Page 3 of He Likes it Spicy

THOR

I'm a simple man. All my life, I've pursued what fulfills me: hard work, cooking, lifting weights, good books, making things—these things fulfill me. Love has never been on that list.

My friends tease me, they say that Thor is too big for love. A man my size has no room for a partner. I always figured they were right. The few women I’ve dated always felt too small. Small lives, small passions. I was too much for them.

When I saw Sam, I knew I’d found my perfect fit.

A woman who could fill all the empty spaces in my life.

She stood her ground against that creep and didn’t hesitate to douse him and his advances.

I’m sure she could have handled it had I not stepped in, but that wasn’t an option.

I recognized her as a fighter, and I realized that I would fight for the chance just to hear her name, her voice, her heart beating against my ear just once…

Maybe that's my cock talking (my friends say I’m too casually vulgar for love, too) because I've never seen anyone so intoxicating. The tightness of her athletic body tearing that red dress at the seams makes me wish she’d dump a lemonade on me to cool my boiling thoughts.

My hands itch, only to be scratched against the smoothness of her delicate skin.

Those silly posters of the Valkyrie are an injustice to her beauty.

She's Elven, mystical, and frightening. Flowing hair as dark and seamless as a night sky absent of the moon and stars.

Pearl white skin that shines in the midday light.

Eyes so deep a green that they seem to sprout with every blink, spreading like vines and consuming me.

And I've only known her for five minutes.

"So, what did you do to become a judge?" Sam asks as we take the stairs up the small stage. "Because I got harangued into this gig after some old lady croaked. Sure hope it wasn't food poisoning..."

She looks surprised when I laugh heartily.

"I won the overall competition last year. The winner always judges the following year. And it wasn't food poisoning. Mrs. Landry died peacefully in her sleep, fortunately. She was a lovely woman."

"Oh. I am so sorry..."

"Don't be.” I pull her chair out, scooting her in so easily that she yelps and grabs the table. “Mrs. Landry had an even darker sense of humor than me."

Sam relaxes as best she can in that admittedly ridiculous dress—ridiculous, but tempting. She scans all the tents where competitors are preparing their chili. The smells of beans, Cajun spice, onions, and garlic are so thick in the heat that I can taste them.

Some pent-up frustration bursts out of her. "I don't even like chili."

"What?" I gasp as if she just confessed to murder.

"Sorry, but I was voluntold to be here. My boss thinks it will boost ticket sales for the show." She picks up the paper placard in front of her: Valkyrie, of Charles's Magnificent Traveling Circus, two shows every night, tickets near the purple tent! The sloppy purple print shrinks with every word.

"I assume he chose your outfit... not exactly cook-off garb."

Sam snorts; I find that undeniably attractive. "Right? He's just hoping a bunch of married men gawk at my tits and convince their wives that they suddenly need to take the kids to the circus. I honestly hate that he’s right."

The casual mention of her tits nearly sinks my gaze down her cleavage. I’m a strong man, and I find it almost impossible to resist the urge.

I'm sure the asshole who took a lemonade shower wasn't the first to harass Sam. Men can be so weak sometimes... it makes me ashamed of my thoughts, but I can't help it.

I control my actions, not the way I feel.

"Luckily, I'm not married." I throw the information out like a fishing line. If she doesn't bite, so be it.

"I'm not surprised."

I hold her gaze, searching that mischievous grin for the answer to the only question that matters anymore: is this woman feeling what I'm feeling?

"How could you have time for a relationship? With cooking chili, and judging competitions, and eating the metric ton of food required to sustain all of..." She waves her fingers at me like she's casting a spell... " that. "

I look down at myself. "Are you making a joke about my weight?"

"I think weight is the wrong word. Mass would suffice. Seriously, have you ever considered joining the circus?"

"Why? Would you like me to toss you in the air? I'd catch you."

Sam's cheeks turn the color of her dress. "I don't doubt it..."

She squirms a little in her chair, running her hands down her thick thighs under the table. That tiny dress is riding up so high that I catch a glimpse of some thin ink dripping down from her hip ending in a jagged line.

Hopefully, that's a mystery she’ll let me uncover.

