quickening with the music’s accelerating tempo.

She broke their tight embrace to allow him to unfasten the apron and pull it over her head. Then she was trying to push herself back against him so she could again savour his kisses and explore his mouth with her tongue.

He eased her onto the settee.

She had expected to find herself laid across the sumptuous cushions with her back on the seat and Hart above her. Instead she was sitting down and he was kneeling on the floor between her spread thighs. He had managed to unfasten a handful of buttons on her blouse and his fingers had ingratiated themselves into the cups of her bra.

The sensation of his firm hands, sliding easily and confidently against her stiff nipples, was almost too much. She felt dizzy from the electric thrill of his caresses teasing at her breasts and pushing her closer and closer to a point of sensational, sexual climax.

Her breathing deepened.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She moved her legs a little further apart for him.

The pressure of his erection seemed larger than before. When she traced it with her fingers, clutching hungrily at his groin as she tried to discover more about him, her longing grew unbearable.

The tips of her fingers found the zipper of his pants. As she continued to steal kisses from his lips, Trudy tugged the zipper downwards. It took a moment of fumbling but, finally, she released his erection.

‘Ms McLaughlin!’

She caught her breath, shocked by how exciting it was to hear him call her Ms McLaughlin whilst they were engaged in such an intimate act.

‘Was that really what you wanted to do?’ Bill asked.

‘Hell, yes.’

They chuckled together as her fingers explored his shape. He was long and hard and hot in her palm. The pulse contained within his length throbbed with a determination that matched her own avaricious desire.

Trudy drew a faltering breath and silently begged him to satisfy her. She stroked her fingers lightly and lazily along his exposed length. The shaft undulated in response.

His hand had crept up the inside of her panties.

With one artful caress he stroked her sex’s centre. Absently, as though he was a master of such subtle movements, Bill teased the crotch to one side and slipped his middle finger against the hot folds of her lips. The sensation of his bare flesh touching her most intimate parts was enough to heighten and exacerbate her need.

She groaned.

His other fingers, so close to her centre, teased through the light down of hairs that coated her sex. She could feel the whisper of his knuckles brushing against the curls and teasing the follicles. Every suggestion of sensation seemed somehow amplified and more intense than anything she had ever previously experienced.

The one finger that rested at the lips of her sex pressed forward.

Trudy moaned.

The folds parted for him, giving up the secret of her sex in a flush of greedy, moist arousal. When he dared to press the finger more firmly against her, and then push it inside, she almost screamed with the rush of satisfaction that threatened to erupt.

She pulled him close to her face and devoured his mouth.

He returned the kiss, the intimacy clearly made difficult because of his broad smile and the awkwardness of their posture.

She had been holding his erection, savouring the sensation of his length sitting in her palm. With the thrill of his finger sliding into her sex she had lost her hold on him. Hurriedly, almost panicked, she fumbled between their bodies and found the thrust of his hardness. He still had a finger inside her, its gentle movement pushing her close to unexpected heights of elation.

But she wanted more.

Much more.

Without allowing herself to think about the consequences, only certain that she needed him, Trudy pulled him towards herself.

He placed a hand between them.

‘Let’s be safe about this, shall we?’

The finger that had been filling her sex was suddenly pulled away. It left an aching emptiness that she needed him to fill. She didn’t understand why he had stopped or what he meant by ‘safe’ until she saw him produce a condom. She nodded consent as he slipped the sheath from the pack and then unrolled it over his hardness. A moment later he was pressing the firm end of his erection back against the sopping lips of her sex.

She could not recall ever being so desperate to have someone inside her.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispered. Even lowered, his voice was textured with authority. The gritty timbre of his northern accent was a thrill against her ear. ‘Are you sure you want this?’

Trudy could not recall being more sure of anything. Ever.

She hooked her heels behind him and urged him closer. As he adjusted the position of the end of his hardness against her sex she waited for a heartbeat, savouring the anticipation as she held him on the verge of penetration.

The prospect of what she knew was going to come was intoxicating.

‘I’m sure,’ she told him.

He grinned, unhurried and clearly happy to wait for her to take the lead on this occasion. Slowly, Trudy eased herself onto him.

The rush of pleasure was instantaneous. Trudy could feel his thickness spreading her inner muscles wide and filling her. The aching need for satisfaction was replaced by the certain knowledge that he had already pushed her to the brink of climax and beyond. Her body pulsed through a cataclysmic rush of release from the simple act of his slowly sliding into her.

Was he really such a good lover? Or had she been secretly harbouring a desire for William Hart and this was the fulfilment of a previously unspoken fantasy? Trudy couldn’t decide which explanation was the more likely.

In that moment she knew it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the satisfaction of the experience.

She pressed her kisses more ferociously against his mouth. When he pulled her closer, his strong hands holding the base of her spine and the back of her neck, she felt a second explosion of euphoria rush through her being.

It was another orgasm. Another monumental release.

A flood of excitement rushed from her sex. The waves of pleasure wracked her frame. They left her trembling with a delight that tingled in every extremity. The release was so powerful she feared she might pass out. Her inner muscles rippled with a flurry of ecstatic responses that were so intense she wasn’t sure if they were divine or devastating.

She only knew she wanted more.

But, as she basked in the afterglow of her orgasm, and as she savoured the insistent rhythm of him riding back and forth inside her, Trudy could hear the intermittent beep of her smartphone’s alarm. She groaned inwardly when she realised the alarm was telling her that the muffins were now ready.

