A Slow Boil (19 page)

“Yes, sir.”  I moved it to a cutting board and covered it
with foil to let it rest, then skimmed off as much fat from the pan as I
could.  I then added a little white wine and grated orange zest, and
reduced the juices on the burner next to the rice while Mr. Hunter continued to
stir and add the broth himself.  He watched me work until I had the glaze
at the consistency I wanted.  I then poured it into a small gravy boat and
put the pan in the sink.

“Okay,” I said, turning back around.  “How’s the risotto
coming along?”  I stood next to him to check.  He lifted the spoon up
for me to take a quick taste.  “I think it’s almost done.”  I scooped
in the chopped asparagus and fresh peas and poured in one more addition of
broth.  He stirred them in as I added the grated Parmesan cheese and some
salt and pepper.  “This can probably sit on low now while I set the
table.”

“Would you like me to carve the duck?”

“Sure, that would be great.  I’m not a very good carver.”

He chuckled.  “After seeing you at work for the first time, I
refuse to believe there’s anything you don’t do well, my dear.”

“I’ll be right back.”  I smiled to him as I left to set his
place in the dining room.  I decided to relight the candles and open the
curtains to let in more evening light.  “Ready when you are, Mr. Hunter,”
I said, returning to the kitchen.  He’d finished carving and was washing
his hands at the sink.  He looked over his shoulder at me and
smiled.  I handed him a towel to dry his hands and he leaned back against
the sink, crossing his long legs and wiping his hands slowly, looking at me
with an expression of fondness mixed with something I couldn’t quite interpret.

He put the towel down on the counter and pushed himself off, coming
up to me and cupping my face. His expression unchanged, he looked down at me a
moment before bending down and kissing my forehead.  “Give me five minutes
before you come in, Miss Lane.”  On his way out, he grabbed the wine
opener out of the drawer.

Five minutes later, I brought Mr. Hunter his soup.  He was
standing between our chairs, pouring a glass of wine.  I put his soup down
and he pulled my chair out with a quiet “Ladies first.”  I smiled at him
as I sat and got comfortable. He took his seat and took a sniff of his
soup.  “What is this, Miss Lane?”

“It’s a cream and mushroom soup, sir, with morels.”

“Morels?”

“They’re one of my favorite mushrooms, sir.  I hope you like
it.”

He took a taste. “This is wonderful.  Amazing. 
Here.”  He lowered his spoon to me.  It was good, the flavor of the
mushrooms really coming through, only lightly mellowed by the cream.

“This is one of my favorite wines, my dear, a Côte du Rhône. 
Tell me what you think.”  He handed me his glass and I took a sip.

“Very nice, sir.  It should go well with the duck, but why
didn’t you ask me to get it for you?”

“I didn't realize until this evening just how much work you go to
fixing me these exquisite meals.  I don’t think I need to send you running
off to the wine cellar any longer.  You should be resting.”  He
smiled at me and ran his hand over my hair, cupping my cheek.  “Would you
like some more soup?”

“Please, sir.  May I please have some more soup?”

He fed me, his eyes lingering on my face.

“You got some sun today.”

“I didn’t burn, though.  Thank you for getting me back inside
when you did.”

The candlelight flickered in his eyes.  “I was watching you
sunbathe from upstairs.”

“You were, sir?”

“Yes.  I saw you from the landing.  You looked so
peaceful, so content.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stayed silent.  He
returned to his soup.

“I’m not getting much work done with you in my house, Miss Lane.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be.  I’ve often worked too much just because I had
nothing else to do.  Now I have a beautiful young woman to keep track of.”

I blushed. He smiled at me.

He took another spoonful of soup.  “Another to add my
favorites, my dear. I hope you make this regularly.”

“I’m glad you liked it, sir.  Fresh morels are only available
in the spring, though.  I was so happy to find some at
Southbay’s
today.”

“Only in the spring,” he seemed to say to himself, his eyes on his
bowl.  “And we don’t know where you’ll be next spring, do we?”

“Here, hopefully.  I mean, at Noble.”

He nodded, his face serious, his spoon moving in lazy circles
through last of the soup.  Then he smiled at me.  “Yes, hopefully.
Would you like the last bite?”

I smiled and shook my head.  “No thank you, sir. 
There’s plenty more for me later.”

He finished the soup and pushed his bowl to the side.

“May I please get up and get your dinner for you?”

“You may, thank you.”  He reached for my hand to help me up.

I took his bowl to the kitchen and returned shortly with his plate
of duck and risotto, and the serving dish of glaze.  Before I sat back
down, I topped off his wine glass.

I watched him while he ate with relish.  He declared the duck
to be as good as anything he’d ever eaten, but refused to take any credit for
the risotto, which I thought was delicious.  “All I did was stir. That
doesn’t come anywhere near to what you do.”  He looked at me fondly. 
I didn’t realize until we were almost done that he wasn’t touching me as much
as he had the previous two nights.  He was as affectionate and full of
praise as always, but apart from a few strokes to my hair and cheek, he was
keeping his hands to himself tonight.

