Page 292 of Delicious

“No, but what choice do I have?” Niccolò asked in a resigned tone.

“Open wide, Chef,” I purred as seductively as I could. It thrilled me to see him visibly shiver. “This one might make you cry.”

He obediently parted his lips to try the next bite of hell. I couldn’t stop imagining it being my dick slipping past his lush lips, but I forced myself to focus on the grand finale.

My hand shook as I lifted the spoon to his lips and dropped the dessert bomb. His reaction was instant. His cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink as he coughed after swallowing. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and I fantasized about him sweating as he pounded me into the mattress to exact his sexy revenge.

I handed him a glass of milk, which he chugged, making me shift positions so the camera wouldn’t catch the fact that watching his throat as he swallowed gave me an erection. His voice was raw as he snarled, “I feel like I just tongue-fucked an active volcano spewing lava!”

I howled with laughter as he continued coughing, even as my dick ached with a need to come from the idea of Niccolò doing that to me. It was difficult to resist the urge to palm myself through my pants, but I had to be careful while the cameras rolled.

He kept chugging more milk. His voice was still raw as he continued. “You’re a pastry pyromaniac!”

“Yeah, they should definitely lock me up for violating the Geneva Convention laws of desserts with my scorpion chili lava cake,” I gleefully replied, enjoying demolishing his composure.

“A fucking sugar-coated sadist is what you are.” He coughed again, and I almost felt bad for him.Almost. “A gastronomic gangster. You forgot to mention in your introduction that you’re Satan’s sous chef, you diabolical donut.”

Each insult made my dick throb with a painful need to come. It wouldn’t take much more for me to explode in my pants. “I kind of like the sound of being an evil eclair emperor.”

“You’re a perfidious panna cotta,” he growled, which had the same effect as him deepthroating me.

“Maybe I’m a twisted trifle tyrant,” I teased, having too much fun getting aroused from being insulted.

“More like an endlessly evil empanada.” Niccolò coughed again before drinking what was left of the milk.

“Oooh, am I your nefarious nougat nemesis?”

“A vile vanilla villain,” he retorted.

I couldn’t stop my wicked grin. “I’d be happy to show you I’m more of a dessert dom where it counts.” It was a joke when I was more of a bossy bottom than a demanding top, but the wordplay was too tempting to resist. “Which brings us to our last question. If someone wanted to ‘turn up the heat’ in the kitchen with you, how could they keep up?”

It took Niccolò a few moments to compose himself enough to reply. “Someone would need more than just stamina to keep up with me. They’d need confidence—a kind that doesn’t waver, even when the flames get a little out of control. Timing is everything, too. Rush it, and you’ll ruin the moment. But if they can match my rhythm, if they’re willing to sweat a little, get their hands dirty, and handle every twist I throw their way? If they’re brave enough forthat, then they might earn a seat at my table. But after what you just pulled? You’re lucky I don’t throw the table at you.”

I couldn’t hold in my delighted giggle. “So what you’re telling me is the kitchen’s all about pressure, heat, and passion, and you think those three come together best in the bedroom?”

“If you’re doing it right.”

“I bet you could do me right,” I mumbled through a cough, earning another delicious eyebrow arch. “Uh, anyway, do you have any final thoughts you’d like to share with our viewers?”

“I’m more convinced than ever that you’re a malevolent macaron menace in the kitchen. Now, will you take this damn blindfold off?”

I snickered at the claim, but I moved behind him to untie the fabric, careful not to press against him and reveal I was harder than a rock candy. “Better?”

He wiped the tears from his eyes with a sniffle as I positioned myself to keep my erection hidden from the cameras. “You absolutely sinister strudel,” he complained, giving me a fierce glare that had me right on the edge. “I’m pretty sure you’re a honeycomb hellspawn.”

I couldn’t keep the broad grin off my face. “Guilty as charged.”

He cleared his throat as he composed himself. “Despite trying to melt my face off, I must admit I was wrong. Your desserts don’t just look great; they also taste amazing. You do yourself a disservice trying to turn such delicious treats into violent crimes against humanity. You’ve got real talent.”

An unexpected shudder ran through me as I came in my pants. What a wild way to discover that the only thing I enjoyed more than him insulting me was his praise. I soaked it up like my underwear absorbing my cum. At least my jeans would hide the evidence. “Thank you for saying that. It means a lot coming from you.” I could feel my cheeks heating up from my sincerity.

“Is that why you’re blushing like a schoolboy looking at his first crush?” Niccolò’s teasing tone made my heart soar.

“I mean, if youreallywant to go there…” I trailed off, even though I hoped he’d continue. Because why not shoot my shot?

“Is thisPride and Prejudicewith capsaicin? ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single chef in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of someone to absolutely destroy his palate,’ seems fitting under the circumstances.”

“Itwouldbe fun to tell people our origin story as a couple is ‘He called my desserts a war crime, and I destroyed his ability to taste anything ever again. The rest is history!’ Don’t you think?”