Chapter 7

Trudy was determined to take on the quad killer. That would be this morning’s challenge. She tiptoed quietly around Eldorado, the house she shared with Donny and Charlotte, as she readied herself to do battle. She didn’t want either of her friends to know what she was doing. Today the quad killer would be a private test: something that she needed to do on her own.

Charlotte’s parents had generously subsidised the rental of Eldorado, allowing the trio to reside in a substantial, attractive property in a fairly exclusive location. Trudy and Charlotte had rooms on the upper floor whilst Donny lived in the converted basement. The ground floor was a communal living space where they occasionally met for breakfasts and chitchat or to discuss the finer points on their plans for eventual world domination of the global catering industry.

The walls and furnishings remained predominantly coloured in the same bland magnolias, oatmeals and beiges that had been there when they moved in.

The floors were hardwood.

The décor was sparse and minimalist and open plan.

It was a stylish area to entertain friends and, most importantly, it was easy to keep clean and tidy. The only problem with the ground floor level was, unless she carefully tiptoed, that the hardwood floors screamed and groaned an announcement of her every movement like some form of security siren.

Trudy checked that her keys were zipped into the pocket of her hoodie before closing the door behind her. It was barely 5:30 am. She had been home this morning for less than three hours. The world outside the door was held in the blackest night between darkness and dawn. Trudy savoured the chill of the icy weather caressing her skin. Then she began to jog steadfastly through the grey morning mist.

Every breath came out as a visible reminder of the early summer morning’s frostiness.

The brim of her black baseball cap was pulled low. Her features were hidden inside the shadows of her black hoodie. Wearing black Lycra leggings and black trainers, she figured she looked as anonymous as the shadows as she hurried along the pre-morning roads. She wanted to blend with the early-morning lightlessness and complete her run without being observed. The way she felt this morning, Trudy wanted to continue the remainder of her existence without ever being observed again. Remaining permanently unobserved, she thought, would be safest for all.

You fucked William Hart.

The soundtrack for her MP3 was set to a list of tunes intended to accompany an energetic workout. There were lots of glam rock pieces, each one heavy with power chords and inspirational lyrics. She turned up the volume so the music had a chance to drown out the catcalls of her conscience.

You fucked William Hart.

Her cheeks burned crimson. She cranked the volume higher and began running harder. Every footfall shook as it landed heavily on the ground. She forced herself to think about each step of the circuit that lay ahead. It was never a good idea to tackle the quad killer with anything less than absolute mental focus. This morning she needed something to concentrate on other than the punishing memories of the previous night. The quad killer – devilish, demanding and dangerous – struck her as the ideal distraction. Not that the memories were particularly punishing. In truth, the majority of them were rather pleasurable. But she didn’t like to dwell on the easy way she had given herself to him.

You fucked William Hart.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to banish that thought.

In a moment of typical dramatic flair, Charlotte had labelled this route the quad killer. It was a six mile run that went up some steep hills, over stretches of gruelling fields, and through a couple of treacherous woodland trails. Trudy believed it to be one of the most invigorating and challenging cardiovascular workouts she and Charlotte had ever negotiated. The name quad killer was apt because it always left the front of Trudy’s thighs in an agony of overstretched and trembling exertion. It left her quivering and on the brink of ceasing to function. This morning, more than any other she could remember, Trudy needed the quad killer to distract her thoughts. There were some things that she simply didn’t want to think about.

You fucked William Hart.

After she and William Hart finished having sex, Trudy had felt an almost irresistible urge to apologise or at least explain herself. She didn’t usually have sex with people she’d known for less than an hour. Her only previous lover, Peter, had been her one and only former boyfriend. She’d been committed to Peter for two years before they became intimate. Their relationship had lasted a further twelve months and she’d been devastated when he said it was time for them to go their separate ways.

Aside from one embarrassing drunken fumble with Terry, a blind date that Charlotte had organised, Trudy had never displayed anything like the uninhibited abandon that she shared with William Hart in the kitchen of Boui-Boui.

But she hadn’t dared put those thoughts into words. It was easier to simply cringe from the shame of having made herself so easily available to him and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

A car approached her on the road. The headlights were dusty and faraway in the pre-dawn mist. Even as it sped past her its presence seemed oddly muffled and otherworldly.

It was amazing that it had happened, she thought. The sudden desire she’d had for Bill, as well as the fact that he reciprocated her feelings and they’d been sufficiently fortunate to be in a convenient location where they could do something about their mutual attraction, had been a combination of events that would lead someone else to win the lottery. Yet, despite the fact that sex with him had felt good – incredibly good – she conceded, Trudy did not feel like a lottery winner.

If not for the fact that she was tackling the quad killer, Trudy would have curled into a ball and sobbed bitter tears of recrimination and frustration.

She left the first stretch of uphill climb and leapt easily over a low dry-stone wall. She kept one hand on the rough stone for balance. Then her feet were stomping on the unyielding and uneven surface of a deep-ploughed field.

It was early enough to still count as dark. There was a suggestion of morning sunlight somewhere on the horizon but it was nothing more than a baffled brightness in the wrong part of an unseen sky. A bank of low-lying cloud made the world around her an impenetrable fog of confusion.

She ran more briskly.

A ramblers’ path lead through the field up to the forest. It was a stretch of well-trodden grass that had worn to a thin and sometimes-muddy walkway. The surface was uneven and potentially calamitous. Trudy knew, if she didn’t pay attention to every step, there was a danger she could lose her footing, twist an ankle or fall and cause herself serious injury.

This was one of the reasons why she had forced herself to take on the quad killer this morning. It demanded so much concentration there was little scope for reflection or self-condemnation. She kept her face down and focused on her run as she hurried into the primordial depths of the forest.