Hungry for More

CHAPTER 11



She met him at the apartment door dressed in a black T-shirt and black skirt, her feet bare, her hair long and loose.

“You’re late,” she said.

Another surge of adrenaline shot through him. So much for small talk. “I got held up.”

She moved into the apartment, her hips swinging as she moved away from him.

Each rock of her hips sent him spinning into a tighter and tighter orbit.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” She turned to him and lifted off her shirt in one swift movement.

“Where’s Troy?” He knew her intentions—and his own—the instant he had met her eyes from the street below. Still, he had expected . . . hell, who cared about expectations? This woman wasn’t about expectations. She was pure impulse.

“Troy’s gone to his friend’s for the night. Study sleepover. Which of course is a lie. But the kid’s been so good, I let him go. I think his girlfriend’s mom is out of town. He deserves a little fun, too.” By the time she finished her speech, she stood before him in only her skirt, her bra on the floor behind her. “You threw out my carrots.”

He watched her step out of her skirt. “Carrots?” The skirt joined the bra.

“Carrots,” her black lace thong said. Er, she said. Where was he? What was he doing? “There are starving bunnies, you know, who would have killed for those.” She carefully laid herself onto the couch.

“Bunnies?” She was long and curved and glowing in the soft light. He was going to join her discarded clothes on the floor in a minute if he didn’t pull himself together.

“Forget the bunnies. I forgive you. Finish what you started this morning, carrot boy.”

“Oh, right. Carrots.” His head cleared briefly. “Listen, I still need you front of house. Until your knife-work improves.”

“Don’t pretend you came here to talk restaurant. I’ll bus. Whatever. Who cares? Just shut up and make love to me. Now.”

Now, there was an excellent idea. His heart was beating a mad rhythm of desire. He studied her elaborate tattoos while he let it calm. A snake curled around her upper arm and down to her wrist. A rose vine curved around her thigh. A band of black twists wound around her ankle. She rolled over to reveal an elaborate dragon at the small of her back.

It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen on the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. Her gently curved back, the dragon, the naked skin peeking from between its bold black and green lines as if she were sheltering behind the protection of the beast. His blood crashed through his body so violently, he could hear the torrent. Try to stop me, dragon.

He dropped to his knees in front of the couch. She laid her head on her hands, watching him, a playful look in her eyes. He traced the scrolled dragon with his finger, and a smile curled her lips, daring him further.

As if he could stop now even if he had wanted to.

He traced the dragon with his tongue, enjoying her murmurs of delight, holding her hips down firmly so she couldn’t squirm.

The scent of clove and cinnamon, underlain by carrot, swirled around her. He rolled her over, and she complied willingly, arching her back like a cat.

“How did you know I’d come?” His voice felt thick with desire.


“I’m a Gypsy,” she said, pulling him toward her. “We’re psychics. We know everything.”

The urge to taste her further flooded him. “So you know what I intend to do to you?”

“I sure hope so.”

His body flared and he kissed her, and her warmth spread through him, carried by a sea of images: the fire dragon on her back, the fire of her black eyes, the smoke of her swollen lips. Each memory ignited its own spark until he was inflamed with her. Her, in his restaurant like a vision, snow in her wild hair. A mirage, he had thought on first sight. Too good to be true.

He pulled himself from her, just to check, and the bliss on her face matched his. Sweet God. He kicked the coffee table out of his way with a swift jab of his foot. What’s wrong with a mirage? Something temporary. Something unreal. Magic. Is that so bad?

Being fully clothed with a naked woman, especially this naked woman, was unbearably sexy. The power of it surged through his veins. He wouldn’t undress. He’d pleasure her, holding himself back. He’d break through her facade of power and control. If he gave her more, he’d never see her again. He knew that as surely as he knew that he had to see her again. All of her.

He traced her body, from toe tip to forehead, with his finger, an inventory of smooth flesh and curves. Then he turned to her breasts. His finger circled each nipple; then he bent down to take them one by one into his mouth. She let her hands run through his hair as she threw back her head with a soft moan, then pulled him to her. He hadn’t wanted a woman this badly since . . . when? Maria, his last girlfriend? But that was different. Maria had been all lust. With this woman, even though she was sexy as hell, he felt something more intense—

“Stop thinking about other women,” she said.

