Frankie grinned at him. “Just adding the magic touch. My relatives are…very French. I got some odd customs from my mother’s side of the family.”
Addison nodded.
Ahh
. Frankie poured a small measure of liquid into the warming mixture. It was amber-dark and rich and caught the light as it trickled from his measuring cup.
“Rum.” Frankie grinned wickedly. “Can you handle it?”
Addison’s head swam. The steam coming from the pot was enthralling, stirring his belly and settling in his chest. He felt warm and melty, like he could close his eyes and float. Frankie leaned his head over the bowl and inhaled. Addison wanted to lean closer too, to the bowl and to Frankie. He wanted to inhale and kiss and taste and…ohhh. How much wine had he had?
“Needs some caramel, I think,” Frankie murmured. He took a jar from the ancient monster of a refrigerator, stirring and murmuring until the golden ribbon of gooey sugar was all gone, dissolved into the swirling creamy white.
“Are you talking to the food?”
Frankie smiled. “I think all chefs do. Here, taste.” He took another spoon and dipped it into the warm mixture.
Addison leaned across the island before he could think and let the spoon slip into his mouth. The flavors melted across his tongue, filling him until he was tasting and inhaling and reaching out to cup Frankie’s jaw in his hand.
“Good?” Frankie’s voice was a rough whisper.
“Amazing.”
“Here.” Another spoonful found its way into Addison’s mouth, even more intoxicating than the first. He savored the exotic flavor, licked the sweet warmth off the spoon. Frankie moaned.
“What?” Addison asked. He felt even looser than he’d been at the wine bar, although he knew it was impossible from just that small taste of rum. His body was heating up and opening, and he wanted to touch.
Frankie sucked the rest of the custard from the spoon. “You,” he answered. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”
“Can I have more?” Addison asked.
They shared another spoonful, then another, then a third. The haze got thicker in Addison’s head. Frankie slowly drifted his way around the island, the custard spoon in his hand. He wriggled his way in between Addison's thighs. Then he dipped the spoon again and brought it to Addison’s lips.
I need to kiss him.
Addison licked rich rum-scented caramel cream from the spoon again, savoring his odd high, and leaned forward. Frankie’s hips nudged closer. Addison wanted to get closer still.
“Can I…?” Frankie whispered.
Addison nodded.
Yes. Please…
Their lips touched, just barely at first, and Addison inhaled Frankie’s sugar-scented breath. More. He had to taste. Addison’s fingers found their way behind Frankie’s neck; his tongue swiped along a lush lower lip. The taste, oh the taste, it crawled down his spine with sweetly stinging claws of pleasure. Addison shivered.
Then Frankie slipped his tongue out and tasted Addison's lips, just like he'd been tasted. The moment was excruciating and perfect, sweet and a little wild.
"Is this okay?" Frankie asked.
"God, yes," Addison breathed. He barely recognized his own voice.
"Good, ’cause I need more." Frankie lifted his arm and threaded a long-fingered hand through Addison's hair. He pulled him close until their mouths collided in a kiss so intense, Addison wondered if he'd be able to breathe once it was over. Frankie moaned against his mouth, or maybe it was Addison who moaned. It didn't matter. The result was pleasure. Hotter and sweeter than any he'd ever thought possible. He tasted dessert and something more that he knew had to be Frankie—warm, rich, and sexy as hell. He heard the distant clang of a spoon on flagstones, but it barely registered. The only thing he was aware of was the swirling, consuming, gorgeous flavor that bloomed between them, and the heavy sexual haze that he couldn’t surface from. He didn’t want to surface anyway. Ever. Frankie pressed closer. Addison couldn’t drag him close enough.
“I want to keep kissing you all night,” Frankie murmured, his voice breathless.
“Yes,” Addison answered. “All night.”
And just like he’d always hoped, the rest of the world disappeared.
Chapter Four
Addison made it home and into bed just as the sun rose blush pink along the horizon, his mind and his senses full of Frankie. The mop-topped chef with pale skin and pretty brown eyes had enchanted him body and soul. He spent Saturday morning in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. All he could do was touch his lips and try to capture just a small morsel of what he’d felt the night before.
