1/26/2015

Story Orgy Presents: Like A Wolf #mmromance #storyorgy #serial



Good morning all! Welcome back to part two of Like A Wolf, my version of Little Red Riding Hood. Are you hungry?
I know someone who is!  





Like A Wolf

A Little Red Riding Hood Story In Which the Wolf Must Choose Between Innocent Red, and the Seductively Skilled Hunter He’s Been Toying With For Years

Jan 26: He knew they wouldn’t forgive him, but he was okay with that.

After hours of tossing and turning, pretending to sleep, Hank kicked his mussed covers aside and climbed out of bed. Missy raised her golden head from the bed and cast him a reproachful glance.
“Don’t give me that look.” He ordered, reaching down to run his fingers through her fur. “It’s your fault I couldn’t sleep in the first place. Don’t act like I’m disturbing you now.”
The retriever had a bed of her own, two of them actually. One in the kitchen by the stove and one in the living room by the sofa. She just didn’t like sleeping alone, like a lot of men Hank had known over the years.
When he arrived from the restaurant at three in the morning she’d been there, thumping her tail and asking prettily for handouts. Of course he’d brought her some veal, and a tender cut of beef that some idiot had declared to be overcooked. The dog had better taste… a more refined palate. Naturally, she’d followed him to bed, cuddling against him in an orgy of gratitude and appreciation.
But he wasn’t being fair, blaming the dog for his lack of sleep.
No.
He owed the dry eyes and aching muscles to a two legged creature.
Robert Redding. Rosy round cheeks, dewy eyes, plump succulent lips, and a softly rounded figure … natural, normal, and oh so young and innocent that Hank had practically salivated over the delicious morsel when he’d strolled into the restaurant the night before.
He couldn’t believe he’d stopped in the middle of service to actually pull out his i-phone and google the man. Discovering that Robert was a restaurateur like himself and confused him just a touch. It had inspired him to alter the night’s menu, much to the chagrin of his staff. He’d been a total asshole, and he knew they wouldn’t forgive him, but he was okay with that. The opportunity to make Red blush by playing out obscene fantasies on his plate had been too good to resist.
He laughed just thinking of the expression on the man’s face when Hank set that appetizer in front of him… a trio of delicate raw oysters served in the shell on a bed of rock salt, garnished with an undeniably phallic sea bean propped erect on two plump, juicy little pomegranate seeds. Graphically beautiful, if bawdy, the ap had set the tone for the entire meal. He’d thrown his best effort into producing food that was sexy, sensual, sweet and tart and flirty.
He’d paid for the minor flirtation though. What little sleep he’d managed had been disrupted by hot dreams featuring the blushing young man.
Crack. Snap. Pop.
His bones and muscles protested the stretch, his jaw fought against the yawn that burst forth. Hank slid his feet into leather sandals and went to the kitchen for coffee. While it brewed he powered up his laptop and checked the weather. His fingers flew over the keys, typing something into the search engine. He had to go into town today, to pick up the fresh produce and cuts of meat and seafood for tonight’s dinner.
His coffee signaled its completion and he filled a mug, returning to his computer to find that the miracles of modern technology had come through for him. Right there, on the page next to the traffic report and the weather forecast, was an ad for The Lunch Basket. Robert Redding’s diner just a few miles from the produce market and the fishmonger…
Thanks to his Google searches the night before, and the miracle of modern advertising, it looked like he was going to see Red again.
***
Two shops away from the charming red checked sign that announced he’d reached The Lunch Basket, Hank paused. What the hell am I doing?
The obvious answer… getting laid flashed through his mind and he shook his head. Hunter had been gone a while this time. Longer than usual, but Hank hadn’t cared. He had the restaurant to take up his time and his creativity. He hadn’t been out on the prowl more than a dozen times in the six months that Hunter had been away, doing whatever Hunter did.
Even then, he hadn’t chosen people like Red. Young men and women whose body language and attire proclaimed their naiveté, announced that the glass was half full, that the world was ripe for the saving, weren’t his cup of tea, or shot of tequila.
Hank preferred those who grabbed the glass and downed it in one swallow instead of analyzing its contents. So what was he doing, strolling into this guy’s restaurant?
Checking out the competition.
Returning the favor of Red’s visit to his place.
Teasing himself with a taste of something sweet that he couldn’t have.
Looking for more of the inspiration that had set fire to his kitchen the night before.
Finally he’ reached an answer he could live with.
Wanting to fuck the innocence right out of Red was one thing. He could live with denying himself that pleasure. Sex was not a necessity.
But that inspiring fire that had shaped his menu for the rest of the night?
He needed that.
Nodding firmly, he resumed his stroll at a more self-confident pace, pushing open  the door of the diner. He paused, letting his gaze take in the surroundings. They were pleasant, if somewhat predictable. A dozen booths and as many tables, all with red and white checked table cloths, daisies in mason jars, and chunky white china. There was an appalling amount of wicker, and a general air of cheer and liveliness. The place was still full, and it was after two.
A smiling hostess stepped forward to seat him, and Hank waved her off. “I’ll just sit at the bar.” The time crunch would serve him well, here. He had to get his van full of produce and meats back to his own place by three to start dinner prep. Which meant he had less than half an hour to hang out mooning over a tasty little morsel that would give him cavities if he devoured it.
