Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I have to thank Amber1983 for giving me this idea. An offhand comment on Facebook about Nigella Lawson and her seductive cooking style inspired it. She was even nice enough to help me flesh out the idea for the plot and check over my dialogue to make sure I didn't horribly mangle Isabella's British tone.
Although it began as Isabella as Nigella, the character was pretty firm about telling me her story, so other than being a gorgeous, curvy British cooking star, this Isabella is quite a bit different.
I did my absolute best to research restaurant kitchens and the BBC, but if there any errors, I apologize.
I need to thank Sunflower Fanfiction for beta-ing this. She was also invaluable in helping me create the banner. Thanks for the input, the version we worked on together is so much better than the original!
This was my contribution to the Fandom4LLS Fundraiser.
A Taste of Isabella
I looked down at my penis. It should have been limp and spent against my thigh; I'd just come not three minutes before. And yet, I could feel it stirring to life already. She did that to me; the curvaceous, mouth-watering goddess of food, Isabella Swan.
I'd like to brag and say that she was lying in my bed, passed out from pleasure now, but unhappily, it was about as far from that as possible. She was probably lying in some extravagantly large bed in her home in London, no doubt with one of her boy toys.
Sadly, I am not her boy toy. Just a lonely, miserable seventeen-year-old fan living in bumfuck Port Angeles, Washington.
To say I was obsessed with Isabella Swan was an understatement. I dreamed of her, fantasized about her, would have gladly torn off my limbs to get the chance to kiss the hem of her apron. Of course, in those fantasizes I imagined kissing a hell of a lot more than that. But I would settle for the apron if I couldn't have anything else.
Isabella Swan was a chef who had taken the culinary world by storm two years prior with the introduction of her cookbook, "Isabella Bites". The BBC saw a huge opportunity, and it quickly became a cooking show with the same name. In it, she showcased her love of food and cooking, with sensual descriptions of the ingredients she was using, and an approachable, relaxed cooking style. The first episode of her first show was when I fell in love.
Now, maybe my version of a goddess wasn't the same as that of Middle America's man. They dreamed of young blonde cheerleaders with skinny hips and fake tits. I dreamed of soft, milky white skin, raven colored hair, dark brown eyes, and curves that wouldn't quit. Twelve years my senior, she had a minuscule waist and the most tempting hips and breasts I could ever imagine. Perfectly healthy and proportional, she looked soft without being fleshy, voluptuous without being fat.
One day, at age fifteen, when I was flipping through the channels I landed on the BBC. It was her cooking show and one brief glimpse of her made me harder than I'd ever been before. In no time at all I had ripped down my pants and was fisting my cock to the sight of her rhapsodizing over homemade pasta. It was a strange little fetish of mine, but watching her cook made me a thousand times more aroused than watching porn. Forget the sight of a chick getting fucked in the mouth by some guy; I wanted to see Isabella lovingly working her hands over the rich, eggy dough. A half-naked bimbo stripping down to lingerie was nothing like seeing Isabella wrap an apron around her tiny waist. I lusted after her; with the fervor only a fifteen-year-old boy could muster.
Not only did I watch her show, I obsessively followed every tidbit of news about her online. The day I stumbled across Morsels, a culinary blog that followed all of the major celebrity chefs, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Isabella was a frequent subject on the blog and I lapped up every bit of information about her I could get.
The writer was quite good, with a fresh, snarky voice, and I checked her blog every morning. Unfortunately, the news often involved the men Isabella dated.
Chef Isabella Swan has moved on from twenty-three year old pastry chef Seth Clearwater. No surprise there, three months is a long time for her to keep one of her boys around. Just a hint, Swan, we know you enjoy your delicacy du jour, but they don't actually have an expiration date on them. Contrary to popular belief, they don't go bad after a few months.
Rumors abound that she's taken up with her right hand man, Sous Chef, Jasper Whitlock. Her brand new restaurant, How to Eat, has quickly becoming a roaring success thanks to her business savvy and the excellent menu she and Chef Whitlock devised. This blogger likes to believe they're just business partners and very good friends. After all, just two years her junior, isn't he a bit old for her tastes? Similar rumors also have her hooking up with fiery sommelier, Victoria Thomas, and we've never known her to go for the fairer sex, so take the rumors with a pinch of salt. Or two.
Two years after seeing Isabella's show for the first time, my fascination with her and with cooking was only more intense. I had taken every cooking class in the area that I could find. My parents had even signed me up for a weeklong course in Seattle for my birthday. It wasn't enough. I took over cooking for our house, and spent my free-time creating new recipes. Cooking made me feel closer to her.
I tried to be a normal high school boy. I went out on dates, made out with girls, and even lost my virginity. But the girls who wouldn't know crème fraîche from chèvre felt more like an obligation than pleasure. I tried dating girls from my cooking classes, thinking that maybe we'd have more in common, but they still weren't Isabella.
After I graduated high school, I knew there was only one place to go: Le Cordon Bleu culinary school in London. Not only would it give me the training I needed to become a chef, it would put me closer to Isabella. It was a whirlwind of applications, passport and visa acquisition, and trying to find a place to live there.
By the time I was eighteen and living in a flat in London, thirty-year-old Isabella was on to her next cookbook and show, "Isabella Feasts".
Chef Swan's latest creation is her show, "Isabella Feasts", a sensual and evocative trip through the culinary world as she creates meals meant to be shared with loved ones. In a teaser video for her new show, Isabella shares her philosophy of cooking.
"I'm Isabella Swan, and "Isabella Feasts" is my way of exploring the relationship between love and food. What I'd like you to get from this show is the sense of joy and pleasure you can get from food. Food is not just fuel for our bodies but also fuel for the soul. Cooking with love is such an intimate experience and I hope you'll feel like you're right here in my kitchen joining me as I create food to nourish the mind, body, soul, and heart."
The lady knows how to market herself, that's for sure. As if her stunning good looks and figure-hugging attire wasn't enough, her sensual, innuendo laced descriptions leave viewers panting for more.
I was still madly in love and jerking off to her show at every opportunity I got. I desperately tried to get tickets to the show, but they were sold out before I could ever get a shot at them. I was disappointed, but still hopeful that someday I'd manage to find a way into her presence. After all, wasn't I just her type? Granted, eighteen was a bit younger than she normally went for, but I could easily pass for twenty or twenty-one. And as a chef-to-be, and a student of the elite Le Cordon Blue, London, the very same program she herself had attended, how could I go wrong?
I eagerly devoured every morsel of knowledge I could in my classes, and by Christmas, London felt like home. The classes were exhausting, but the knowledge I gained was invaluable. London was a thrilling place to live and I didn't regret moving there for a moment.
My parents came to visit me for the holidays, and seemed overjoyed with how well I was doing. They vaguely knew I had a crush on Isabella, but I made sure to tuck her cookbooks amongst the others I had acquired, and thankfully my collection of jerk off material- in the form of photos and videos of her show and interviews- was on my laptop. They remained none the wiser.