We finished dinner and I asked if I could get his dessert.

“Yes, my dear, you may.”   He reached down to help me
up.  “Be careful near the refrigerator, though. You’ve already been
injured once today.”

“Oh, I forgot all about that,” I laughed, and without thinking I
reached down and pulled my skirt up to check my knee.  The scrape hadn’t
bled through the
band-aid
, so I dropped my skirt and
looked down at Mr. Hunter just as he was turning his eyes from my legs back to
the table in front of him, that same predatory expression as he’d had last
Friday night on his face.

“I’ll be right back, sir.”

He nodded.

I took his plate into the kitchen, thoroughly confused.  He
wanted me, I knew he did, but he was still holding himself back, even after our
conversation this morning.  Why?  I cut out a piece of strawberry
tart and drizzled it with some crème fraiche.  I was afraid to throw
myself at him, even though I wanted to, because I suspected that Britt was
right that he needed to be in control of this.  But I was even more afraid
that for some unknown reason he’d decided I wasn’t to be seduced, that he’d
never cross that line with me.  What else could I possibly do to let him
know it was okay?

I brought him his tart and put it down in front of him, asking him
if he’d like more wine or a nightcap.

“Strawberries.  Hmm.  I’ll have a cognac, please.”

“Yes, sir.”  I went to the liquor cabinet, poured a finger of
cognac into a low-ball glass and brought it back to him.  Before I sat
down, I impulsively kissed the top of his head.  He turned to watch me,
his face looking so conflicted.  When I was seated, he reached down for
one of my hands and brought it over to rest on his thigh, his fingers
interlaced with mine, holding me tightly to him.  He sighed and took a
bite of tart, offering me the next.  He sipped his cognac and gave me the
glass.  I told him that I liked the flavors together; he smiled back but
didn’t answer, just held my hand tighter, his fingers stroking mine.

We proceeded to eat the tart and drink the cognac, but for once
the focus in the room wasn’t on the meal, but on our hands, Mr. Hunter alternating
between caressing me gently and gripping me firmly.  I tried my best to
understand what he was trying to convey, and almost asked him several times,
but something about the set of his jaw and the slight frown between his
eyebrows told me to give him more time to work out whatever was troubling
him.  When we were finished, I was no closer to understanding than when
we’d begun.  He stood and helped me up, bending down to kiss my cheek, and
left without a word.

Saturday morning Mr. Hunter was already at the island when I came
down for coffee.  We exchanged good mornings and I started making some
toast.

“What are your plans for today, Miss Lane?”

“I don’t know.  Nothing, I guess.  Britt is out of town
with her family, so apart from biking into town at some point, I’ll probably
just putter around here.”

“What do you need in town?”

“Well, we never decided how we’re going to do weekend dinners, but
either way it’s going to be way too hot for the things in the freezer, and I
need more salad ingredients.”

“Yes, about that.”  He looked up at me.  “How about this
on weekends. I’ll let you do one night as long as it’s something easy,
something you’d make for yourself, and you let me take care of the other
night.”

“That sounds fair, but can you really just have a salad for
dinner?”

“I think I’ll survive.  The question is will you survive the
nights I’m in charge.”  His telltale smirk made an appearance.

“As long as you don’t try to sneak any meat into my meals, I’ll be
fine.”

“What would happen if you accidentally ate some?”

“I’d explode.”

He laughed.  “No, really.  I’m curious.”

“I’d probably just get really bad indigestion, followed by an
overwhelming urge for revenge.  Don’t forget who cooks your meals, Mr.
Hunter.”

He laughed again.  “Consider me warned.”  He paused for
a moment, smiling at me.  “How would you like to drive up to Dixon Point
this morning? They have an excellent farmers’ market on Saturdays and you can
get whatever you need there.”

“I’ve never been there.  I’d love to.”

Dixon Point was about ninety minutes north of town, up in the
heart of the agricultural region.  Mr. Hunter was right, the farmers’
market was exceptional, and I got enough fruits and vegetables to get us
through the rest of the week as we wandered through all of the stands, helping
ourselves to enough free samples to make a light lunch.  After packing the
trunk with our purchases, Mr. Hunter said there was a wine store nearby that he
wanted to visit.  While he browsed through the rows of bottles, I wandered
into an adjacent food shop, where he found me some time later in the gourmet
section.

“Finding anything?”

“I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”

He looked over the shelves.  “I’m not sure I do, either.”

“I mean, preserved Meyer lemons?” I said, picking up a jar. “How
would I make you anything with this?”

“I can’t help you there.”

“And what’s fleur de
sel
?  Is it
better than regular salt?”

