Cooking up a Storm by Emma Holly Read Free Book Online Page A

place. He needn’t reopen the inn, after all. If he could not make a good income from the restaurant alone, he wasn’t the chef he thought he was.
    ‘You should air out,’ she said, striding by him to fling open the inside shutters and throw up the sash.
    A rose-covered cottage sat across the way, no more than a stone’s throw distant. Two storeys high, it had a sharp peaked roof and the trademark dark-grey Cape Cod shingles. Swimming with roses, it looked like an illustration from a fairy tale. Its topmost window was lit against the coming night. A sight to welcome a man home, he thought, with an old hitch in his chest. In its own way, the cottage was as seductive as the inn.
    ‘Who lives there?’ he asked, coming to stand beside her.
    For one telling moment she was silent. ‘I do,’ she said, and stalked from the room.
    *   *   *
    Storm unpacked, first his clothes, then his toys. Both bags were equally large and equally well organised. He set his personal massage oil on the small drop leaf table in front of the sitting-room window. The oil was his own recipe — a blend of sandalwood, cedar and other aromatic essences. Much lighter than most people preferred, but effective for him.
    He placed his favourite Delft blue saucer on the warming tripod and poured a pool of golden oil into it, making it a private act of grace. The flick of a match lit a small bayberry candle, which he nudged beneath the dish. At once scent rose in the air, sweetness and spice. His thigh muscles heated. His shoulders relaxed.
    For a moment, he contemplated pulling out his bondage straps, perhaps the leather cuffs with the Velcro fasteners. He’d noticed a bentwood chair in the bedroom. He could secure himself to it with no trouble. His balls tightened eagerly at the idea and, as a result, he discarded it.
    He did not intend to spill his seed tonight, not yet, and perhaps not at all. His passion for bondage was deep and secret. Always he indulged alone, preferring not to bare his vulnerabilities to an audience. The only people who knew of his hobby were the teenage girlfriend who’d given him his first taste, and a psychiatrist he’d consulted briefly when various childhood ghosts rose up to haunt him. Both the shrink and the girlfriend had made their natural exits from his life. Only his love of rope and strap remained. He did not regret the predilection. He could not regret anything that stirred him to such an agonising pitch of desire. Given his purpose tonight, however, the bindings might prove too stimulating.
    While the oil heated, Storm removed his clothes and folded them. He looked down the lean planes and curves of his body. He was harder than usual at this stage of the proceedings, angling up a bit. The old-rose colour at the root of his cock darkened towards raspberry by the time it reached the mushroom-shaped head. He was circumcised, which he regretted sometimes, though it did put everything on show. No doubt he was not as large as Abby’s former boyfriend, but no woman had ever complained about his looks and he didn’t think she would, either.
    Smiling to himself, he placed a bath towel over the seat of one of the overstuffed armchairs. He adjusted the storm shutters until they covered two thirds of the window, then turned the chair to face the narrow view. Dusk had fallen as he made his preparations. A standard lamp with a pleated parchment shade lit the room behind him. Though muted, the glow would reveal him to any passerby. That was to the good. Storm hoped he’d be seen. In fact, his erection stretched a good half-inch at the prospect. He did not, however, wish to be obvious about it.
    He sat and sank into the chair’s embrace, then dabbled his fingers in the warming oil. Excitement crawled over his skin as he gazed at the lone lighted window in Abby’s cottage. A shadow moved behind the glass, slim and small. She was home.
    Let her see me, he prayed. Let her sense the current between us and welcome its rise.