Or so I thought. My Christmas gift was a ticket to the taping of her show. They gave me an amused glance at my excitement, but I could hardly contain myself. The thought of being in her presence, breathing the same air as her, made me so excited that I was grateful my parents were staying in a hotel.
After they left, I put on one of her shows and lost myself in a favorite fantasy. In it, Isabella was kneading pasta and I came up behind her, slipping my arms around either side of her and helping her work the dough. The feel of the soft, yielding dough in our hands and the curves of her body pressed against mine made me so hard. Her head came back against my shoulder, her eyes closed and her body was soft against mine.
In my tiny London flat, I worked my cock over, dreaming of the way she'd move against me. Every stroke brought me closer to the edge but it wasn't until I saw her slip a bite of food between her lips that I came with a force that surprised even me.
Several of my classmates were envious of my tickets to the show. I certainly wasn't the only young man in the culinary world lusting after her. I knew I was being a smug bastard about the chance to meet her, but I couldn't help myself. In the three weeks between Christmas and the show taping, I washed, starched and pressed my best tan slacks and blue button down shirt and practiced what I'd say to her if she went out into the audience to meet her guests.
"Hello, Isabella, I'm your biggest fan, Edward Cullen."
I frowned at myself in the mirror and shook my head. Lame. That would never get her attention. But what would? I wondered.
"Isabella, I want to bend you over that counter and fuck you until you pass out."
That might get her attention, but it was equally likely to get the attention of her bodyguard Emmett. Damn. Something less graphic, maybe.
"Marry me, Isabella."
No, that was frighteningly needy and presumptuous.
I was still no closer to knowing what to say on the morning of the taping. I looked at myself in the mirror after I got ready and realized that instead of looking suave, I looked like a damn prep-school boy. She went for young bad boys of the culinary world like Garrett Riley, the biker and food critic who traveled Europe on a motorcycle, reviewing restaurants as he traveled. With my preppy clothes and neatly combed hair, I looked like an altar boy. With a groan I unbuckled the belt, ripped off the slacks and changed into a pair of jeans. I left the shirt un-tucked, rolled up the sleeves, and mussed my hair. I might not have looked like a bad boy, but at least I didn't look like a twelve-year-old momma's boy.
My heart started racing the moment I walked into the studio and I fidgeted nervously in my seat before the taping. Once she stepped onto the set though, all my nerves disappeared. I was enraptured by the sight of her in person; her curves were even more incredible than I'd dreamed. Her voice was even sexier, and I found myself having to lean forward to hide my growing erection as she effortlessly cooked and narrated what she was doing to the audience. It felt like my entire world narrowed down to her. The lights illuminated her, and the hundreds of people around me disappeared.
Too soon though, the taping ended and her svelte and efficient P.A., Rosalie Hale, whisked her away. I caught the words 'meeting with your publicist' and I wondered if she was working on a new cookbook.
I was devastated that I'd missed a chance to meet her, but vowed to keep an eye out for a cookbook signing or some other event she was attending. I had to meet her in person. My opportunity came in the form of an invitation to the Ideal Home Show held at Earls Court. Mike and Tyler, two guys I had gotten to be pretty good friends with in my Art of Chocolate course, shoved the brochure at me.
"Your girlfriend will be there," Tyler joked. Tyler was an American from New York, and Mike was a native Londoner. We frequently spent time together at the pub at the end of a long day of classes and I was glad I'd met them both.
"My girlfriend?" I asked, puzzled as I looked over the brochure. I'd turned down plenty of eager girls in my classes, more than willing to keep an American boy like me company. I hadn't so much as gone to the pub with one, unless we were part of a huge group.
"Yeah, that chef you fancy, Isabella Swan," Mike piped up. I blushed, unaware that my fascination with her was quite so obvious. "Eh, we get it, she's good looking. A little old for me, but tasty."
"She's going to be at this show?" I asked.
"Yeah, some kind of promotion," Tyler explained. "She'll do a cooking demonstration and then sign her cookbooks. We figured you'd camp out there to be the first one in line."
I laughed, but already my mind was whirling with plans.
I was disheartened to see a new guy mentioned on Morsels.
Chef Swan's latest yummy bite is Liam O'Connor, the twenty-one year old Irish food writer with the deep, soulful eyes. We don't blame you for wanting to listen to that lovely lilting accent, Swan, but they just keep getting younger and younger. When are you going to go after a man your own age? We admit it's refreshing to see so many young men enamored with such a lovely cougar as yourself, but don't you think it's about time you tried a man closer to your age? The stamina a young man can muster is impressive, but what about the skill of an older man? It's not our business who you bed, but we're starting to think this is a full-fledged fetish of yours. Enjoy your treat, but remember, keep an eye out for something a bit more substantial next time. You might just be surprised by how much you enjoy it.
Still, I forged ahead and made plans to attend the Ideal Home Show. I managed to be first in line to see her demonstration and when she stepped up to the stove and began, I felt all of the blood leave the rest of my body and head straight for my cock. She was wearing an elegant form fitting black dress that left her arms, a tasteful glimpse of her cleavage, and her shapely legs on display. I stared at her shamelessly, wanting to savor every moment I could. She seemed even more relaxed than on her show, and she often spoke to the audience. My heart stopped beating when she made eye contact with me.
Was it my imagination, or did her eyes linger on mine? Her voice seemed to grow softer and silkier as she demonstrated how to poach peaches for a summery dessert. Every word as she described the food made my mouth water and my cock throb. I was grateful I'd gone for another un-tucked button down; there was no way I could hide my appreciation of her otherwise.
I lingered after the show and she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye as she chatted with a few of the pushier fans. I wasn't about to elbow old ladies out of the way to get to her, as tempting as it was. When her P.A., Rosalie, whispered in her ear, she looked straight at me and mouthed 'book signing'. My eyes widened comically, but I hastily pushed my way through the crowd and hurried over to the area wherethe book signing was being held. I'd brought both of her cookbooks with me, and I nervously fidgeted with the strap of the messenger bag they were safely tucked in as I slid into the line already beginning to form. There were hundreds of people ahead of me, and I anxiously hoped I'd be able to reach the front of the line before she left. I was incredibly excited by the fact that she actually appeared interested in me, if her suggestion I come to the book signing was any indication.
Her arrival was greeted with cheers, and as I edged forward in line, a terrible thought occurred to me. What if she hadn't been talking to me when she directed me to the book signing? What if she was talking to someone else behind me? Horror-stricken, I was barely paying attention when I realized she was right in front of me. I had reached the front of the line without even realizing it. I nervously fumbled for the cookbooks as she smiled at me.
"Lovely you to meet you. I noticed you at the demonstration, earlier." Her voice was so soft and silky, light like a delicate mousse.
"Y...yes," I stuttered and thrust the first cookbook at her.
She smiled at me again and took the book, playing with her hair as she considered what to say. "What's your name, handsome?"
"Edward," I croaked.
"Mmm, yes, lovely. Let me think, what to write?" She tapped the pen against her full lower lip. "Ahh, I have it."
She scrawled a message on the inside cover and handed it back to me.
"Would you sign another?" I asked, hardly daring to hope she'd do both.
