The Bar and Grill Pt. 02

"Say it," I whispered.

When she said nothing, I traced the tip of my tongue slowly over the material covering her lips, stopping short of her clit before going back to her belly and then legs.

"Say you cheated," I insisted.

She was whimpering with the anticipation, but she refused to break. That, of course, was fine by me. Experience had long since taught me that anticipation heightened arousal and response, and I was enjoying playing her like a fiddle. So I upped the ante my brushing my fingertips around her breasts and areolae, carefully avoiding the sensitive flesh of her nipples.

"Tim," she murmured, her eyes half closed, "I swear to God that if you keep this up I'm going to rape you."

"Then say it," I said.

"No," she said.

And like a shot, her hands were under my arms pulling me up and over until I was flat on my back on the couch. Before I could react, I felt the intense wet heat of her mouth sucking in my cock and saw her hips looming up over my face.

The intense sensations were almost too much. I almost lost it immediately. Then the musky, spicy scent of her pussy inches from my face focused my mind elsewhere.

My hands darted to Jenny's asscheeks, pulling her to my mouth. One finger slid the thong aside, and my tongue started darting at her pussy. I felt her moaning around my cock, and her hips started rocking against my assault. Within seconds, I felt her take me to the back of her throat and hold me there as she moaned and gasped around me. Then, as I concentrated on holding myself back, she broke contact with me and sat up straight, crying out in her orgasm as she mashed her soaking pussy into my face.

After ten or fifteen seconds, Jenny wheeled on me and kissed my face, ignoring the juices coating my lips, chin, and cheeks. I kissed her back hungrily, my hands cupping and kneading her ass.

"Oh my God," she murmured through the kisses. "That was . . . . Oh my God."

I just kept kissing her, letting her set the pace now. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, I felt her hand reaching back and grabbing my prick, guiding it to her entrance as she sat back on me. We both moaned into the other's mouth as she sank on me.

"I'm not gonna last long here," I warned as her ass came to rest on the top of my thighs.

She ignored me and started grinding slowly against my pelvis. Not an up and down movement, but a circular grind around and around. Her breath was coming in short gasps, speeding up as she continued grinding into me. I watched her lean back and rest her hands on my legs, throwing her head back and picking up her breathing, her breasts thrust high as her grinding increased in urgency.

"I'm close," I warned, reaching up to palm her breasts, squeezing her nipples.

"Like that," she said, starting to rise and fall on me until she was going up and down the full length of my prick.

"Jen," I again warned, "I'm close."

"Go ahead," she said, leaning into me. "It's safe."

She covered my lips with hers and I felt her hot breath shooting into my mouth as her orgasm neared and she clutched me tightly by the shoulders.

I reached back and grabbed her ass with both hands, setting her pace faster as my cock erupted and I came with a long groan. That triggered Jenny's orgasm, as well, and she groaned long and low as she clutched me tighter and mashed her breasts into my chest.

We held like that for a few minutes after we were done, Jenny hugging me tightly as we both caught our breaths.

"That was almost worth waiting for," she murmured into my ear.

"Almost?" I said.

She chuckled. "I don't care how good you are. Six months is a long time. No one could totally make up for such a long dry spell."

I stroked her back, kissing her neck.

"You know," she said, pushing herself up and grinding her hips around my softened cock. Then she screeched.

"What?" I said, turning to follow Jenny's eyes as her screech turned to laughter.

I saw Ernie sitting on the recliner, watching the two of us.

"He looks so sad," she laughed.

"Probably scarred for life," I offered. "Go outside," I said to Ernie.

He ignored me, looking at us with those play-with-me-now eyes.

Jenny stood, grabbing my softened member and giving a firm tug up from the couch.

"Let's take this away from prying eyes," she said.

I let her lead me into the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

It had been months since either of us had done the naked tango with another, and I'm pretty sure we both did our damnedest to turn our dry spells into floods in one night.

As for me, I succeeded. I hadn't been more thoroughly laid in ages. Jenny seemed sated, too, which probably guaranteed me a repeat performance.

The repeat, if any, could wait a few days, though. I was seriously afraid Little Timmy was going to fall off from excessive use and abuse.

SIXTEEN

We both awoke at about the same time, seven or so.

"Breakfast?" I offered.

"Something light," she murmured.

I hopped out of bed, pulled on my boxer shorts, and went out to the kitchen to make some omelettes. Ernie saw me, heaved himself off the couch, and followed.