Our flirting—I pray that's what we are doing—is interrupted by the announcer of the cook-off, a local business owner with a high-pitched voice and an awkward cadence. Sam and I settle back in our chairs, along with the third judge, Mr. Milton, who is doing an admirable job of not stealing glances at the Valkyrie’s cleavage.

We are given a short history of the competition, I stand when they announce me as last year's winner, Valkyrie (Sam) gives a practiced wave, smile, and a graceful bow as our guest judge, and Mr. Milton, who teaches home economics at the local high school, straightens his tie and dabs his sweat with a handkerchief.

We enter introductions to the first round of competitors.

I've been looking forward to this all year, and I can hardly focus.

What need do I have for chili with a woman so bold and spicy sitting next to me?

I want to sample every inch of her, savor the way my tongue glides over her toes, calves, clit , belly, breasts, and that supple neck.

I want to taste her lips. I want to see just how perfectly her toned body molds between my muscles.

Every flavor of her soul is just waiting to be savored.

I want to wake up early, while she's still in bed recovering from our passion, and serve her breakfast in bed with nothing on but an apron strained by my erection.

The time finally comes to make our rounds, meet the competitors, and taste their hopes and dreams. Each day of the fair, a different type of chili will be showcased, one winner will be chosen, and the three winners will compete in the overall competition for the grand prize: bragging rights, a feature in a cooking magazine, and a shot at a distribution deal.

Today's chilis are those classics featuring beans.

I pull out Sam's chair and help her down the steps of the stage; although, she's more graceful in those heels than I am in anything. She sticks close to me as we follow the announcer to the first tent, a mom-and-pop operation well-known locally. The old couple refrain from me shooting dirty glances, but I know they’re sour that I beat them last year in the final round.

As the announcer does his spiel, Sam hooks her arm in mine and forces me to lean down so she can whisper in my ear. "I don't know the fuck I'm doing."

"We'll cast our votes anonymously at the end. It's ranked choice, so you list them from best to worst."

"What if I don't like any of them?"

"Whatever you do, just smile and nod when you taste them."

We stop whispering as the announcer urges us forward to take our first taste of the fair. Sam never lets go of my arm.

Arm in arm we go, tent by tent, taste by taste.

Sam does her best to smile after each gulp, but a couple of times the anguish makes itself known on her face.

This girl really doesn't like chili... I will remedy that.

One competitor, a younger woman named Rebecca, actually wows me with her chili and manages not to completely gross Sam out.

“It’s an old family recipe,” Rebecca says with a smile. “I hope you love it.”

“As much as I can,” Sam says, giving her a thumbs up.

The crowd loves that Valkyrie is being escorted by last year's victor.

At the Sweetheart County Fair, love is always in the air.

Everyone's looking for that romantic story to take home with them, and I see in their faces that they’re imprinting that desire onto us.

The Chili King and the Acrobat Queen—an unlikely match made in carnival heaven.

I hope they are right.

After the last taste—which Sam looks relieved to be done with—we head back to the stage, write down our votes, and hand everything to the announcer.

I noticed Sam glancing at my sheet, so she probably copied my votes.

Not that it matters, Rebecca is the clear front runner, so once again the Millers are going home empty-handed.

Rebecca wins the first round by a mile, and we step off the stage to shake her hand and pose for photos.

Sam stays in my orbit, never leaving my gravity.

Finally, after the announcer has delivered his last words, Sam and I stand awkwardly together as the crowd breaks. A few people look like they want to have words with me but are afraid to interject themselves into whatever is happening between me and the dancer in the red dress.

“So…” Sam slaps her thighs. “That’s it?”

“You survived.” I hold out my hand. “Pleasure working with you, Sam. I hope this helps ticket sales.”

She takes my hand and smiles.

“I’m really glad we ran into each other. I mean, we would have met anyway, obviously… but it was nice talking and walking and holding you…”

“Holding me?”

“Your arm,” she clears her throat. “My arm? Right, I’m going to stop talking.”

A rose tint blooms over her delicate face.

She’s nervous, and that tells me everything I need to know.

“Would you like to have lunch?” I take a step forward. “Or dinner? Or a bag of kettle corn? Anything, really.”

“Now?” she laughs.

I nod, making her lips move soundlessly.

Finally, she shakes her head. “I can’t. I would love to, but I have to prep for tonight. The first shows are always a mess.”

“Tell me when I can see you again. I’ll make it work.”