"Well, normally I limit it to one book, but you're just so edible I might have to make an exception," she said teasingly.
My hands shook as I handed it over to her. She took another moment to contemplate what to write and then scribbled it down. She gave me a dazzling smile and the line shuffled forward, pushing me away from her. I staggered away from the crowd and sank to the floor, clutching the books to my chest before I remembered that I hadn't read her message yet. My fingers slipped on the glossy pages and I nearly ripped one from the book before I got it open.
If you stick around after the signing, I might give you a chance to sample my peaches.
XOXO – Isabella
Feeling like I had dropped straight into one of my naughty fantasies, I fumbled for the second one.
My poached peach recipe is delicious as well. Hoping you'll come.
My entire body flushed at the innuendo laced message. Had it worked? Had me showing up really been enough to get her attention? Fuck me; all I had to do was wait for the signing to end. I stood up abruptly, the line out the door for autographs had disappeared and I was terrified she'd already left. I raced to the door to see six people in line, and Isabella still seated at the long table. I slipped into the line again and I saw her trying to peer around the crowd to look for someone. Could she really be looking for me? I wondered. I prayed to the soul of legendary chef and food writer James Beard to just give me a little time with her.
She looked tired, I realized, when I reached her. And when she set down her pen, she flexed her hand as if it ached. Signing that many autographs would be exhausting. For a moment I felt a flash of sympathy, knowing how the constant demands from fans must wear on her.
She looked up at me, and her exhausted look became one of relief. "You did come back, I wasn't sure if you got my message." She winked and stood up, coming around the table to take my arm before I even knew what was going on.
"I almost didn't make it back in time," I admitted. Up close, she smelled warm and spicy, like fresh, bittersweet oranges and peppery cloves. It was an exotic, heady smell and I breathed deeply, hoping that I could sear the memory of it into my nose.
She gently led me away from the table and into a back room. I heard a couple of fans call out her name, but her entourage held them back. Once inside the room, she dragged me over to a couch along one wall and gently pushed me down on to it.
"G&T?" she asked, and I nodded, knowing it was her favorite drink. I'd hated gin when I first started drinking it, but I'd acquired quite the taste for it. She fixed us both drinks out of a small refrigerator while I looked around the room. I was scarcely able to believe that I was really in London in some makeshift dressing room, being fixed a drink by the woman I'd been fantasizing about for so long. A part of me desperately wanted to go up behind her, wrap my arms around her soft curves and kiss the back of her neck. But I didn't want her to think that was all I was after either. Rampant sexual fantasies aside, I was enthralled with her. I wanted to know every last bit about her. I wanted her to know I respected her as a strong, successful woman and incredible chef and author, not just as an object of my lust.
She glided across the room to me and handed me my drink. My nervous fingers almost spilled it, especially when she kicked off her incredibly high heels and sat down beside me. She was so close I could smell her perfume again, and feel the warmth of her bare arm. "Taste it," she encouraged me and I took a small sip.
The flavor was like nothing I'd ever had before and I took another, larger sip, savoring the taste for a moment. It was smooth and flavorful, the herbal flavors of the gin far more subtle than I was used to. The sweetness was perfectly balanced by the lightly bitter note of the quinine from the tonic water. There was a thinly peeled slice of lemon along with the usual lime peel, and I was surprised to see a star anise pod floating in the drink as well. It added a subtle, rich spiciness that complimented the drink perfectly.
"This is amazing. I've never had a gin and tonic like this. Is that Hendricks gin you used?" I asked.
She chuckled. "You have a good palate."
I flushed at the compliment and she cooed at me, running her hands up my neck and into my hair. "And just look at the blush, I could eat you alive. You are absolutely the most delicious thing I have ever seen."
She frowned then, her hands still tangled in my hair. "You look terribly young, how old are you, Edward?"
"Eighteen," I said.
She relaxed a little and nodded. "I like a younger man, but for a minute I was afraid you were too young."
I didn't know how to reply, so I sipped my drink and she continued, her hands once again resuming their motion in my hair. "What brings you to London, Edward? You are clearly an American."
I had to restrain myself from moaning out loud at the feeling of her nails against my scalp. "School," I said. "Culinary school. I am studying to be a chef."
Her eyes sparkled and she leaned in. "Mmm, you will be so dashing in the white jacket. You are absolutely beyond edible. Let me just sample a bite of you," she whispered against my lips, moving my drink to the table beside us.
Her kiss was firm but her lips were supple and yielding against mine. I closed my eyes, my head swimming at the idea that I was actually kissing Isabella Swan. The three years I'd been dreaming of her and the move to London hadn't been for naught.
Her mouth was sweet and soft, tasting like ripe peaches and floral gin when her tongue touched mine. I moaned against her and she slid forward, nearly in my lap. Both of her hands were in my hair and I had just reached forward to pull her closer to me when the door opened.
"Isabella, say goodbye to your friend. We have a massive crisis to deal with." The crisp, refined British accent snapped me out of my daze, and I pulled back from Isabella to see Rosalie Hale scowling at me.
"What is it?" Isabella asked, her hands still in my hair. She angled her body toward Rosalie, but sat back against me. I wrapped an arm around her waist and glared, wanting Rosalie to know just how frustrated I was by her interruption.
"There are some pictures," Rosalie said, scowling at me. "Pictures of you and Liam in a limousine, and if you can't manage to remember which time you fucked one of your boy toys in one, it was after the first airing of your new show, when you went out to celebrate."
The look she gave Isabella was scathing, but Isabella didn't flinch. She spoke archly, "It wouldn't be the first time there were pictures of me, now would there?"
There most definitely were. Or at least the previous pictures hadn't made it to the internet. Believe me, I would have known.
"It's the first time they're publishing rather than asking for a payout," Rosalie said crisply. "Now I want your arse in my car immediately, or there will be consequences."
I felt Isabella begin to shake in my arms. I reached to hold her closer, my brain struggling to catch up with everything that had just happened, but she pulled away, fury beginning to build on her face. "Those bloody bastards," she spat out. "Heaven forbid a woman should enjoy herself sexually without it turning into something to rival the Cash for Influence Scandal. I'm not a bloody politician, I'm a chef. And you, Rosalie, you may be my P.A., and my friend, but it gives you no right to order me around like that."
She grabbed her heels and marched from the room without a backward glance, leaving me bewildered, with an erection I couldn't begin to will away. Rosalie followed and I sat there staring at my rapidly melting cocktail, frustrated and heart-sick.
Isabella Swan's latest tidbit is actually more of a full course meal for you to sink your teeth in to. Photographs of the stunning chef in her very capable Irish lover's hands have been splashed across the tabloids for weeks now. Caught by the paps in the back of a limo, we must say, Liam O'Connor's 'O' face is truly a thing of beauty. We can only surmise that an hour in her arms must be like a lifetime in the arms of a mere mortal woman.
Suffice it to say, Liam's days of rapture are done for. Chef Swan has kicked him to the curb and has moved on with caramel-skinned Frenchman, Laurent DuFournier, twenty-five-year-old head of the centuries old French Chateau DuFournier vineyard. We don't blame Isabella for gobbling him right up, but why did she seem to have less than her usual zest for romantic entanglements when they were spotted together last night? Is Chef Swan losing her appetite, or is this one just too old?