"Food?" I said to him.

He looked back at me like I was a piece of shit for leaving him alone all night. Flat tail, dark eyes boring a hole through me, impatient look on his muzzle.

"Suit yourself," I said, turning my back.

Ernie gave a light woof as I pulled some eggs, cheese, and butter from the refrigerator.

"You can wait until we eat, Mr. Attitude," I said to him.

"Who you talking to?" Jenny called out.

"Ernie."

"Oh," she said, like my answer was natural.

A few minutes later, Jenny joined me in the kitchen as I whisked the eggs and small chunks of butter together.

"I said light," she frowned, seeing the butter in the eggs.

"It is," I said, smiling at her.

Jenny was dressed in one of my t-shirts. And nothing else. I thought at first she had replaced her thong, but then she stretched and the t-shirt rode up her belly, exposing the small tuft of darkened pubic hair just above my dream world.

"Quit staring," she said through a yawn, smiling as she did so.

I did, pouring the eggs into a nonstick pan and stirring them briskly for a moment before turning off the heat and covering the pan.

"What's for breakfast," she said.

"French omelettes, toast, and juice. It's light, I promise."

Ten minutes later, we were settled at the dining room table, eating our breakfast while Ernie scarfed through his bowl of food at our feet.

"So," I said between mouthfuls, leaving the word hanging.

"So," she responded.

"Does this mean we'll see each other again?"

She took a bite of her toast, looking at me while she chewed.

"Probably," she said after she'd swallowed.

"Probably?"

She looked at me a moment, her face unsure. Then she put the toast down, crossed her arms in front of her breasts, and leaned over the table.

"You're not, like, in love with me or something, are you?"

I hesitated. Honestly, I'm not sure what I was. Somehow, though, it just didn't seem--

"You're a knight, aren't you?" she said, interrupting my thoughts.

That caught me by surprise. "A what?"

"A knight. You know, a knight in shining armor. Chivalry. Save and protect the damsel and all that crap."

I didn't know what she meant, and my face must have made this clear to her.

"We talked about guys like that--like you, I think--in a support group I was in while the divorce was going. Knights, the therapist called them. Guys who, if you sleep with them, they tend to fall in love almost immediately."

I shrugged. "I'm not saying it's love here," I started. "Still, it's something, isn't it?"

She laughed. "Sure, Tim, I guess it could be. But you promise you won't make it more for awhile, okay?"

I couldn't hide the disappointment on my face, and Jenny reached over and put her hand atop mine.

"Listen, Tim, we don't even really know each other, right?"

I started to say something, something about how we'd known each other since we were little, but she cut me off.

"Think about it before you speak. You don't know what foods I like, what movies, books, my favorite color. None of it. You don't know what aggravates me, whether I'm a bitch at the end of a long day. These are important things here."

"But I'll get to know those things. You'll get to know those things. I'm pretty easy to get along with."

She smiled, but I couldn't tell if it was pity or sadness. Either way, it wasn't happiness.

"Tim, you're more than easy to get along with. That's part of your problem. You'll put up with me being a bitch for the rest of your life just so you can make me happy and provide for me."

I pondered this. She sounded like a sex symbol version of Uncle Jack. And everyone else, for that matter, who had described my marriage with Nina.

"The point is," Jenny continued, "you deserve to be happy, too. That's the problem with knights. They put their own happiness ahead of everyone else's. You shouldn't do that, Tim. You don't need to do that. You deserve to be happy, too."

I thought about what she was saying. And I thought again for the millionth time about my marriage with Nina. Had I ever really been happy? Or had it just been satisfaction that I could provide for them and make them happy?

Was I some kind of pathetic fucking martyr?

I looked into Jenny's eyes. "Okay," I said, my lips curling into a smile, "if I promise not to fall in love with you, can we still spend the occasional night together?"

Her smile now turned to one of genuine happiness. "Well, I know I don't want to go another six months without."

"It's settled then," I said, pushing our plates and leaning over the table toward her.

I kissed her, long and deep. I could taste the toast and strawberry jam she had just eaten, and for some reason it fueled my fires. I really liked toast and jam this way.

"To seal the deal," I said after breaking the kiss, "how about we break in the dining room table?"

She laughed before pulling my head back toward her suddenly passionate mouth. She pinched my nipple and I yelped into her kiss.

