Cooking up a Storm Read Online Free PDF

woman with astonishingly blonde hair bustled out to greet him.
    His first impression was that she was soft all over, from the wisps of hair that escaped her French braid, to the humour in her clear green eyes, to the pink cashmere twin set whose sleeves she’d pushed to her elbows. Her flowing flowered skirt hid all of her legs except for a pair of trim, tapered ankles. His eyes slid back to her chest. Her breasts jiggled as she walked. She wore no brassiere. No doubt she considered her attributes too small for containment. He appreciated the oversight. Her nipples had a lovely pouty shape, their areolas swollen though not erect.
    He wondered if this was a sign that they were sensitive. Perhaps she was one of those rare women who could orgasm from being suckled. He had never met one, but it would be interesting to find out. Already verging on tumescence, his cock pushed against the confinement of its skin, a sleepy animal squirming awake.
    Coming to a halt before him, the cuddly little blonde clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘I bet you’re hungry.’
    For a second, he thought she had spotted his erection, but her expression was far too innocent for that.
    ‘Come with me,’ she said, taking his elbow and steering him into the airy dining room. Her touch sent a fierce pulse of awareness to his groin. ‘I’m afraid our hostess called in sick today and we’re a bit short-staffed. Let me get you settled and I’ll have the waitress come by in a few minutes for your order.’
    She led him to a white-draped table in a corner between two tall windows. His elbow tingled when she let it go. She handed him a menu, took his drink order and disappeared in the same flurry with which she’d arrived.
    Storm’s erection subsided with her departure but did not disappear. He could still smell her, a light, spicy mingling of lavender and orange blossom which enhanced her underlying scent. If a woman had to wear perfume, he thought, it ought to be a perfume like that.
    He flipped his napkin into his lap and wondered if she might be the owner. If she was, the negotiation process could be more interesting than he’d expected.
    He perused the menu with a practised eye, then gazed at his fellow diners. Off season or not, the place was woefully under-patronised. He counted two married couples, a silver-haired fisherman type scribbling in a notebook between bites of oyster stew, and three giggling college girls who were making a meal of salad and side dishes.
    The skinny, spike-haired waitress seemed to know these women weren’t likely to tip. She was ignoring their nearly empty water glasses in favour of picking lacquer off her nails. Storm narrowed his eyes. She wore a gauzy, mud-brown smock over a pair of tight black cycling shorts — hardly professional garb. Considering her appearance, he was pleasantly surprised when she arrived to take his order. Her manner was polite and efficient and she answered all his questions about the entrées with accuracy and aplomb.
    Perhaps she wouldn’t have to be fired after all.
    He waited longer for the food than he considered ideal, but it was hot. The portions were huge — laughably so — and the preparation competent, if uninspired. Storm consumed his entire lobster, which was wonderfully fresh, ignored a despicable iceberg lettuce and tomato salad, and picked dubiously at an overheavy crab cake. He ordered three desserts, which earned him a raised eyebrow from the rake-thin waitress, but he was on a research mission here, not a diet.
    The quality of the desserts was considerably higher than the main course. The lemon meringue tart melted in his mouth, the bittersweet chocolate rum cake caused his cock to lift its head in wonder, and the caramel-pecan crumble tasted so decadent he actually cleaned the plate, despite being quite full already. He concluded that the owner either had a good supplier or she let her sweet tooth set her kitchen