“Stop reading my mind.” Could she read his mind? He didn’t believe in psychics.

She laughed, using the break to shimmy out of her panties so she lay before him completely naked and exposed. “Every man thinks of all women past, present, and future when he f*cks. You’re imprinted. You can’t help yourself.” She lay luxuriously against the couch cushions, her hands raised above her head, her hair splayed on the pillow behind her.

She reached behind the pillows and pulled out a condom. She tossed it to him. “Nothing better than a house with a teenage male. These are stashed everywhere. Now, c’mere.”

He regarded her flashing, laughing eyes; her give-me-more mouth; her hips and legs like there was no tomorrow. Forget the stay-dressed plan—he had to have her. Now. This was too much control, even for him. He stood and unbuckled his jeans. Then stopped. What was he doing? She was temporary, not the least bit serious.

If I make love to her, she’ll leave .

He thought back to the last time he’d given everything for her, throwing out Bob. It had scared her to death and she fled. Was that it? If he reached out, she’d be gone?

“Want to wash up to your elbows first?” she teased.

And that was when he saw it. The same flash he had seen when he first saw her in his restaurant. It was the fleeting expression of pain behind her eyes. She’s lying . She doesn’t want to make love. She wants a reason to leave me. She was as alone in this world as Troy.

As me .

And she hated it.

He was standing, his jeans half undone. His busboy’s condom in his hand. He looked around the apartment—the place was filthy, small, dark, awful. What the hell was he doing?

He had missed all the signs of his busboy needing a hand, and even if he had seen them, he wouldn’t have had the first idea how to help the boy. But maybe here, with Amy, he could redeem himself. Show her something human and lasting. Show her something of herself before she ran off like the alley cats he fed every morning before anyone else showed at Les Fleurs.

He rebuttoned his jeans. “Tonight, I just want to hold you.”

She eyed his erection pushing against his jeans. “Liar.”

He felt the pain of not making love to her like a knife wound, but he didn’t care. “Lying is good,” he said. “A mysterious Gypsy told me that.”

“She lied,” she said, but she rearranged to make room for him when he lowered himself onto the couch. He wrapped her in his arms and stroked her naked skin, glowing in the moonlight. He was nuts. Completely, madly insane. If his crew ever found out about this, he’d never hear the end of it.

And he didn’t care. He inhaled her hair, pulling her closer. To his surprise, she complied. It was late, and he saw that she was as tired as he was. He tried to memorize this moment—the taste, the smell, the feeling. She was seared diver scallops in wild mushroom sauce with braised endive and roasted asparagus. If he could get diver’s scallops this late in the season, it could be on the specials menu tomorrow.

An entrée. She had inspired an entrée, just lying naked in his arms. This was more than the Josie first course. This was amazing. Unheard of. And they hadn’t gotten past foreplay.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

He kissed her. “Nothing. Just you.”

“Enough with the lies.” She whacked him on the chest, but her body had softened, and he could feel sleep overtaking her as she settled her head on his shoulder. “You’re thinking about your stupid restaurant. I know what turns you on. I’m no dummy.”

The melting scallops in his imagination and the sensation of her melting beside him conflated into one sensation. Was she right? Did the food turn him on? With a few more dishes this inspired, Les Fleurs could get a third star.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this,” she said to him. “You owe me.”

“Well, you’ll just have to stick around, then, to collect, won’t you?” he said.

And she bit him on the shoulder. Hard.



“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

James’s eyes sprang open. It was pitch dark outside the windows, but the single light on in the hall clearly outlined Troy, a silhouette in the doorway.

Oh, hell. He had fallen asleep. James reached down, relieved to find himself covered in a pink comforter, alone. The blanket smelled like stale beer. He nodded at Troy and sat up. “I thought you were at a friend’s house.” He felt stiff and sour from sleeping in his clothes.

