The Connoisseurs Part 2 | A Romantic Short Story
Tensions run high for a high-strung critic with a persecution complex and a heated chef with a knife to grind. A LVNDR Romantic Short Story. 18+
The moment the Chef’s thumb landed on her tongue, the Critic craved more.
Oliver moved his hand to grip the back of her neck before leaning close enough for her to feel his voice. The wine seemed to have slicked away the cold facade, leaving something warm and playful in its place. Even the highlights in his dark, tousled hair seemed brighter from where they fell across his eyes.
“I’d say this a surprise, but that’d be a lie.”
Amelia narrowed her eyes in response, knowing it was directly counteracted by the uncontainable smirk. She didn’t attempt to string together words at risk of ruining their game as Oliver used the hold he still had at the base of Amelia’s skull to guide her toward the floor until her knees were pressed to the cold tile.
Amelia sat back on her heels, shoulders pressing against the emerald tiles lining the kitchen island. The Chef rose, immediately returning his attention to the stove, busying himself with the pots and pans as if she weren’t even there.
Humiliation pooled in her gut as she considered that this may all be a ruse. A punishment for how she’d made him feel earlier that evening. Frustrated, Amelia went to stand up just as Oliver kneeled beside her again, a timer in one hand and a knife in the other.
“I don’t appreciate distractions when I’m working,” Oliver stared straight at Amelia as he spoke, but she didn’t return the gaze. Rather, she kept an eye on the small paring knife that the Chef now tapped on her knee before inching it towards the chiffon hem of her skirt, playing with the soft skin of her inner thigh. “And everyone pulls their weight in my kitchen.”
As he spoke, the cold steel inched back down between her knees. He dug the tip into the soft flesh around one. Enough to make a point, but not break skin. “First, I want to make sure that you can take directions.”
Without needing to be told, Amelia spread her legs. The knife continued to follow her knees until they were an uncomfortable distance apart.
Satisfied, the Chef placed the knife back on the counter and wound the timer. He stood up to remove his apron, leaving him in only a white tee and black dress pants.
“Next, I want to make sure that you are the right fit for this job.”
Amelia rolled her eyes at Oliver as he kneeled. Instinctively, her knees inched closer to each other, but Oliver took one in each of his hands before pulling them apart again. He kept a firm hold on them as he leaned into her.
“Open your mouth,” Oliver commanded, one hand staying on her leg while the other crept into her hair. Amelia pursed her lips as she went to ask what he was doing, but the Chef interjected before she could. “I won’t ask again.”
A blush crossed Amelia’s cheeks. Whether it was for disobeying or how she considered obeying the instructions, she wasn’t sure. She licked her lips, contemplating the request, before letting her lower jaw drop open.
“That will do for now,” Oliver offered with a sigh before pulling a linen cloth napkin down from the countertop. “No peeking.”
Amelia barely had a second to think as the Chef pulled the material around her eyes, tying a knot at the base of her skull. For several seconds too many, she was left blindfolded. “Okay, this is a little dramatic.”
The familiar grip on her skull returned, inching her head upwards. She could just barely see the kitchen’s dim lights from beneath the makeshift blindfold.
“You lost a turn for not following instructions.”
“I didn’t realize we were pl—”
The Critic’s words were cut off as Oliver took her jaw the hands not latched onto her head. He squeezed just enough to prop her mouth back open, but not hard enough to bruise.
She heard a cork pop open before a drop of liquid landed on her tongue. The burn spread like wildfire. She reached for the napkin at her eyes, but was met with a light slap to the cheek.
“Play fair or not at all.” Oliver’s voice was too light to be a threat. Amelia realized he was laughing. Not at her, but with her. As if he was simply happy to find someone who knew how to play his favorite game. “If you remove the napkin without permission, this is over. Do you want that?”
Amelia swallowed down the hot sauce before licking her lips and hesitantly shaking her head. She didn’t want to stop.
Within seconds, heat erupted across her tongue as Oliver shook another drop into her mouth. The Critic winced, but managed to keep her mouth open despite the tears welling in her eyes. “Swallow.”
Amelia immediately closed her mouth, the short-lived relief quickly evaporating as the spices raced down her throat. Oliver leaned down to her level. “What pepper was that?”
“How am I supposed to know?!” Amelia gasped.
“You’re a critic,” Oliver goaded, “I thought you knew everything.”
“You’re a prick,” Amelia spat, hoping he knew she didn’t mean it. On the contrary, it felt that she was finally playing along.
“Such a sharp tongue,” Oscar taunted from where he dabbed a spot of hot sauce on his index finger before pushing it against her tongue. “This should help.”
Amelia’s eyes welled with the heat, but she showed no signs of giving up, even as Oscar pressed deeper into her throat.
“Would you like to guess?” Oscar removed his finger, “or do you prefer to forfeit another turn?”
“Ghost,” The Critic coughed out. Her entire body shuddered when she heard the bottle pop open again, a rush of cold juxtaposing the heat that had spread across her skin.
“Not quite.” Oscar exuded faux sympathy as he wiped at her lips with a calloused thumb before bringing the vial to his own lips, pouring it onto his own tongue. He swirled it around like an expensive wine before leaning down to Amelia, pulling her jaw open, and spitting into her mouth.
“Swallow.” He kept his hand on her chin as she followed instructions, but this time to hold her jaw closed. When she finally swallowed, he asked again. “What’s your guess?”
The Critic’s brain had become foggy. The overwhelming rush of endorphins from the spices, pain, and humiliation clouding her judgement and any rational thought left. She spat out the name of the first pepper she could think of. “Habanero.”
“Getting colder.” Oscar jeered as the timer went off. “Unfortunately, you’re out of time.”
Amelia shook her head as if it’d help clear her brain. “What does that mean?”
The Chef took his time kneeling to her level to twist the lid back onto the hot sauce and remove the napkin from her eyes before speaking.
“Let me walk you home.”