Kept for His Appetites Read Online Free PDF

Well, turns out he is. Long story short, I made him lunch and he asked me to cook this weekend, for himself and his guests. He didn’t mention that it would be on a huge yacht, but maybe that detail just slipped his mind, I don’t know. So anyway, yesterday I make with the snacky food all day, and in the evening he has me prepare dinner for two. Only when I’m serving does he spring it that the two to dine are to be he and me.
     
    So there we are, dining on deck beneath the moon and the stars, luscious steak, copious rich red wine, out in the middle of the ocean and all alone — I can’t bring myself to think about it. I mean it was wonderful. I mean it was really wonderful. And how could I resist. Actually, technically, if anyone was going to be resisting, it would have to have been him.
     
    Alright, suffice it to say that nobody did any resisting. None at all. There we were, all over the deck, neither of us resisting anything. OK, moving right along, here I am, it looks like a gorgeous morning on the ocean outside, this has the look of a master suite from my best knowledge of yachtery, which is zero. It’s big enough for the large bed, a white sofa and chairs with a glass coffee table and a large writing desk. No pictures, though, no personal effects, other than my own little pile of clothes. It’s all very, very quiet, and I can’t see that there’s anybody here but me.
     
    After I pulled on my chef’s whites from yesterday, I headed out on deck.
     
    I don’t know if I was expecting to find that we were still out at sea, or if we would be back at the Battery Park Marina. Whatever I was expecting, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the view astern. The boat was moored by a jetty, which poked out from an impressive concrete landing with ornate, wrought iron lamps, a couple of benches and a summer house. Looming over it all, a couple of hundred feet back and up some very formal slopes, trimmed with sumptuous trees, lawns, hedges and meticulous, geometric flower gardens, was some enormous golden gothic spread of a pristine stately home. I don’t know how long I stood on the rear deck, gawping at the towers, the arches, the colonnades and the dozens of gleaming windows of that great architectural jewel-box. A sumptuous feast of floral perfumes wafted on the air. The only thing missing was any sign of human life. All the time that I looked, all that I saw move were the branches of trees, waving lazily, the bobbing heads of flowers, and a few birds darting from one leafy perch to another.
     
    When I snapped from that daydream, with still no sign of anyone ashore or aboard, I looked in at the galley. A note was on the range. It said, ‘There may be guests aboard today, there may not.‘ No time wasted on any, ‘Hi, baby,’ or, ‘what a night.’ Ah, well. ‘Please be ready to make snacks, nibbles and light refreshments, as yesterday. Check to see if there are guests before you put any out though. I hate to see good food wasted.’ No mention of how we’d been in and all over each other for some exhausting hours not too long ago. Whoever said that romance was dead, obviously didn’t know what they were talking about.
     
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    My morning was spent planning plates of tasty morsels then touring the decks, the bar and the lounge to whether they were any less deserted, if anybody had boarded without my hearing them or roused themselves from below decks. After every tour of the empty decks and lounges in search of hungry guests, I wound up in some kind of a hazy dream gazing up at the mansion ashore. Then I would start all over again, exactly as before, only this time planning some other tasty morsels. Tasting the treats is an unavoidable responsibility of the chef, and it was a duty that I did not shirk.
     
    Sounds and sensations from last night drifted into mind to intrude on whatever I did. The feeling of hot skin, taught over flexing muscle in the ocean breeze, salty sea air