“I have no idea.  Get some.  Let’s find out.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”  He went to the end of the aisle and picked up
a shopping basket.  “Get whatever looks interesting.  I’m paying, of
course.”

I spent the next several minutes filling the basket with an array
of ingredients that sounded good but I wasn't sure how to use.

“You know I love your cooking, Miss Lane.  You don’t have to
impress me any further.”

“Maybe I want to.”

He kissed the top of my head and put his arm around my
waist.  It was the first time he’d touched me today and instinctively, I
leaned into him.

“My perfect girl.”

I looked up at him.  Why was he being so hot and cold with
me? He’d kissed me with enough passion Thursday after dinner that I knew he
wanted me, but after helping me cook last night, he seemed to pull back. 
And now I was his perfect girl again.  He looked down at me, his eyes
meeting mine, his affection for me obvious.  I was about to ask him why he
hadn’t touched me last night when he gave my waist a light squeeze, dropped his
arm, and asked if I was ready to go.

When we got home, Mr. Hunter helped me out of the car and we
carried in the groceries and wine.  He took the wine downstairs while I
sorted all the produce we’d bought, putting some things aside to use later
tonight, and getting everything else stowed away in the produce bin.  I
was putting our purchases from the food store away in the pantry when Mr.
Hunter came back upstairs.

“I think I’ll read for a while in the library if you care to join
me, Miss Lane.”

“Sure.  That sounds good.”

I went up to my room and got my laptop.  Mr. Hunter was in
one of the easy chairs with his legs stretched out in front of him when I
joined him.  I took the other chair and started researching recipes that
used some of the ingredients I’d picked out this afternoon.  I’d
bookmarked several that sounded intriguing and had opened a word document to
start a menu for next week when I happened to glance over at Mr. Hunter. 
He was watching me, a complacent smile on his face.  I smiled back at him,
then impulsively got up and brought my laptop over to his chair and knelt down
next to his knee.

“Is this okay, Mr. Hunter?”

He immediately ran his hand over my hair and sighed.  “This
is always okay.  You never have to ask.”

I leaned my head again his thigh and kept working on my
menu.  His hand had dropped to my neck where his fingers lightly stroked
my throat.  We sat like that for maybe fifteen minutes before Mr. Hunter
put his book aside.

“What are you working on?”

“Next week’s menu.  I’m trying to find recipes for the things
we bought today.”

“You do too much, my dear girl.”  I heard him sigh again, his
fingers coming up to run through my hair.

“Mr. Hunter?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you touch me last night at dinner?”

He didn’t answer right away.  “I wanted to. Very much.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I hadn’t realized how much effort you put into preparing my
dinners.  I should have known, but I just never thought about it before
last night.”

“I don't understand.”  I looked up at him with a questioning
expression.

“It’s not right for me to want more.”  He met my gaze, his
hand back in my hair.  “I shouldn’t let you slave away in the kitchen and
then expect you to let me practically grope you when you’re done.”  He
gave me a slightly embarrassed smile.

“But I like it when you touch me.  I told you that.”  I
turned to face him, putting a hand on his knee.

“I know you did.  It’s not that I don't believe you, I just
don't want to take advantage.”  He cupped my cheek and shook his head a
little.  “I’m sorry if I’m not explaining myself very well.  Last
night you’d already worked so hard to make me an incredible meal, and you’re so
beautiful next to me, and you let me feed you, too.  Somehow being allowed
to touch you as well just seems greedy, like I’m taking more than I should.” 
He paused, then added in a low voice, “I’m afraid I could take more than you’d
want to give me.”

I watched my thumb trace a small circle on his knee, trying to
gather my thoughts.  Had I not been clear enough yesterday when I’d said I
wasn't going to stop him?  He knew I liked it when he touched me, but
didn’t he know how much I wanted it?

I looked up into his blue gaze.  “But I want you to touch me,
Mr. Hunter.  I look forward to it all day.”

“You do?”  His fingers stilled, his eyes locked with mine.

“Yes.  Please, sir.  Please touch me.  Please kiss
me.”  I was rising to him as I spoke and he reached down for me, meeting
me half way, kissing me as hard as he had Thursday night, opening my mouth
roughly, his tongue finding mine immediately, drawing an involuntary groan out
of me as I pulled him to me as tightly as I could, my hand sliding into his
hair and fisting it to keep him there.  He reached down and with one arm
lifted me onto his lap, still kissing me with urgency, one hand on the back of
my head, the other sweeping up the curves of my body, pulling me against
him.  His kiss was hungry, demanding, almost frantic, as he buried his
face in my neck, kissing my throat, my ear, my mouth again, his free hand on my
hip, pulling me tightly to him.