"You just be a little more gentle this time," she mumbled. "I'm a little sore down there." She twisted my nipple harder to reinforce her point.

In my defense, I tried to be gentle. But toward the end, she was egging me on to go faster and faster.

Still, I really did try.

Any problems she had walking for the rest of the day were as much her fault as mine.

And there's no need to go into how much therapy poor Ernie was going to need after having to again watch us go at it in front of him.

SEVENTEEN

When Nicole showed up in the kitchen on Monday morning, I was humming an old Hank Williams tune while chopping onions.

"Someone's in a good mood," she said.

I turned and looked at her, tears from the onions streaming down my face. She laughed, surprised and delighted at the tear-streaked face smiling back at her. This was a first: The first time in all of these months I'd seen Nicole in a moment of unguarded emotion. She was normally so tightly in control of herself it was impossible to figure out what she was thinking or feeling. I liked it.

"You seem to be in a pretty good mood yourself," I said.

She shrugged. "It was a good weekend."

I remembered something I'd seen on Saturday night and spoke without thinking it through.

"Jammer's," I said. Her body went taut and the smile vanished.

"You datin' him?"

Her eyes told me I'd missed the mark by quite a bit.

"Like I'd ever date that pig," she said.

"He's not that bad," I defended for my friend. The friend I agreed was a pig where women were concerned.

"Not that bad if you're looking to get used and cast aside," she shot back, hands on hips.

"Whoa there, little girl," I said, surprised at her vehemence and trying to settle things down. "Did he try something?"

Her look told me he had.

"What happened?"

She stared at me for a moment before answering.

"He's been chatting me up lately," she said. "Getting my tables and chatting me up. I mentioned I really liked this." She swept her hand toward the kitchen equipment. "Cooking, y' know? So he says he's having a party and, if I'm really good at it like I say, maybe I can cater the party. He'd pay me."

"So you were catering Saturday night?" I said, remembering the appetizer that was so damned good.

She nodded. "I had the night off, and I really need the money. So I agreed to do it. He'd pay for the supplies, and then he'd pay me fifteen bucks an hour for the cooking, serving, and cleanup."

"I only tried one thing," I confessed. "It was incredible, though."

She nodded at the compliment, but no smile was forthcoming.

"Later in the evening, way after you and . . . whatever her name was . . . way after you left, I was cleaning up. Maybe around ten or so. Jammer came in to help and was a bit handsy."

"You told him to stop?"

She nodded.

"Did he stop?"

"No until I dumped a tray of meatballs on him and left."

I laughed.

"It's not funny," she said. "He hasn't paid me yet. I'm out almost two hundred bucks on the food, and he owes me another hundred and fifty for the work."

"He'll pay you," I assured her. "He may be a pig, but he still wants a shot at you. He'll pay you to keep that gate open."

"He'll never have a shot whether he pays or not." She tied on her apron and muttered something.

"What?" I said.

She ignored me and we passed the morning cooking in silence. She made the butternut squash soup and some homemade cinnamon and sugar croutons for garnish while I concentrated on the Hungarian goulash special for the day. (And I mean real Hungarian goulash with seared chunks of chuck steak and caramelized onions and button mushrooms in a fragrant, spicy paprika-infused gravy to serve over egg noodles. I realize it doesn't go the best with butternut squash soup, but both had enough adherents among the clientele that I didn't dare change a thing.)

Nicole was back in the kitchen after the lunch rush, helping me clean up, when we next spoke.

"So that liver pate you made Saturday night," I started.

She only grunted in response.

"Was that chicken skin on top?"

"Yep."

"It was really good. I mean really, really, really good. And a good idea."

She stopped scrubbing the pots and pans, her back still to me as I washed down the stainless steel counters.

"Thanks, Tim."

She remained still, like she wanted to say more or expected to hear more. I decided to take a stab at it, hoping I guessed right this time. Would I say the right thing or just piss her off?

"You got any other ideas like that you'd care to share with me sometime?"

She wheeled around. "You'd be interested?"

I nodded, pleased with myself. Score one for Tim, he'd finally said the right thing today.

"Tomorrow," she said. "I'll show you something tomorrow."

"Why not now?"

She shook her head. "Tomorrow."

"You gonna give me a hint here?"

"Nope."

I laughed, and she smiled for the first time in hours.

Just before we were done cleaning, Nicole spoke up again.

