Her Secret Ingredient – M/F/M BDSM Erotic Romance from Lisabet Sarai
Available 15 November from Totally Bound: https://www.totallybound.com/her-secret-ingredient
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Her Secret Ingredient by Lisabet Sarai
Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion
When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee “Emily” Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is sceptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can't help being attracted to him.
Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily's show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne's consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can't do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting M. Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever - until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.
“How are you getting on with Monsieur le Chef?”
“What?” I nearly toppled off my stool. I’d been focused on my iPad, poring over my recipe files and trying to figure out how much I’d need to modify them to satisfy Duvalier.
A firm grip steadied me. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you. Etienne said you might need some help with your test dishes.” When he was certain I was not going to fall, the newcomer released my shoulder and extended his hand. “Harry Sanborne, at your service. Head producer, chief bottle washer, and all-around handy-man.”
A thirty-something man with longish black hair and dark-rimmed glasses grinned down at me. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a green plaid sport shirt and a dreadful beige cardigan sweater like something that might have belonged to my Chinese grandfather. Somehow I’d expected the producer would be more corporate. This guy looked like he belonged behind the counter at some back street bookstore. He had scrumptious nutmeg brown eyes, though, brimming with laughter behind his spectacles, and I heard genuine warmth in his voice.
“Mei Lee Wong. But you already know that. My friends call me Emily.”
“I hope I can count myself in that fortunate number, Emily!” He hiked his bottom up onto the stool beside mine. His baggy clothing didn’t completely conceal the fact that he was lithe and fit. “So does he have you cringing in terror yet?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say that our culinary philosophies are not exactly in sync.”
“He’s been at you about the sacredness of French cuisine, hmm? Talking about how it’s a sacrilege to modify the holy recipes that have been passed down through the centuries?”
I chuckled. “That’s exactly the word he used! The problem is, all my recipes are riffs on traditional dishes. My specialty is contemporary French-Asian fusion. I’ll have to start from scratch to give him what he wants. And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.”
The producer tugged on his chin with thumb and forefinger. He reminded me of Rodin’s statue. “Actually, if you stand up to him, you’ll be doing the network a favour. With his looks and charm – yes, he’s charming on his show, believe it or not – he’s still a draw, but serious foodies are starting to get a bit bored.”
“Oh?” I glanced at my watch. “Do you mind if I chop some veggies while we talk? He gave me a deadline and I’d like to be able to keep that, regardless of what I cook.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I selected a six inch blade from the rack on the counter and began peeling carrots. “Anyway, you were saying the viewers are bored?”
Harry swivelled his seat so he could watch me work. I didn’t mind – I’d cooked in open kitchens, and if I was going to be on television, I had to get used to having an audience. And somehow, though I’d known him for only a few minutes, the dishevelled young producer made me feel comfortable.
”Yeah. The ratings for the channel as a whole are falling, because he won’t work with any chef who refuses to toe his line. That’s one reason the execs pressured him to contact you. Fresh blood and all that.”
“Hmm.” My knife rose and fell with satisfying precision, creating uniform half-inch cubes of crisp orange. I swept the diced carrots into a pile at one end of the cutting block, then started on the onions.
“Amazing. I could never do that. When I try to cook, the results look like something from a slasher movie.” He flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Anyway, the first two guest chefs the network hired – Etienne drove them away.”
I set the blade down. I’d chilled the onions ahead of time, but my eyes watered nevertheless. Harry handed me a handkerchief. What a sweet guy. If only Etienne were more like him.
“He’s not going to drive me away, Harry. I swear it.” I’d been the only woman in my class at the Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and the only Asian. They’d made it clear I didn’t belong. I’d stuck it out, three gruelling years to get my Grand Diplôme. Then there was all the time working my way up the ranks: commis entremets, chef saucier, sous chef.
It would take more than one sexy, stubborn Frenchman to stop me.
I dumped the onions into a bowl and covered them with plastic wrap, then paused. My beef burgundy used green apples and sliced Asian long beans. Did I dare include such unconventional ingredients here in Etienne’s kingdom?
“The other guest chefs weren’t nearly as pretty as you.” Harry’s sincerity made me blush. “Too bad he’s not more – uh - susceptible.”
You know how in cartoons they show light bulbs appearing above the characters’ heads? That’s how I felt when the idea occurred to me. It was so obvious, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“Even our Monsieur le Chef can be swayed by great food. The desserts – oh, I’ve just got to try one of these...”
Before I could stop him, though, he’d nipped a cream puff off the pile and popped it into his mouth. His eyes went wide as he chewed and swallowed.
“Unbelievable! Give me another...”
“Please, no...!” I grabbed at his arm, but it was too late. He’d already devoured a second choux. “Those are supposed to be for Etienne...”
“Come on, you’ve made at least two dozen. He won’t miss one or two.” Harry made as if to reach for a third puff. I hung on, trying to restrain him, but he was far stronger than I. Under that dorky clothing, I felt his muscles tense and shift.