I nearly cried when I read the latest blurb about Isabella on Morsels. I'd been in a state of shock ever since the disastrous end of the Ideal Home Show. The goddess I'd been worshipping for years had slipped from my grasp, and I had no idea how to get her back.
Tyler and Mike had teasingly ribbed me for not getting a chance to meet my dream girl. I'd let them think that; the idea was more palatable than telling them the truth. I wasn't angry with her, just hurt and disappointed that our brief connection hadn't been enough for me to truly get a chance with her. I had no way of distinguishing myself from the hordes of ardent young admirers always clambering for her attention. And she didn't know my last name, or what school I was studying at, so the likelihood of her hunting me down was non-existent. If she even remembered me.
Instead of watching her shows obsessively, I threw myself into school. It was the final stretch of my culinary education and I was determined to pass with flying colors. I graduated after a grueling eleven months of exhaustive work.
My parents were with me when I received my Grand Diplôme and donned the white jacket and hat of a chef. The only thing that would have made me any happier would have been Isabella on my arm when we went out for an incredible celebratory dinner after.
Although I'd considered returning home and trying to find a position in Seattle, I decided to stay in London. I wasn't sure if it was the lure of Isabella, or the fact that I'd grown to love the city. My parents were disappointed, but understanding, especially when I revealed I'd found a position in the kitchen of a nice restaurant called Murray's, here in London and now had a work visa. I'd achieved a major part of my dream, and although owning my own restaurant was a long ways off, I had plenty of time to do that.
The failed attempt at winning over Isabella Swan weighed much harder on me. It dogged me through the months spent working grueling late nights in the kitchen at Murray's. It was run by a chef with an iron fist. Chef Felix Murray was not a man to be trifled with. I learned a great deal about running a kitchen from him, both what to do and what not to do. I found myself exhilarated by the challenge, but too tired to even fantasize about the woman I used to dream about nightly.
One night, I went home from the pub with Kate, the cute brunette waitress at Murray's. Although I was still wildly and completely enthralled by Isabella Swan, I was drunk and exhausted and I no longer felt like telling Kate I wasn't interested. I was interested in Kate. It was just a lukewarm desire rather than a hot fiery one. Thankfully, she seemed to have no complaints about my performance in bed, drunk or not, and the next day she gave me a saucy wink and a wave, and I decided I really did like English girls who didn't have too many sexual hang-ups. Even if I'd probably never have another chance with the one I really wanted.
You may have noticed a lack of posts about Chef Isabella Swan lately. All has been quiet on that front since the spectacular ending with DuFournier. Their very public breakup ended with the Frenchman crying and Isabella slapping him. We doubt she's that broken up over losing him; rumors have it that he was a bit of a diva. So why the sudden disinterest, Isabella?
Although she's dabbled in sommeliers, restaurateurs and chefs alike, no one seems to be whetting her appetite lately. Rumors abound, but none that this blogger finds particularly credible.
The most credible is that Jasper Whitlock is the man she's been turning the heat up with lately, but we're still holding out hoping that he's waiting for a certain American blogger to appear in London. Ahem. Either way, Chef Swan remains tight-lipped on the entire subject.
It was shortly before my twenty-first birthday when I got an email from Mike. It was information about an open invitation for chefs to submit their resumes to become a prep-chef for Isabella's new show that would begin filming in the fall with a note saying, "Thought you might want a chance to get up close and personal with her".
I couldn't deny the fact that my heart leapt in my throat at the idea of being near her. Working on her show would be a dream come true. Technically though, the position would be a demotion. It would be an interesting position to have on my resume, but it didn't have the same clout as my current one at Murray's. I hemmed and hawed over it for a few days until I finally gave in. It was my last shot at Isabella, and I knew I'd regret it if I didn't try.
I put in my application and a few weeks later received a call from someone at the show wanting me to come in for an interview. I was told to bring my knives and to expect to do a demonstration for Isabella and some other members of the staff. When I dressed in my white jacket that morning, nerves gripped me. I found an old magazine article about Isabella and tore the page out, tucking the photo of her smiling face into my shirt pocket. I hoped that the photo would help me remain calm and professional during the demonstration.
But, as always, it was her actual presence that put me at ease. I flew through the food prep, my knife flashing brightly under the studio lights as I neatly chopped and diced, de-boned and filleted. The cooking portion of the demonstration went well also, and her smile was genuine when she thanked me. What she didn't do, was appear to recognize me. My smile was a little forced as I thanked the panel of people in front of me and packed up my things to go. They promised to call me with news within a few weeks.
While I waited to hear back, I was so focused on Isabella not recognizing me that I made several sloppy mistakes at work, nearly sending the wrong order out to a customer, and having another complain about an excessively salty dish. When Chef Murray called me into his office late one night, I was afraid I was going to get fired. Instead, he told me about an opportunity he had. His Sous Chef, Demitri Henry, was leaving to open his own restaurant, and he wanted to offer the position to me.
"Edward, you're a young chef, and normally I'd expect you to put in a lot more hours before I ever extended an offer like this to you. But you're one of the finest young chefs I've ever worked with, with a natural gift in the kitchen. There would be a probationary period of course, but if you are able to handle it, the position is yours."
Flabbergasted, I thanked him and went home, with no idea what I should do. I was torn between the opportunity of a lifetime, and the chance to see Isabella again. The job as Sous Chef would be a major stepping-stone toward my dream of eventually owning my own restaurant. But, the chance to not only impress Isabella with my skills as a chef and get to know her better was almost irresistible. Still, if she didn't remember me, I obviously hadn't made much of an impression when we met. As much as I dreamed about sweeping her off her feet, I had to be a little realistic. She might never be interested in me. Was a shot at it worth risking my future success on?
A part of me hoped that I wouldn't get offered the job on her show, so I wouldn't have to make the decision myself. Instead, they called the next day. Still undecided, I went in to meet with the producers and casting agent. Why any of them were involved when I was only going to be a prep chef, was beyond me. I'd never be on camera. But what did I know about the entertainment world of TV chefs?
To my surprise, they offered me the position and offered a much more substantial sum of money than I anticipated, along with an offer to occasionally appear on the show alongside Isabella. Apparently, they thought we'd have great chemistry on screen, and I had a very strong stage presence.
It was with a heavy heart that I declined the offer. They seemed shocked, and to be honest, I was a little shocked myself. I wanted it, God, how I wanted it. But the job offer at Murray's was too important for me to turn down. Working alongside Isabella was tempting, but I was afraid it would give her a reason to avoid any romantic entanglement with me. None of her previous dates had been with anyone even remotely connected to her cookbooks or her show. If it all went to hell, I could find myself without a career. I had to believe that if Isabella and I were meant to meet again, it would happen.
My unwavering faith in destiny was rewarded when I bumped into her after the meeting. Literally. She was entering the meeting room door as I left it. I steadied both of us, my hands wrapping around her smooth, soft upper arms. Her skin was cool in the air-conditioned building and I found myself reluctant to let go.
