Naked Treats

Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords

http://www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2011 Pepper Anthony

ISBN:
978-1-926950-38-9

Cover Artist: LF Designs

Editor: Kimberly Bowman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or
distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without
written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and
places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Pepper Anthony

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

Zack Cranston’s new favorite thing was breakfast with
Rose. On the first and third Sunday of every month she would arrive
at dawn, let herself in using the key he’d given her, and quietly
go to work in his kitchen. By the time he got up at ten or so,
she’d have concocted a culinary masterpiece for him. Eggs Benedict
or crepes or seafood omelets with fresh fruit and wonderful, exotic
coffee.

And she would serve it to him naked.

Naked!

Well, there
was
the tiny lace apron she wore
tied at her slender waist, but that hardly counted since he could
see right through it.

While he ate she would sit across from him at the
glass-topped table by the window sipping her coffee and nibbling
dry toast. The fact that she often assumed a somewhat relaxed
position, her thighs parted, was a distraction to be sure. And
after the third or fourth Sunday he’d formed an indelible
association between the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and glimpses
of her neatly trimmed pussy. That association had caused him
discomfort more than once in client meetings.

The fact that she was so relaxed with her nakedness,
which he’d loved at first, had lately begun to make him slightly
uneasy. What if someone in a neighboring building glanced across?
Since he paid for her culinary services shouldn’t he be the only
one privy to the view of her voluptuous breasts and breathtaking
behind?

He had that thought this morning as he watched her at
the stove, where she was poaching eggs and making Hollandaise
sauce. He’d gotten up unusually early using the excuse of a
hangover, but he really craved watching her work. The open floor
plan of the condo gave him an almost unobstructed view, and oh, he
was being richly rewarded this morning for his loss of sleep.

Rose’s body wasn’t perfect, but she was healthy and
young and her curves were lush and utterly feminine. As she stirred
the sauce her whole body moved along with the circular motion of
the wooden spoon. Her breasts bobbed and swayed, her hips
undulated, her long, sable hair swung like a satin curtain. She was
really something to see.

Zack swallowed hard and popped a wedge of grapefruit
into his mouth.

“Marry me, Rose,” he said without thinking, his eyes
glued to her dusky nipples.

As soon as he heard the words escape his mouth a
flash of panic went through him. Why had he said such a thing? He
didn’t even know her.

What if she said yes just to mess with him?

But Rose simply turned and smiled at him, her dark
lashes sweeping her cheeks.

“Eat your fruit, Mr. Cranston,” she said primly, “the
sauce is almost ready.”

A rush of relief washed the panic away. She hadn’t
taken him seriously. Thank God. He wasn’t a marrying man and never
would be. He didn’t know where that foolish impulse had come
from.

In a moment she came to the table with a big white
platter laden with food. Toast points smothered in the golden
sauce, asparagus spears, the perfect eggs, and several disks of
lean, crusty ham. As she leaned down to set the plate before him,
the tip of one breast dipped into the Hollandaise.

“Ouch.” She hopped back, her nipple now decorated
with a creamy yellow smear. “That’s hot.” But she laughed, looking
down at herself with amusement.

The sight of the yellow smear instantly made him hard
beneath his bathrobe. All he could think about was licking the
sauce away. In his imagination he pulled her up close, putting his
hands on her hips and guiding her to him, parking her firmly
between his thighs. Then he lifted his lips and sucked her nipple
clean.

“Ahhh,” the imaginary Rose moaned, her hands finding
their way into his hair, fingernails raking his scalp. “That feels
so good.”

When she tugged that nipple free and offered him the
other one, he didn’t quibble. He licked and kissed that one too,
then drew it deep into his mouth, reveling in her sweet flavor and
firmness. She had great breasts, soft and round and just the right
size. Before he knew it, his hands had strayed down over her hips,
his sly fingers finding their way beneath the lacy drape, invading
the dark cleft between her thighs. In his mind, he clearly heard
the sharp little catch of her breath and smelled the perfume of her
arousal.

But in real life, a more staid Rose went to the sink
and washed the sauce away with her own hand.

Such a waste.

He tried not to be obvious as he watched her cup her
breast and hold it near the faucet, rinsing it clean. Her nipple
pebbled and peaked under the cool water. She turned suddenly and
caught him watching.