He finally broke away, bringing his hand up to my face, running
his fingers over my cheek, my parted lips, my chin, my throat, my collarbone,
down the V of my t-shirt, sweeping lightly over my breast and sliding down over
the curve of my hip to my thigh.  I closed my eyes, the only sound in the
room our heavy breathing.  I felt his lips on my throat again, gently this
time.  “Beautiful girl, I can’t resist you anymore.  Are you sure
this is what you want?”

“I want
 you
,”
I answered, pulling his face up to mine and kissing him, tasting his lips with
my tongue, tasting his mouth, pressing myself into him.

Something like a growl came out of him as he scooped his free hand
under my knees and picked me up.  He carried me upstairs, his eyes on mine
then on my chest, then back to mine, his own getting an almost feral look, his
jaw tight, his grip on me tighter.

When he got to his room, he laid me on his bed and stood over
me.  I reached up for him, but he shook his head.  “You don’t know
how long I’ve imagined you lying here like this. Let me enjoy it.”  He
reached down for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head.  He
stroked his hands over my breasts and down my stomach to the waistband of my
shorts, popping the button and slowly pulling down the zipper.  I lifted
my hips as he eased them off, drawing them down my legs, his hands caressing
every inch along the way.  He stood back up and looked down at me in my
bra and panties.

“Sylvia,” he said, reaching behind me to unhook my bra, “I’ve been
alone for a long time.”  He lifted my bra over my arms and dropped it on
the floor, staring at my breasts.  He pulled his shirt off in one quick
motion and climbed on the bed, pushing my legs apart and kneeling between them,
taking one of my nipples in his mouth and giving it a quick hard suck.

“Oh!”  I cried out, arching my back at the sudden, intense
pleasure.  “Oh,” I groaned as he moved to the other one, swirling it with
his tongue, his hands on my hips.  He sat back and pulled off my panties,
keeping my legs open around him when he was done, running his hands up my
thighs.

“I want to be gentle with you, but I don’t know if I can.  I
want you so much, my beautiful girl.”  His mouth was back on my breasts,
his teeth nipping at me, his long fingers between my legs quickly driving me
insane with want.

“Don’t be,’ I managed to say, bringing my hands down to clutch his
head to me.  “Don’t be gentle.  I need you now.”

He groaned, coming up to kiss me deeply, pushing me down into the bed
with his weight.  I wrapped my arms around him and ran my nails lightly
from his shoulders to the small of his back.  He groaned and eased up from
me enough to undo his jeans and kick them off along with his boxers.  “Do
I need to find a condom?  I don't even think I have any.”

“No, I’m on the pill, no condom.”

I felt him align himself at my entrance and with one thrust he was
in me, both of us moaning at the sheer relief of the feeling.  I arched my
neck back and pulled him in to me as tightly as I could, impossibly full of
him.

He was still for a moment, his breath heavy in my ear.  I
lifted my hips, rubbing my pelvic bone on his, needing more.  “Oh god,” he
muttered into my neck.  “I promise to make this up to you, beautiful
Sylvia.”  And then he started thrusting, thrusting as if his life depended
on it, as if there was no other reason for him to be on this earth but to fuck
me as hard as he could.  I threw my head back again and wailed, the
sensation so overwhelming I could do nothing but hold on to his shoulders as he
took total possession of me.  He was the only thing in the universe, the
only thing that mattered.

I clung to him as if I were drowning, and that’s what it felt
like, like I was drowning in
a
ocean of Adam Hunter, each of his thrusts hitting me like a violent, relentless
surf.  I felt myself start to surrender to his onslaught, felt that first
twinge of ecstasy and cried out again, my hands pressing on his lower back to
drive him on, welcoming each punishing surge, reveling in his breath on my
neck, the sweat I could feel between our bodies, the growing anticipation of
something phenomenal … and then it happened.  I came.  Hard.  My
entire body stiffened and tightened, a long guttural cry escaping my
lips.  Oh, it felt so good.  So good.  How long had it been
since I’d felt this good?

I was so lost in my own euphoria that when Mr. Hunter came a few
seconds later, I wasn’t even paying attention.  If I’d felt like I was
drowning a minute ago, now I was lost at sea, afloat in post-coital bliss,
everything suddenly so perfect in my world I couldn’t quite wrap my head around
it.  Mr. Hunter was laying on top of me, moaning and still moving slowly
in and out of me.  That was perfect.  His hair was still the softest
I’d ever touched, my hands coming up to cradle his head.  Perfect. 
His back was so smooth, lean and lanky, but with just the right amount of
muscle.  Perfect.

Mr. Hunter pulled himself up onto his elbows and looked down at
me.  He kissed me slowly, tenderly.  “My girl,” he whispered as he
kissed me again.  I smiled into his kiss, wondering how he was already
able to talk.  He looked down at me again, his hands in my hair, reading
my inability to speak.  He eased out of me, rolled onto his back and
pulled me up onto his chest, one arm around my back the other playing with my
hair.