"Chef Cullen," she said. "I hope the short meeting means that you've accepted our offer. I was quite impressed with your demonstration."
I shook my head regretfully. "I declined it. The offer was generous, and I can honestly say I'd like nothing more than to work on your show, but I have an offer of a position of Sous Chef waiting for me at Murray's."
Her eyes searched my face for a long moment. I was just about to speak when she beat me to it. "Would you be willing to come with me to my dressing room? I'd really like a moment to speak with you."
I nodded, reminded of our meeting at the Ideal Home Show. It would give me the opportunity I needed to bring that up, and to hopefully ask her out, so I agreed.
She led me through the labyrinth of offices in the BBC building and I struggled to find a way to tell her how important she was to me without scaring her off.
"Do you recognize me?" I asked eventually.
She smiled softly and nodded. "Yes, it took me a while. You've grown up a lot in the last few years. It wasn't until your demonstration that it clicked. You have a great voice, there's no way I could forget it. I am sorry about the way I left that day after the Ideal Home Show. I was overwhelmed that day."
I nodded. "I was disappointed. I'd had a crush on you for years."
She turned to me in shock, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "Really?"
"I've admired you since I was fifteen," I admitted.
She turned and opened the door to what I quickly realized was her dressing room and I followed behind her. She closed the door and I raised an eyebrow at her when she locked the door behind us.
Her laugh was breathy. "I don't want people barging in and interrupting our conversation."
I nodded and took the seat she offered me. It was filled with vases of flowers and cards littering most of the available flat surfaces. There was something appealing about the jumbled collection and I was busy studying it when she handed me a drink. I glanced at her when I saw it was another of her specialty gin and tonics. She took a seat beside me on the couch, but moved no further.
"You say you've admired me, what does that mean?"
I sighed and took a sip of my drink. "It means that since I was fifteen, I've been watching your show. I've imagined meeting you. Hell, I moved to London just to get that chance."
She gasped and I flushed, a little horrified by what I'd admitted. I figured there was no way out of it though, so all I could was continue. "I was going to go to culinary school either way, but I picked London because of you."
"You're probably not the first," she said dryly.
"Probably not," I admitted. "But they want a quick fuck. I don't."
Her eyes sparkled at me, as she trailed her fingertips down my thigh. "You want it slow and long?"
I chuckled. "Oh, I want it slow and long, quick, rough, dirty, any way I can get you. What I mean is, that's not all I want. I want to know you. I want to be more than one of your boy toys."
Her eyebrows arched sharply as she stared at me for a long moment. "You want…more?"
"I want everything you'll give me," I said simply. This was it, my one shot at winning her over. My one shot to prove to her that I was different than any of the guys who came before me.
"What makes you think I'm interested in finding anything but a boy toy to play with for a few months?"
"I don't know that you are, I just can't let this opportunity pass me by. I gave up the chance to be on your show, because I need to pursue my career. I told myself if it was meant to be, I'd see you again. I ran into you in the doorway thirty seconds later. If that isn't fate telling me to take this chance, I don't know what is."
She stood up, pacing the room, clearly agitated, but not angry. The look on her face was almost sad. "Look, Edward…you seem like a nice guy. And I can't tell you how flattered I am that you want me so much. But I'm not the woman you've been dreaming about. She's just a figment of the imagination."
I felt my heart stutter in my chest, the hope I'd been holding on to for so long rapidly dwindling as she continued.
"I do like younger men. That much is true. If you wanted a quick shag with the woman you've been fantasizing about, I could give you that. You're one hell of a chef, and I wasn't lying last time when I said you were delicious. But I'm not looking for some guy to sweep me off my feet."
I took a deep breath, and made one last stab at it. "Give me one date. One chance. If I don't sweep you off your feet, fine. You can go back to your boy toys and I'll go back to jerking off to your show."
She laughed. It was one, brief bark of laughter, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes return and it felt good to know that I had amused her. "Fine, one date."
I walked out of her dressing room with her mobile number, plans for a date, and a deep kiss that made me want to forget the plans for said date, and bend her over the couch.
I had almost no recollection of leaving the BBC; some poor intern had shown me out when he found me dazed and wandering the halls. I somehow managed to make it back to my flat and the minute I was there, I threw myself down on the bed and stared at her entry in my phone. Isabella Swan's number was right there. I could call her any time I wanted. I sat up abruptly when I realized that although I had asked her out on a date, I had no idea what to do.
I wracked my brain for hours; pacing the apartment, Googling London restaurants and parks, before finally throwing myself back down on the bed in frustration. I had to woo her. Impress her. Prove to her that I was unique and worth her time. I was suddenly terrified that I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
I tossed and turned that night, and it wasn't until I walked into the kitchen at work the following day that it occurred to me. I could make dinner for her. It seemed like any date with Isabella had to involve food, but I'd been thinking of taking her to a restaurant. With her fame, we'd be spotted instantly, and I wanted something private. Just a few moments later, I passed by Chef Felix in the hall and stopped him.
He raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to continue. He was not known for being the most approachable man out there.
"I have a date with a woman I really want to impress, if I agree to clean everything up and pay for the meals, would you let me use the kitchen on Monday night so I could make a romantic dinner for her here?" The words came out rushed and frantic and for a moment I wondered if he'd understood a word of it.
He chuckled, and I realized it was probably the first time I'd ever heard him sound amused. "Absolutely, and don't worry about paying. Good luck."
Flustered that he had agreed, I stammered out a thank you. He clapped me on the back and walked away shaking his head. I was elated that he'd agreed, and eager to call Isabella, but it would have to wait. The kitchen was slammed that night and it was too late to text Isabella to make plans for her date. But I contacted her the following morning and we spent the next few days texting flirtatiously while I meticulously planned our date. Murray's was closed every Monday and Chef Felix had given me the key to get inside.
I spent hours poring through cookbooks, searching for recipes online and making a menu. Some ingredients I knew the kitchen would have on hand, but others I needed to pick up. I spent a few days before prepping as much as I could, and Monday morning I scoured the markets, buying the freshest ingredients, flowers for the table, and a large quantity of candles. I wanted it to be a romantic evening that made it clear to her that I was interested in far more than just getting a peek at what was under her apron.
Murray's was an elegant, upscale restaurant, but as I looked around the dining area, I felt smug. I had made it look even better. I had picked the coziest table and moved the two chairs so they were side by side. The room was filled with candles and flowers and the lighting was dim and romantic.
I had prepared a ten course tasting menu filled with aphrodisiacs and sensual bites of food. Everything was prepped and would need very little attention in the kitchen, so I could spend most of the night by her side.
I changed into a crisp, clean white jacket, checked my reflection to make sure I didn't have a stray hair sprouting out of my nose or something, and took a deep breath. There was a quiet knock on the back door to the kitchen just a few moments later.
She was here. My stomach filled with butterflies but I hurried to the door. She slipped inside and I closed the door quickly. We were both wary of the press catching wind of this and I wanted at least one date with her before the paparazzi descended.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw her. Her hair was loose and wavy over her shoulders, and she was dressed in a black dress that left her shoulders and an expanse of her breasts bare. I gulped hard, and tried not to stare. "Chef Edward," she greeted me.