He’d never kissed anyone like that in his life—not Julia or the few people he'd dated in college, not even Mark Sullivan, whom he had kissed in high school behind the theater curtains when they’d both been stage crew at the spring musical senior year. That moment had been the hottest of his life until Frankie. Until he’d eaten caramel custard and tasted real romance. That consuming kiss that up until then he’d only seen from a distance. Even if he never tasted it again, the kiss was his to cherish.
But it couldn’t happen again, no matter how much he wanted it. That wasn’t the life he was meant to live. That fact was hammered in when his phone rang that evening. He was lounging, uncharacteristically, on his couch in a pair of warm-ups and a tank top. The idea of returning to his regularly scheduled life was unbearable.
“Frankie?” he asked excitedly without checking the caller ID.
No, you jerk. Frankie doesn’t have your number. He just gave you his.
“Addison, this is Julia. Who’s Frankie?”
“Oh.” Damn it. “He’s a friend from the paper. I mean, I met him when I was with some friends from the paper… I mean, he’s a friend.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Are you okay, Addie?”
“Addison. And I’m fine.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that I’m feeling better as well. We don’t have to cancel our dinner plans with Karen and Bob.”
Fuck a duck. He’d forgotten about dinner with Karen and Bob. They owned a bed-and-breakfast up on Nob Hill. They wore matching sweaters—even ones with trees and candy canes at Christmas. Addison had never seen his life turning into that, back when he'd been in college and ready to take on the world, but things kind of just…slid into mediocrity. Into it being easier not to make his mother angry, into dating Julia because she was there, and the one time he'd tried to end things before, she'd just said no. It was easier. But it didn't make him happy. Addison wondered if he really could change everything.
“Jules, I’m not sure I’m up for dinner.”
“You’re not sick, are you? I can call your mother.”
Oh, great, because that would make everything just peachy
. “No, no. Just tired from work. It was a long week.”
“Maybe you’re burnt out. You should ask Doug to switch you to the sports section. Or maybe home and garden.”
“I’m fine, Jules.” If one can call going insane from unrequited infatuation “fine.”
“Well, good, then you can pick me up in an hour. I’ll be waiting outside my building.”
“Can’t you come get me? I don't feel like driving.”
Julia sighed. “You know I don’t like your neighborhood. Plus, the gentleman always drives.”
Is this really what I’m signing up for?
Addison wanted out. But for the time being, it was easier to go to dinner with Julia and yet another sweater couple than to argue with her until she called his mother. Addison dragged himself off the couch.
“What do you want me to wear?” She’d made him go home and change before. He wasn’t in the mood.
“Wear the lavender button-up with your black V-neck. It’s chilly tonight.”
“Can I wear jeans?”
Julia laughed. “Heavens, no. It’s dinner, not a hoedown.”
Addison made a face. He’d gotten his jeans at Nordstrom, not the country-western store, and they were worth nearly a month’s rent in any other city.
“Fine.” Addison tried not to sound like he was sighing. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
* * * *
He managed to last until Tuesday before he felt like exploding. Three long days, where all he could think about was Frankie’s taste, the slick slide of Frankie’s tongue in his mouth, the way those slim hips fit so perfectly between his thighs.
I have to go see him
. Calling was out. Addison knew he’d just get tongue-tied and awkward and end up hanging up without saying what he wanted to say—which was that he needed to see Frankie again before he went insane. Like literally bat-shit insane. It was possible to go nuts from needing to touch someone and not getting to, right? Addison felt like he was close to insanity whether it was possible or not.
"Hey, Albright. A few of us are going out to lunch. Are you game?" Jillian, his coworker and new friend, leaned on his desk. She smiled at him and gestured over to where a group was congregating by the door. A few of them smiled and gestured for him to join them. He would, but…
"I'd love to, Jillian. I have plans, though."
She nudged him with a grin. "You mean with the hottie from the wine bar?"
That's exactly who he meant. He nodded and tried to conceal his grin, but it mustn't have worked, because Jillian squealed and gave a thumbs-up to one of his female coworkers waiting near the door. They exchanged air high fives. Addison was embarrassed but happy that he’d made the choice he'd been dying to make since Saturday morning. He wanted to see Frankie again. Strike that. He
needed
to see Frankie again. So he left work early and drove to L’Osteria di Pomodoro, site of the best night of his life—bar none.