“Your breakfast will get cold,” she said, but her
face had a faint pink glow, hinting at a sense of modesty he hadn’t
known she possessed.

“Marry me,” he said again, hoarsely.

“Eat,” she said, not even bothering to look back at
him as she began to load the dishwasher.

****

A little after two, Rose got off the elevator and
crossed the lobby, greeting Jeffrey, the doorman, on her way out.
She’d developed a real fondness for the sweet, old man in the six
months she’d been coming to Mr. Cranston’s building. Despite his
grizzled chin, his scarlet uniform was always impeccably pressed,
and he never failed to smile at her.

“Afternoon, Miss Rose.” He held the door wide for her
and followed her outside, sheltering her with his big umbrella. A
spring rain fell in a steady drizzle. She gathered the gray wool of
her coat up close around her as she slid into the taxi that pulled
up to the curb.

“East one hundred twenty-fifth Street,” she told the
driver. She glanced at her watch. Dr. Felger would be waiting for
his Sunday supper.

As the car began to move, she took out her compact
and lipstick, refreshing the outline of her mouth. In the tiny
mirror she winked at her reflection and gave herself a jaunty
thumbs-up. Things were going well.

Rose had stumbled upon the idea for her special
catering style the year before. Fresh out of culinary school, she’d
hit the streets with every expectation of finding kitchen work in
no time. But she soon found that the recession had taken its toll
on the city’s better restaurants. Kitchen staff had been trimmed to
the minimum across the board. In turn, personal chefs were now a
dime a dozen. How would she ever distinguish herself from the
crowd?

Lizzie, her younger sister, had first suggested she
could cook in the nude, facetiously of course. The more Rose
thought about the idea, the more she could see the merit. Having
worked as an artist’s model at the local college the summer before,
she’d gotten used to being stared at without her clothes on. Nudity
didn’t bother her in the least. She was willing to bet that
clients, men especially, would be happy to pay a premium for her
services if a fine gourmet meal came with a stimulating floor
show.

“You’ve got to be kidding! Seriously?” Lizzie had
said when Rose revealed her plan. “You’re just asking for trouble.
You know that, right?”

“I’ll make my boundaries very clear to my
clients.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Can you think of a faster way to get Mikey
home?”

Lizzie hadn’t been able to come up with a better
idea.

And, in fact, Rose’s business was going smoothly and
paying her three times what she would have earned as a restaurant
sous chef. She had started out by having a law student friend of
hers draft a concise and binding contract that clearly spelled out
what her services entailed. Then she registered her business with
an upscale employment agency that helped screen out potential
problems. The result was that Rose now had five very happy, private
clients who were willing to pay her well to cook for them. There
were three part-time weekend clients, like Zack Cranston, and two
weekday clients. All were men with the exception of Millie Hunt, an
elderly lesbian Rose made lunch for three days a week.

So far none of her clients had bothered her or tried
to take advantage of the unusual arrangement, though Mr. Cranston
did seem to enjoy teasing her.

If everything continued as planned, she’d have enough
saved up by next summer to hire the expensive trial attorney Mikey
needed to handle his appeal. He was counting on her. She had to
make this work.

Besides, she had to admit that part of her rather
enjoyed being looked at the way Mr. Cranston had admired her this
morning. She didn’t for a minute take his silly proposals
seriously; they were most likely just a typical, primal male
reaction to the combination of naked woman and good food. In fact,
from the beginning she’d picked up on a clear “not available”
signal from the man, which sat just fine with Rose. With all the
balls she had to keep in the air, the last thing she planned on was
to get personally involved or distracted from her goal.

As the cab pulled up in front of the doctor’s old
brownstone, Rose paid the driver and hopped out, reaching inside
her coat to straighten her clothes. Dr. Felger insisted she wear a
vintage style shirt-waist dress with a belt and full skirt. He
wanted the job done in his quirky way.

At the front door he buzzed her in. She stopped in
the long hallway, glanced around and then backed into a dark
corner. She quickly reached up and hooked her finger in the
waistband of her panties, pulled them off, and stashed them in her
purse. The elderly doctor’s favorite part of their routine was to
“help” her in the kitchen. This most often entailed him pulling her
skirt up as she stood at the stove, using the rubber tip of his
cane. He never touched her body, touching wasn’t allowed, but he
loved to peek at her naked behind. His style was a little on the
kinky side but harmless enough.