"Chef Isabella," I said huskily. "Please, let me welcome you to Murray's. I'll be your chef and waiter tonight, and I want you to feel like you're my only diner."
I winked at her and held out my arm. She giggled and took it, and I led her through the kitchen into the dining room. She gasped and looked around for a moment, her fingertips pressed to her lips. "Edward…this is…"
"Do you like it?" I asked nervously.
"I love it. No one has ever done something like this before."
I led her over to the table and she took the seat I pulled out for her. I poured wine for both of us and then sat down.
"They should have," I said firmly.
Her smile was wistful and a little sad. "They were either too busy trying to bed me, or be seen on my arm. It was about what I could do for them, never what they could do for me."
"I know I'm young," I said. "And I want to open my own restaurant someday, but that's not why I want you. You have to know that I want you for you, not what you can do for me."
"That's not hard to see," she said softly. "You turned down a spot on my show. If you were just using me, you would have snapped it up in a heartbeat."
Relieved, I sat back and handed her the small menu I'd printed out. She read it over, her eyes sparkling, a happy smile playing at her lips.
hass avocado, watercress, piquillo peppers, toasted sunflower seeds and chevre, tossed in aged balsamic and olive oil
Possess high volumes of vitamin B6 which is said to
increase male hormone production.
fresh oysters on the half shell with a meyer lemon foam
This is one of the most widely known aphrodisiac foods. They are high in zinc, which helps in the increase of sexual drive.
grilled organic asparagus, with a toasted chili and saffron aioli
This vegetable is said to boost the production of histamine,
a crucial pleasure hormone necessary in both males and females.
basil and potato bisque topped with crispy serrano ham
and crème fraiche
Basil's sweet aroma is said to not only have a positive effect
on mind and body, but an aphrodisiac effect, too.
"drunken" figs stuffed with valdeon blue cheese
and rolled in toasted marcona
Figs date back as far as biblical times and have been held
in esteem as the fruit of love and fertility for centuries.
and crème fraiche sobert
Bananas contain chelating minerals and the bromelain enzyme, said to enhance the male libido. A banana left on a doorstep indicates that a marriage is about to take place.
almond crusted diver scallop with a bacon cauliflower hash
and almond horchata
Poets have often described the aroma from almonds as arousing for females. Almonds are also a popular symbol for fertility.
honey cured duck confit on a bartlett pear chip
topped with a sour cherry compote
This sweet-tasting, natural product is high in boron -
a mineral associated with the use of estrogen in the female body.
grilled filet medallions, with a garlic and porcini jus
and a roasted garlic mousse
While garlic may smell bad, it's loaded with an ingredient
said to increase blood flow around the body.
chocolate trio ~ToI~ bête noir, burnt orange chocolate mousse, chocolate hazelnut gelato
Pure chocolate increases the same hormone (dopamine) associated with euphoria.
"Well, Edward," she said. "I'd say you planned this menu to lure me into bed."
"I did," I said. "But I hope we can talk more during dinner, so I can learn more about you. I want to know you, Isabella. And I hope tonight isn't our only date."
She smiled enigmatically and took a sip of her wine. "You're off to a good start."
Elated, I stood up. "Let me bring out the starter."
As we made our way through the courses, I asked her a number of questions that I'd been dying to ask her for years. She answered them candidly, and replied with her own questions about my life. We were partway through the final chocolate course when I brought up the gossip about her sexuality.
"I want to know, are the rumors true about you and Victoria Thomas?"
She giggled and shook her head no. "She is quite beautiful and I respect her. She's an incredible sommelier. But I'm not attracted to women."
"What about you and Jasper?" I asked.
She guffawed and shook her head again. "Absolutely not. He's my closest friend, but no, we've never even considered anything else. He's some third cousin twice removed, anyway."
I looked down, half afraid to ask her the question that had been lingering in my mind the whole time. "Why the boy toys?"
She scowled, her mood abruptly shifting. "Would someone ask a man the same question?"
"If it were clearly a habit like it is with you, I would. Look, you don't have to answer it, I was just curious."
She sighed. "No, that's fair. I'm just kind of defensive about it after all of the interview questions and name smearing by the press. I guess I owe you that."
I shrugged. "You don't owe me anything. I'm a guy you're on a date with, that's all. I get that. But I want to know you, and I hope you'll give me a chance. You don't owe me, but I'd really like to understand."
She swallowed hard and took a sip of her wine, looking off into the distance as she began to speak. "I assume you know my family is wealthy. With an old, old name and accompanying titles. I never wanted to be one of the spoiled aristocrats, and I loved cooking. From the time I was very small I hungered to be a chef. When I turned eighteen and I gained access to my inheritance, I was out of the house, despite my family's wishes. I got accepted to Le Cordon Bleu, and loved every second of it. I was in my element. But, I hated that my family was so estranged. As a peace offering, I agreed to date a man my mum set me up with. James Harcourt was ten years older than me, with money and titles to match mine. I didn't expect to, but I grew to love him. He thought my desire to be a chef was silly though."
She looked down at her wineglass, tipped it back and drained it before continuing. "He was never hostile about it; he just dismissed it like it was some childish fantasy that I would grow out of. But by the time I graduated and had secured a job in Aro Volturi's kitchen at Volterra, he was tired of my 'hobby' as he called it, and wanted us to get married. He expected me to give it all up.
"It was either the job or marriage to him. It broke my heart, I really did love him, but I loved the job more. I told myself that I didn't need a man except to warm my bed and I refused to be with someone who didn't have the same all-consuming love for the culinary world that I did. Someone who wouldn't make me choose."
I gently took her hand, noticing the way her eyes shone with tears, although she blinked them back. She laughed, and it sounded strained. "I love a good shag too much to not satisfy the urges I have, so I created a persona. With my body, it was easy to sell myself as a voluptuous goddess of food. I had the sexual appetite and culinary training to become a star."
"Was that you at all?"
She shrugged and gently ran her fingertips along my jaw. "It's by no means all of who I am, like the press portrays me. But it is a part of me. I do love food and sex and the sensual interplay between the two."
Her mood turned sultry as she stood up and gently pushed the table away so she could straddle me. She wound her fingers through my hair and brushed her lips against mine. Her hips began a slow roll that made me gasp. "How I feel about food is not a lie, Edward. The taste and texture arouses me like nothing else. Imagine me in bed, how I'd sample your skin, nibble your thighs, swallow you whole."
"I have been imagining that for years." I groaned and my cock twitched in my pants, but I gently stilled her rolling hips and continued.
"What I want to know is, would you give me a chance to prove that a man can love you? All of you. The sultry vixen, the determined businesswoman, and the person you let no one else see. I want the opportunity to prove to you that I could love you, if you'll give me a chance. Far from making you choose between your career and your love life, I want to be a part of both. Your passion for food is what captured me, drew me in. I want to know you in every way."