* * * *
They were kissing, hot deep kisses that tasted like vanilla, caramel, island rum, and sex. Frankie’s tongue twined around Addison’s, his fingers were buried deep in soft sandy hair, and oh, the taste. He couldn’t get enough. Addison’s knees gripped his hips unconsciously, and Frankie’s insides melted at the thought of those legs hugging his hips bare, opening for him, taking him in…
“Frankie? Frank? Hey, space-o!”
“Oui…?” Frankie looked up. “Oh, hey, Dom. What’s up?”
“Dude, you okay?”
Frankie smiled. He was okay. Sort of. Oh, screw that. He was going insane. It had been three days, and they’d kissed and kissed for hours, and it was sexy and gorgeous and perfect and
argh!
Why hadn’t Addison called? Frankie wanted to see him again. He’d wanted to drag him home and spend the whole night kissing and then some. It had been so hard to tear himself away when they’d kissed good-bye on Addison’s doorstep at dawn. He’d wanted more.
Sure, they’d both gone a bit nuts in the kitchen. He’d hit that dulce de leche hard with the happy sauce. It had been impossible to resist. But far after the spell had to have worn off, they’d kept kissing and touching and getting as close to each other as they could. It wasn’t just the custard anymore by the end of the night. Frankie knew. He could tell the difference. It was real.
“Hey, I asked you a question.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m good.”
“I’ll say.” Dom thrust his hips crudely a few times in Frankie’s direction.
“Pshhh. It wasn’t like that.” Frankie couldn’t help smiling. What it had been was so damn perfect.
“And why not? You bitch out?”
“No. We kissed.”
Dom made a face. “You just kissed? You’re lame.”
“We just kissed for hours. And it wasn’t lame. It was amazing.” His breath caught when he remembered just how amazing it had been.
“And where’s lover boy now?”
“At work.”
I think. I wish I knew.
Frankie had thought the other night was the start of something. His charm was just supposed to nudge Addison past his shyness, not to make him feel something he didn’t really feel. So what if he was going about his everyday life like the other night had never happened? That would suck so bad. Impossible. He had to feel it for real. There was no way that one little spell had been an all-nighter. And there was Frankie's vision too. He might not be a master, but he wasn't that inept. There was something real and powerful there.
“So, what’s on the menu today? Smells awesome.”
Frankie was stirring with his spoon—er—wand. He’d done nothing more than infuse the broth with a faint feeling of well-being. Nothing that anyone would notice. He just liked making people happy.
“French onion soup, of course. Will you shred some
Gruyère
for me?” Frankie gestured at the block of cheese. Dom worked in silence for a while, and Frankie sliced small pieces of baguette to put on top of the soup with melted cheese. His broth was a mixture of sherry, beef stock, fragrant herbs, and olive oil.
Dom made quick work. He transferred the grated cheese into a plastic tub near where the bowls were assembled. Frankie missed working with him. He hadn’t realized how much easier things were when they worked together.
“What’s for dessert?”
Figured. Dom had a ridiculous sweet tooth. “There are beignets cooling on the racks over there. I made a custard to fill them with. Would you mind piping it in? The bowl is chilling on the top shelf of the fridge.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“The tips and piping bags are in the third drawer from the bottom,” Frankie called out before he went back to seasoning his sautéing onions.
Dom worked quietly; his usual sarcastic quips were always quieted when he was cooking. Frankie left him alone. After a few minutes of filling, Dom reached out and wiggled the dial on the radio. A Latin station came on, and Dom turned the radio up. The room filled with the mellow guitar of bossa nova. Dom swayed with the beat, dancing as he worked on the pastries.
“This custard is really great, Franks.”
“Hey!” Frankie laughed. “You’re not supposed to taste. And what’s with the music of your homeland over there?”
Dom shrugged. “I like summer music when it’s rainy. And you know I was born here. Grandma used to listen to this stuff and say it reminded her of São Paulo, though. I guess it just makes me happy.”
Frankie rolled his eyes and laughed. “Whatever. Quit reminiscing and fill those beignets. I open in fifteen minutes.”