He halted, his fingers inches away from its target, as if suddenly aware of my touch. Turning away from the tower of pastries, he gazed down at me. Behind his glasses, his mocha-coloured eyes gleamed with powerful purpose.
“Harry?” My stomach did a somersault. My cheeks felt as though they’d just come out of the oven. Meanwhile he held me in that fierce, all-consuming stare.
My right hand still gripped his left arm, near the shoulder. He reached out to rest his on my shoulder, as if we were about to dance. “You know, I actually see something a lot sweeter right here.” He slid his palm down my back and pulled me to his chest with a decisiveness that sent my pulse into overdrive. When he leaned in close, I smelled the almonds on his breath.
“Harry...I don’t think...”
“Shh!” He enforced this directive by fastening his mouth on mine in an energetic kiss.
He tasted, unsurprisingly, of sugar and cream. His firm lips moulded to mine while his tongue teased at the seam, coaxing me to open. I shouldn’t have given in, but I honestly couldn’t help it. He might look like a bit of nerd, but this guy really knew what he was doing. Wet, but not sloppy – forceful, but not brutal – alternating between deep penetration and playful flickering – he kissed with consummate sensuality. All I wanted was to swoon in his arms, to let him take me over. He seemed eager to oblige.
The hand on my back wandered down to cup my ass and pull my pelvis against his. I gasped at the size and rigidity of the lump pressed against my pubis. My nipples snapped into aching knots and moisture flooded my already damp panties. He laced the fingers of his other hand through my hair, using them to control the position of my head as he drank his fill of me.
His mouth slipped away from mine to nuzzle below my ear, somehow finding the precise spot that’s directly connected to my clit. Meanwhile he groped my breasts, squeezing hard – harder than I usually like, but now I actually wanted more.
Apparently he did, too. He tugged at my blouse, trying to pull it out from the waistband of my skirt, and finally succeeding. The first graze of his fingertips along my naked skin sent a wave of arousal crashing through me.
“Wait – no – aah...oh...” My protests faltered as he deftly extricated one of my breasts and caught the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged on the taut node of flesh, twisted it, flicked it back and forth. I swear I felt him doing the same to my clit. At the same time, he caught my earlobe between his teeth, worrying it like a pup with a toy.
Oh God! He was all over me, fondling and caressing whatever flesh he could access through my dishevelled clothing – and it was glorious! Crumpling my skirt to the waist, he worked his clever fingers under the elastic of my panties to stroke my soaked fur. I jerked against his palm, wanting him to explore more deeply. He appeared happy to oblige, pushing into my channel with his fingers while strumming my clit with his thumb. I wormed my way into his loose trousers and clung to his cotton-covered ass, feeling his gluts flex as he ground his astonishing hardness against my belly.
I’d never doubt my grandmother again.
X-Rated Excerpt 2 – From Extra Chapter!
The road dead-ended in a parking lot, empty save for our vehicle. He helped me out of the car and walked me over to the iron railing guarding the overlook. The night was crystal clear. Not a wisp of fog obscured the twinkling majesty of the City by the Bay.
I grasped the balustrade, a bit nervous about the sheer drop on the other side. Standing behind me, Harry rubbed his rigid penis against my butt. Meanwhile, his hands snaked around to clasp and knead my breasts. “See what I mean?” he murmured in my ear, twisting my nipples at the same time.
“It’s—uh—it’s beautiful, Harry. But I don’t think…”
“Don’t think, Em. Just trust me.” He continued to fondle my tits with one hand, while sliding the other down over my belly to poke between my thighs. “I’ll bet you’re wet.” He probed through the jersey of my dress, finding my clit with his usual skill. “Yup, I was right. You love a bit of danger.”
“No, not really—ah!” He rocked my bead like a switch, sending spurts of electricity through my limbs. “Oh, God, Harry, we can’t do this here!”
“Why not? You let me fuck you on the studio floor the day after we met.”
“I— Oh, Harry, please…that was different…”
He had my skirt flipped up in back now, and my panties down around my knees. One hand had lodged inside the front of my dress, where he continued to squeeze my engorged breast. Meanwhile, he explored my wet crevice with nimble fingers, thrusting into my pussy, sliding over my lower lips, then making slick circles around my clit.
The smooth head of his bare cock bobbed against the backs of my thighs. How had he managed to get it out of his trousers while still teasing me this way? I reached behind me, wanting to grasp that lovely hardness and share some of my pleasure.
“No!” He caught my hand in a sticky grip and returned it to the iron pipe. “Don’t let go of the rail. Or do I have to tie you there?”
Lightning shot through me. I thought for a moment I’d faint and topple over into the abyss.
“Tie me?” Craning my neck, I tried to read his expression. Was he serious? The shadows made it impossible to tell.
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – nearly fifty single author titles, plus dozens of short stories in various erotic anthologies, including the Lambda winner Where the Girls Are and the IPPIE Best Erotic Book of 2011, Carnal Machines. Her gay scifi erotic romance Quarantine won a Rainbow Awards 2012 Honorable Mention.
Lisabet has more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by her chosen genre. She has traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her indulgent husband and two exceptional felines, where she pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to her creative writing.