"Yes, Edward," she whispered before her mouth descended on mine in a frantic, desperate kiss. I didn't know if she completely believed what I had to say, but I didn't push her. Instead, I let her lead us. Her mouth was sweet with chocolate, and her fingers were soft against my face. I didn't hesitate to open my mouth to hers and we kissed deeply. Her hips moved against me, my cock hard and aching in my pants as she ground down over me.
"I have a car out back, will you come to my flat?" she whispered, her eyes bright and shining, her lips cherry red from the desperate kisses.
I nodded eagerly, and we hastily blew out the candles and straightened up the best we could. The dishes ended up on the counter beside the sink and I mentally apologized to Felix.
We hurried out the back door. There was a black town car with a driver waiting and he quickly got out and let us into the back. There was a partition between us and the front and she quickly resumed her place on my lap.
"Will you support me if I get fired for leaving a mess at Murray's?" I asked teasingly.
She giggled against my Adam's apple. "I think I might be able to find you a position on this cooking show I know of."
Her teeth nipped at my neck and jaw, tiny bites that sent tingling pleasure shooting through my body. I cradled the back of her head in my hand and let her fall back so I could kiss my way along the low neckline of her dress. My other hand slipped under her dress and found the straps of a garter belt and stockings. I groaned loudly and tore my lips away from hers to stare at her exposed thigh.
"Fuck, that's so incredibly sexy."
I kissed her hard, desperate to show her exactly how strong my desire for her was. I dipped my head to nip at her milky white neck, nibble the shell of her ear. My fingers continued to move up her thigh and I had just barely brushed against the silkiness of her panties when the car stopped. She glanced outside and sat up abruptly, tugging my hand as she stepped through the car door, held open by her driver.
Before I could even focus on the street outside or where on earth in London we were, she had tugged me into an apartment building and up to her flat. I barely had a moment to look around and take in the spacious openness and warm, modern decorating before she kissed me. Her mouth devoured mine with a wanton neediness that made me gasp.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"My flat," she panted against my mouth, her fingers nimbly unbuttoning my chef's coat.
"I know that." I groaned against her neck and cupped her firm, round ass, grinding her against my cock. "Where in London?"
"Islington." She gave me a perplexed look and worked the jacket loose but didn't take it off of me. For years I'd been dying to know where she lived, and to see her place. It seemed surreal to finally be standing in her home, in one of the most expensive areas of London. She sank to her knees and unzipped my pants, gently pulling my cock out. Her mouth engulfed me before I could even blink; my hand sank into her soft dark hair involuntarily.
"Wait, Isabella," I finally managed to gasp as her mouth began to move over my length. She blinked at me in surprise and released me, standing when I held my hand out to her.
"Please, I want to taste you, too," I begged and she stepped back from me. She reached behind her and unzipped her dress, letting it drop to the floor at her feet. I was momentarily stunned at the sight of her in a sexy bra and panties, a garter belt accentuating her tiny waist, the full curve of her hips, and the shapely length of her legs.
She turned and walked away, shooting me a teasing grin over her shoulder. I followed on shaky legs, hardly daring to dream that the goddess in front of me was leading me up to her bedroom. I followed her up the stairs and into a bedroom, shedding my own clothing along the way. I eagerly reached for her, stripping her out of her bra and unhooking the garters so I could remove them along with her panties. I left the shoes and stockings on and she took a seat on the bed. I kissed my way along her soft inner thigh, feeling drugged and giddy on the smell of her spicy, sweet perfume and the scent of her arousal.
I moaned at the taste of her wet flesh and the soft, gasping cry of pleasure she let out spurred me on. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" I said hoarsely. "I've been fantasizing about you for six years. I want you."
I rested my forehead against her lower belly, panting with a need that was almost overwhelming. I hadn't even begun to taste her and I was overcome. Her soft hands ran through my hair soothingly. "Shhh, I want you, too, Edward. Come here."
She patted the middle of the bed and crooked her finger at me. I moved so I was lying flat on the bed beside her and with a graceful turn, she straddled me. She knelt on either side of my chest, her warm breath ghosting over my cock.
Needing no further explanation or encouragement, I gently pulled her toward my mouth. We feasted on each other, lips and tongues devouring, consuming, claiming. I learned the sounds she made as she approached orgasm and the way her hips moved fluidly in my hands. My greedy desperation to make her mine kept my tired tongue from flagging. I pushed away the hot, needy urge to come and memorized every second of the experience.
The gorgeous, sensual, vibrant woman who hovered over me was every inch my fantasy, but so much more. She gave as deeply as I did, making me cry out and squirm with pleasure. When I came in her mouth as she shuddered over me, it was the most excruciatingly pleasurable experience of my entire life.
She fell onto the bed beside me, panting, her hair mussed, her eyes half-closed. Every inch of her looked well-satisfied and I smothered a smug grin at the thought that I had pleased my goddess so well. A glow of pride gave me the courage to kneel between her parted legs and tease her. "Have I worn you out?"
She laughed throatily and sat up, her ample breasts distracting me for a moment as they gently moved. "Not even close."
I crawled over her, stretching the length of my body against hers. "Then tell me where to find a condom, because I want to be inside of you, now."
She pointed out a small leather covered box on the bedside table that contained protection and when it was on, I braced myself on my forearms, my heart beating a rapid pace inside my chest. With every inch that I sank into her, I grew more and more sure that everything in my life had led up to that moment. Every choice I'd made, every twist of fate, every second I'd waited, had brought me to the moment where I was finally joined with her.
As I sank in and withdrew, it was like a dream. She fit perfectly around me, snug and warm. Her body felt exactly like I'd imagined, but I had underestimated the effect it would have on me. I kissed her hungrily as I made love to her, wanting to show her what I had to offer. I wasn't terribly experienced in bed, but I knew enough to pay attention to her body's cues. And she wasn't hesitant about encouraging me verbally or physically.
I made love to her until my arms were shaking and my jaw ached from clenching it so hard. I let go with a groan of relief as her orgasm washed over her, and when I collapsed on her, and my head found a pillow on her soft breasts, I was sure I had died and gone to heaven.
Her face was open and trusting when I tilted my head to look at her, there was nothing false about the way her eyes closed in pleasure, or she whispered my name. This wasn't the Chef Swan the world saw, or even the sultry version of herself she'd shown to the men who had come before me. This was simply Isabella Swan, the woman I'd made love to.
"I want more," she said softly. I blinked, not sure if she meant she wanted me to make love to her again.
"Show me that we're meant to be together," she begged me, and I kissed her fiercely, overwhelmed by the fact that she was giving me a chance.
It wasn't long before I was inside of her again, and we spent the night learning each other's bodies, tasting and nibbling, devouring, consuming one another. The sky outside the flat was beginning to lighten when I finally fell asleep with Isabella in my arms.
I awoke to an empty bed. I staggered, bleary eyed and aching, around the large, nicely decorated flat, trying to find her. I finally found her in the kitchen, a dot of flour on her nose, wearing just an apron, and rolling out pastry on a grey marble slab that rested on top of the butcher block countertops. In moments I was hard, every fantasy I'd ever had about her coming to life. This was the woman I'd fantasized about. This was the goddess I'd dreamed about.
"Morning," I said hoarsely. The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and buttery pastry.
Her head whipped up and I smiled at the sight of her sparkling eyes and contented grin.
"You were supposed to stay in bed until I finished this." She slathered butter on the pastry dough and folded it into thirds before rolling it out.
"Pain au Chocolat."
They were essentially the same thing; only pain au chocolat had a square of chocolate nestled in the center. It took a delicious pastry and made it sublime.
"Do you think your dough can rest a moment?" I asked. She giggled and nodded.
I moved behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist like I'd always dreamed of doing. I nuzzled the soft, porcelain skin on the back of her neck and pressed a kiss there. She shivered, and I gently pulled loose the apron ties, but didn't take it off of her. One hand slid under the front of the apron to cup the generous swell of her breast. The other braced against the counter as I nudged her thighs apart with my knee. She was warm and soft in my hand as I slid inside of her and she gasped softly, her fingers slipping on the floured countertop. I began an easy rocking motion that made her gasp and sigh. Her sounds spurred me on and I gently toyed with her increasingly hard nipple as I thrust in and out of her. Her head fell back against my shoulder and her eyes closed. Her lips were parted, pink and soft looking. Air left her mouth in soft exhalations of air interspersed by tiny whimpers.
My hand slipped from her breast and went lower, gripping her hip as my pace quickened. She whimpered softly and eagerly moved with me, one of her hands coming to rest beside mine on the counter as we struggled to find enough leverage.
Her body was soft and yielding against mine and I let out a deep groan when her fingers grazed the shaft of my cock. She wasn't hesitant as she caressed her own flesh, her fingers skillfully bringing her to the edge of orgasm.
The hours in bed the night before had only whetted our appetites for each other and as I drew in a deep lungful of air, I grew dizzy on her sweet and spicy scent. This woman was made for me, of that I had no doubt.
When she sighed my name, I closed my eyes and threw my head back, completely overwhelmed by my fantasy finally coming true. Her body clenched around me, her breathing shallow and labored.
I came with a hoarse cry that blended with her higher sounds of pleasure and seemed to reverberate through my chest. Her fingers stilled and she turned her face into my neck, her lips and breath soft and warm against my chin. She felt limp against me and I tightened my arm around her, bringing the other one up to envelop her as well. She turned in my arms, her legs weak and wobbly, her body yielding against my own. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against my collarbone, her soft hands gripping my neck and shoulder.
"What do you say, Chef Swan? Are you going to give me a chance?" I whispered against the top of her head.
"Yes," she replied softly. "But you better not break my heart, Chef Cullen."
"Never," I promised, my arms tightening around her. "I'll break a few eggs, but never your heart."
She laughed softly and rose up on her toes to kiss me. Her flour and butter covered hands threaded through my hair and I lowered my head to kiss her more deeply.
Her mouth was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
Chef Isabella Swan's latest tasty morsel is up-and-coming American chef, Edward Cullen. Leave it to her to snap up the delicious graduate from le Cordon Bleu, London before anyone else could get their hands on him. A star in his own right, he turned down a spot as a guest chef on her show to become Sous Chef at Murray's. A smart career move, and apparently an even smarter romantic decision. He's just as young as the rest of them, and even more delicious, but there's something about these two that seems different.
All we can say is that if the rumors are true and Jasper Whitlock needs a bit of consoling, this blogger will happily volunteer!
Quelle surprise! Chefs Swan and Cullen are still going strong. Six months together and they're nearly inseparable. Not that we blame them. The always-luscious Isabella Swan looks oh-so-delicious on the arm of the ever-edible Edward Cullen. If we were them, we would never leave the kitchen or bedroom. How do they keep their hands off each other? Although if the pictures below of their public canoodling are any indication of the heat between them, maybe they don't! We wonder how the ever-present line of Chef Swan's admirers is feeling about this turn of events.
In the latest celebrity chef news, Swan and Cullen have found that their real life chemistry has translated to on-air sizzles. The show, A Taste of Isabella, could be a staid, gimmicky performance of two people pretending to have some sort of connection as they cook up meals to be shared with your lover. That couldn't be further from the case. The way they serve up the dainty nibbles makes us feel like we're viewing them together in bed. Seeing Chefs Edward and Isabella cooking together leaves us questioning if we're hungry or horny.
Not only is Chef Cullen still heating up the air with girlfriend, Chef Isabella Swan, he's announced the opening of a new restaurant. For once, Chef Isabella is taking the back seat, although clearly she is involved. His sensual and romantic new restaurant, Edible, has opened to rave reviews. We appreciate the word-play with your name, very clever, Edward, and from the flirtatious looks you and Chef Swan give each other in interviews when asked about it, we suspect there's an inside joke here as well. Intriguing.
We're even more intrigued by the idea of a tasting restaurant devoted to multi-course meals with aphrodisiac properties. We'd say it's another gimmick, but with the success of your show, and the mouth-watering appeal of the menu, we're convinced! The world is your oyster, Chef Cullen, and clearly you've been devouring them by the bucketful, if the satisfied smile on your girlfriend's face is any indication. If she didn't still have a tiny waist, we'd be wondering if you'd put a bun in her oven. All in due time, right Chef Cullen?
It appears that Swans do indeed mate for life, whether they're aviary or human. Isabella Swan was seen out on the arm of boyfriend, or should we say, fiancé, Edward Cullen, sporting a rather impressive diamond ring. Sources confirm their engagement, and it's hard to tell,but the husband-to-be may be even more radiant than the future bride. Either way, they look disgustingly happy, and we believe that we can safely say that Chef Swan is off the market and on her way to wedded bliss.
This blogger will be the first to admit she was wrong. Isabella did need a man of substance, but the twelve years younger Edward Cullen was apparently the right man for the job. Age is just a number, and apparently the recipe for a successful relationship has little to do with it.
In the celebrity chef wedding of the season, Isabella Swan and Edward Cullen were married at a lavish private ceremony in London. It's no surprise that the bride was stunning in a dress reminiscent of something from the 1950s.It emphasized her narrow waist and lush curves. The groom was mouth-wateringly handsome in his tuxedo. The gilt and flowers practically dripped from every square inch of the Savoy Hotel during their public reception, and the wine flights paired perfectly with every course.
The twelve-course meal was prepared by Chef Aro Volturi, who hasn't cooked for a private event since his retirement nearly ten years prior. We can't say we're surprised she managed to talk him into it though; the old goat always did have a soft spot for his protégé.
It isn't just hearsay when we tell you that the feast was magnificent. This blogger enjoyed every bite of it. Apparently, Chef Cullen is an avid reader of Morsels and kindly extended an invitation to yours truly. At the table was a veritable who's who of the culinary world, including long-time crush, Jasper Whitlock. This New York blogger is already planning many future trips to London at his behest. A girl can hardly turn down a chance to expand her culinary horizons, now can she?
Signing off from a posh London hotel room - Alice Brandon of Morsels!
Notes: I really hope you enjoyed reading Nigella-Bella and Chefward's story. I had so much fun telling it!