Snorting, he slid onto the first available bar stool, and took off his cap. He set it down and looked up, not surprised to find that his gaze immediately locked on the man himself. “Red,” he acknowledging, smiling wickedly, flashing a bit of tooth.
“Well if it isn’t the big bad Wolf himself,” Red retorted. “What brings you into the city?”
“Produce run,” Hank toned down the smile, but reached otu a hand and brushed a curl of hair off Red’s forehead, deliberately, just to see the pink flush darken his cheeks, they way his eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
Just like they had when he’d eaten that oyster last night.
Hank shifted on the stool, aware of a stirring in his blood, a rising interest in anything and everything about this man. “What’s good here?”
“I… Let me get you a menu.” Red turned to go, but Hank stopped him.
“No. A chef ought to know his menu, and his customers. I fed you last night, what would you feed me?” He deliberately reminded Red of the meal he’d prepared, with all its sensual qualities.
“I… we don’t work that way.” The flustered chef ducked his head, and glanced furtively up at Hank between his lashes. “Our special today is…”
Hank shook his head. He reached out again, ran a finger along the smooth skin of Red’s jawline, not surprised to find it baby smooth and silky to the touch. How would it taste, that skin that looked like cream and felt like flower petals? Shaking off the thought, he tipped Red’s face back up, so their eyes met again. “No. Choose something for me. Make it yourself.” His voice went husky, soft.  “I prepared every bite of your meal with my own two hands. Make lunch for me. Let me taste your food.”
“Oh my god.” Red jerked away, breathing heavily, staring at Hank with wide, blue eyes. “I… just…” He turned and fled, disappearing between swinging doors without a backward glance.
“What did you say to him?” A pert little brunette waitress appeared in front of him with a glass of ice water and a place setting. “I’ve never seen Robert so flustered.”
Hank tore his gaze from the swinging doors to smile at her. Just a pleasant smile this time, to show he was politely uninterested. He flicked a glance at her chest, where a name tag read Bertie. “I asked him to cook for me, Bertie.”
“Oh, I’m Anna. Bertie is off shift. I forgot my name tag. Robert insists we wear them; he says customers should feel at him and know who’s serving them. He’s so thoughtful.” Hero worship brightened her eyes, then she shook her head. “Though no one at my house ever wore a name tag, so I’m not sure how homey that is.”
Hank frowned at her. “This place is very homey.” He wasn’t sure he liked it or felt comfortable in it though. It was like a cliché of a diner.  A movie set. “Thank you.” He picked up the water glass and took a sip, turning to watch the swinging doors again. Bertie/Anna took the dismissal in stride, leaving him to wait for Red’s return.
He watched the doors with an intensity that was unbefitting… a knot growing in his stomach and tension tightening his shoulders as the minutes passed. Was Red blowing him off? The idea wasn’t so much annoying as it was disappointing.
Order were placed in the window and collected, things that smelled good and looked pretty, and still Hank waited.
He’d about given up and decided to grab a burger at a drive thru on his way back to the restaurant when the swinging door did their thing...sahhh-wingah
 Red stepped through, carrying a tray with a plate covered by a shiny metal cloche. Lunch was served.
He didn’t glance up, or look at Hank, but Hank couldn’t detect any hesitation in his step as he approached. Shy… but confident. The seconds ticked, and His stomach growled loudly exactly at the moment that Red set the tray in front of him.
Immediately, Red looked up, flashing him a toothy grin. “Looks like I got here just in time. Lunch is served.” He swept the cloche off the plate, and aromatic steam wafted to Hank’s nose.
He inhaled deeply, groaning in pleasure. What looked like a standard bowl of deep red tomato soup was scented with exotic spices and boasted delicately seared scallops and a garnish of slivered carrots. “Is this on your menu?” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed the spoon and took a mouthful. Mmm. It was beautiful. Earthy, spicy, riveting in the depths of flavor layered so delightfully that the single mouthful sent shivers of pleasure down Hank’s spine and made his nerves tingle.
“No. I… Most people don’t want this sort of thing.” Red sounded defensive, and his hand twitched as though he wanted to snatch back the tray.
With a suppressed growl, Hank curved a palm around the bowl. It was his, made special for him, and he was keeping it damn it. “You should. It’s amazing.”
Red brightened, a brilliant smile lighting his face, a pleased blush highlighting his rounded cheeks. “Really? You like it? We’re more of a classic comfort food place.”

“Red,” Hank paused for another bite, savoring the explosion of flavor on his tongue before he continued. “Tomato soup is the ultimate comfort food. You just elevated it. Grandma’s recipes are fine, but a real chef elevates his food to another level, and that level … that’s what brings the Michelin stars and the food critics to your door.” He was going to be late getting back, and the staff would be rightfully upset. His tardiness would mean they’d all have to work double time to get the prep work done for tonight’s ambitious menu. They might not forgive him, but there was no way he was wasting a drop of this soup, or forgoing Red’s conversation. Or the fascinated, worshipful gaze that came along with it, apparently without Red’s knowledge. 



TO BE CONTINUED 

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2 comments:

  1. I'm loving this story - and the wicked air about Hank is just electric! :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. I love it! Such a lovely mysterious, sensual air. And this line cracked me up: There was an appalling amount of wicker. Brilliant!

    ReplyDelete

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