"You were right," she said.

"About what?"

"Jammer," she said. "He came in for lunch and apologized."

"And paid you?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Fuckin' men."

"Men?" I teased. "Plural?"

"Pretty much all of you, it seems."

"All of us? Even me?"

She didn't answer, though. She didn't say anything to me the rest of the time she was there.

Nicole was one hard nut to crack. Every time I thought we had a rapport going, she closed in on herself.

Nevertheless, she was an excellent cook. Better than Uncle Jack.

And way better to look at, too.

EIGHTEEN

Nicole was already in the kitchen, cutting up the Tuesday delivery of fifty whole chickens, when I got there the next morning at seven-thirty.

"Bit early," I said, hanging my jacket and pulling down my apron.

"You wanted me to show you some ideas," she said, concentrating on the chickens. "You just go and do your paperwork and come back up in an hour or so."

"I'll help," I offered, tying the apron strings and picking up a knife.

She stopped chopping and looked at me.

"Out," she ordered.

I complied. No use arguing with a woman holding a knife.

Fifty-five minutes later, I wandered back into the kitchen.

"You're early," she said, not bothering to look up at me or the clock.

Nicole was threading strips of chicken skin onto wooden skewers, and a sauce was cooling on the stove behind her.

"What're you doing?" I said, then pointed to the saucepan with the mysterious sauce. "And what's that?"

"Just wait," she said, her face a mixture of flustered and nervous.

She took eight skewers and laid them across the grill. The air was immediately filled with the scent of sizzling chicken, and I watched as she turned the skewers after a few minutes.

"Glaze," she said, picking up a brush and spreading the glaze over the grilled side while the other side cooked.

When the heat hit the glaze, an exotic smell hit the air. It was ginger and cardamom, some chiles of some kind, and a sweetness I didn't recognize. I leaned back against the wall behind me, folded my arms, and watched.

Once the glaze was on all of the skewered skins, Nicole drizzled some vinaigrette over some julienne cucumber, carrot, and red bell pepper in a small bowl. Using her hand, she mixed the veggie mixture, then mounded some in the middle of each of two appetizer plates. Her movements brisk and experienced, she sprinkled some chopped peanuts onto the veggies before turning and taking the skewers off the grill in two pairs, fanning four across each appetizer plate.

Finished, Nicole looked up at me while slowly pushing one plate across the counter toward me. She was in full Nicole mode: No words and no emotion.

I looked at the plate before me. It was attractive, which is underrated when creating a dish--particularly an appetizer. The colors in the salad mixed nicely and added brightness to the dark, crispy skewers of chicken skin. The peanuts, I knew, would add crunch, contrasting nicely with the cool salad and the hot, crackling skins.

I grabbed two forks to my left and slid one over to Nicole before picking up a skewer and taking a bite.

The flavor of the grilled chicken skin exploded in my mouth. There was, first and foremost, the flavor of the skin itself, initially crisp, but yielding to a chewy, chickeny flavor with mild, caramelized sugar undertones from the glaze. Then the rest of the glaze hit, more an afterthought than an up front punch. Taking another bite to finish my first skewer, though, I felt the heat from the glaze building. Not an inferno, mind you, but I took a forkful of the salad to see what the cucumbers, carrots, and red peppers would do. The fresh crunch of the cooling vegetables, contrasted with the salty chopped peanuts, was the perfect accompaniment.

Holy shit! I thought. Without a word I polished off the rest of the appetizer in quick dispatch.

I looked up at Nicole. She was staring at me, waiting for my assessment. She had eaten only one skewer and a small bit of the salad. Her fork was sitting across the plate, indicating she wanted no more. So I gave her my assessment by stealing her plate and eating the rest of her's.

Finished with both plates, I waited for the tingling of the peppers in my mouth to fully cool before speaking. The heat dissipated, then fully disappeared in a few minutes. Perfect.

"Price?" I said to start.

"Five bucks."

"Why?"

To most of you, this will seem a silly, pointless question. To a chef--or experienced person running a kitchen--this question is all important. Think about it: I'm in business to make money. The simple formula for a restaurant, particularly one like the Bar and Grill, is to charge three times the cost of the food, thereby covering food costs as well as all associated salaries, overhead, equipment, utilities, and so on. So the real question here is how expensive were the ingredients she used, and could we justify making and selling this appetizer for the five bucks she proposed?