Where was Amy? He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty in the morning. He was going to miss the fish man from Anthony’s if he didn’t get on it. He needed those scallops.

“Why would you think that?” Troy plopped onto the end of the couch.

“Because”—he paused—“never mind. I gotta get to the Fleurs and call Anthony.”

Troy reached around behind the pillows. “As I suspected. You owe me a condom.”

James pushed out from under the comforter. He was starting to rack up the IOUs. He needed liquid. He made his way to the crappy kitchen and opened the fridge. Yellow industrial-strength mustard, off-brand ketchup, neon-green relish—all the major condiment groups. He shut the door.

Troy followed him into the room. The kid was already dressed for school. Ripped jeans and a faded, purple, stretched-out T-shirt. He looked younger without his busboy uniform. “Watch out for her, Chef,” Troy said. “She lies. She said she knew my mom, knew where she was, but she doesn’t.”

James regarded the boy. His hair was still tousled from sleep. “So why don’t you kick her out? This is your place.” And then she could stay with me.


“She’s not all bad,” Troy said with a shrug. “I’m just saying she lies. That’s all. I still like her. Plus, she’s genuine Rom. I can’t kick her out. It’s a tribal thing.”

It tugged at him to see this tender, vulnerable side of his busboy. His mom’s a flake, so he’ll trust anyone who’ll pull mom duty, even if she’s a liar . Troy couldn’t be over fifteen. But fifteen. Hell, when James was fifteen, he was living in his dad’s four-thousand-square-foot Connecticut Tudor with servants and cooks and chauffeurs.

But he knew, as did Troy, that it was all shit without a mother.

“I gotta split,” Troy said.

“Me too,” James said. “I’ll get us a cab.”

“Nah. I like to walk. That’s why I leave so early. Gives me time to think.”

Again, James’s gut tightened. To think about his shitty life. He hoped Roni would show soon. But then would Amy leave? Or had he convinced her to stay? It bothered him that he still didn’t know why exactly she was hanging around, waiting for Roni.

His hand went to the bite mark he was sure was imprinted on his shoulder. Yeah, he’d made some kind of impression on her. She sure had made one on him. “I ought to say good-bye to Amy.” He went down the hall and looked into the bedroom, where Amy slept, coiled deep under the comforter, looking serene. Peaceful, even. James realized that awake, she never looked this way. She looked like she might have found a place for herself here with Troy.

With me, too?

James bent and kissed her cheek lightly, but she only moaned and curled deeper into the covers.



As James and Troy walked through the early morning chill, it occurred to James that a stranger might mistake the two of them for father and son. But the stranger wouldn’t know the part where Troy had caught him splayed out like a fillet on the couch. He hoped the boy would keep his mouth shut.

Troy stopped in front of the CVS at the corner of Nineteenth and Chestnut, startling James out of his thoughts. “This is where I leave you, my man.”

“See you at five o’clock. Sharp. We have almost a hundred fifty on the books tonight, so don’t be late.”

Troy nodded, but neither of them moved.

Troy kicked a stone on the ground.

“Why is Amy waiting for your mother?” James asked.

“I dunno.” Troy met James’s eye. “I’m not worried or anything. Not scared, I mean. Just, the lies. You gotta be careful.”

“I think Amy’s okay.” James couldn’t support his belief, but Troy nodded.

“I think so, too. Sometimes. But, you know. Anyway, I gotta split.”

The boy shot him some sort of hand gesture—three fingers outstretched.

James had no idea what it meant, but he flashed it back. It felt kind of father-and-sonish, like they had some sort of inside signal, a secret communication.

James blushed. What was he thinking? He wasn’t the kid’s dad. Never would be. He was glad Troy had already turned away and started down the street. It was too stupid; fathers didn’t take advice from their kids about their sex lives. That hand signal probably meant old guys suck.

I have no idea what goes on between fathers and sons besides disgust and neglect .

He watched Troy disappear around the corner. Go get ’em, kid, he thought.

Maybe tonight he’d let Troy help with the stock.





Only when a person decides to cook for others does he discover the true meaning of the act.

—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime