Is there a connection between good food and good sex? The answer is a resounding yes, according to sources as diverse as Discovery Health and the Social Issues Research Center. Food is part of the dating and mating ritual across all cultures. Both food and mating are essential to the survival of the species. Feeding your mate is not only sexy, but also a way of saying, “I will take care of you forever.”
Some people may go a bit overboard combining food and sex, as this fun loving couple did. But, hey, it’s their groceries, who am I to criticize? One super food that has been strongly linked to super sex is chocolate. Yes, dare I say it? Women are programmed to love it because it gives us pleasure and makes us feel happy and sexy. Consider giving yourself and your mate the gift of chocolate–in the bedroom. Be imaginative. Play with your food! That’s what my couple did in An Inn Decent Proposal.
In An Inn Decent Proposal in my anthology, Killer Kisses, Genie King is a Culinary Institute of America trained chef who is piqued by her high school heart throb, Jim Rawlings, when he tells her that he’s sure she’s “a solid cook.” Furious, she retorts, “Tell you what, Mr. Critic, you come to my house for dinner tomorrow night. My food makes men go weak at the knees.” She proceeds to seduce him with her sensual cooking. Starting with a chef’s amuse-bouche and ending with a decadent dessert in the bedroom, Genie brings Jim to his knees and makes him beg for more.
Here’s an excerpt to whet your appetite.
With butterflies dancing the hoochie-koochie in his stomach, Jim stood on the front porch of Genie’s house at the appointed hour, clutching a dozen hot-pink roses, his finger poised to press the doorbell. A witch that appeared to have flown into the siding stuck out of the wall and cobwebs were draped over the light fixture.
Why was he so nervous? It was just dinner. Right? Visions of Genie’s teasing cleavage danced before his eyes. No. He wanted it to be more than dinner. A whole lot more. He took a deep breath and leaned on the bell.
Moments later, the object of his desire appeared framed by the doorway, fiery hair pulled up in a ponytail, her luscious breasts covered by a huge black apron that read, Never Trust a Skinny Chef.
He handed her the flowers. “Trick or treat?”
“Treat. Thanks. Come on in.” She stepped aside to give him room to pass.
He wanted to grab her in the doorway, drag her into the bedroom and take her right then and there. Down boy. No need to act like a Neanderthal. He cleared his throat. “Did you get a lot of kids?”
“About two dozen little ones with their parents. After dinner the teenagers came out in droves. Most of them weren’t even in costume. I ran out of candy bars and turned the light off at ten. What about you?”
“The Motel Seven wasn’t in the holiday spirit.” He grinned. “Just as well, I forgot my costume. The only thing I could have gone as was Adam.”
She blushed and said, “That would have been interesting.” She handed him a glass of champagne. “To celebrate our purchase, I thought we’d begin with a Perrier Jouet. And, since we seem to be in an Indian summer, we’re having appetizers on the patio.”
She led him through the living room under a cuckoo clock made to look like a green-and-red Swiss chalet. “Interesting timepiece you’ve got there.”
“My father gave it to my mother years ago, on their second date.” She opened the sliding glass door. “He wanted her to be reminded every hour of the day that he was cuckoo for her. Corny, hunh?”
He clinked her glass. “To corny love.”
She pointed to the small square white dishes on the glass topped patio table. “Tonight’s amuse bouche is salmon tartare on five-spice crisps.”
After he sat, she placed a cloth napkin on his lap. The simple motion aroused him. He shifted in his seat, grateful for the camouflage. He turned to the tasty morsels at hand, closed his eyes and crunched into what appeared to be a large wonton crisp—but with tastes of clove, peppercorn, cinnamon, fennel, and anise dancing on his tongue. Layered in with these flavors were salmon, wasabi, ginger, and a touch of spicy sushi sauce. He moaned, opened his eyes and saw Genie watching him.
He took a sip of champagne. “More please?”
“You may have two more—that’s it, or you won’t be able to enjoy the rest of the meal.”
He savored each bite and realized the chef was not on the patio with him. “Where’d you go?”
“Not to worry.” She appeared from another sliding glass door bearing a large platter covered with golden brown rings drizzled with a red sauce and garnished with something green. She placed the dish in front of him. “Sweet-and-spicy calamari, toasted peanuts, and cilantro.”
“Can taste buds explode?”
She inclined her head. “We shall see. Bon appétit.”
“Won’t you join me?”
She sank into a chair opposite from him. “Just for a few moments. I have kitchen duty, you know.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful.”
She smirked. “We’ll see how grateful in a while.”
Was that a signal? Was she coming on to him? His heart raced and his pants stirred. Focus on food, dammit. He reached for the calamari. Spicy sweet-and-sour flavors rioted with combined textures of crunchy light tempura batter and tender squid. He licked his fingers. “Dear God, please serve this in heaven.”
When Genie laughed, the smile reached all the way up to her sparkling eyes. “You approve?”
“Mmm. Yes. Why aren’t you married?”
She eyed him and took a sip of bubbly. “You first.”
“I was.” He grabbed another piece of calamari. “To a hot blonde blackjack dealer.” He crunched, savoring the flavors.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
“She left me for a higher roller. Your turn.”
She popped a piece of calamari into her mouth and ran her tongue around her lips slowly, getting every little crumb. His pants grew tighter. “Sommelier boyfriend became alcoholic.”
She nodded. “I swore off romance for a while. Became best-friends-forevah with every gay guy in New York City. Lots of great shopping stories.” She sipped her wine. “Fell like King Kong diving off the Empire State Building for my new executive chef. Man was he hot.” She fanned herself.
A flash of jealousy surprised him. “And?”
“Hot, as in temper. As in throwing dishes, pots, anything at hand.” She shook her head. “He was Italian; I nicknamed him Mount Vesuvius. I left him and the job the day after he threw an iron skillet, missed me, and dented the wall.” She dusted her hands off. “That was that. He’s the reason I’m here.”
Jim reached over and grabbed her hand. Heat pulsed off her palm. “What’s his address? I’ll send him a thank-you note.”
She stood and gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “Save your thanks for when you’re done with dinner.”
That was definitely a come-on. He admired her lovely ass as she sashayed away and looked forward to the next courses.
As dusk fell, they moved into the dining room. She had placed the roses in a vase and set them on the buffet to the side. The table was set for two with fine china and glassware. Everything sparkled in the candlelight. She held a chair out for Jim, and once again placed a napkin on his lap, this time drawing out the ritual a tad longer. She was killing him. She breathed into his ear, sending frissons down his neck. “I hope you like the next course.”
Just to have something to hold onto—other than her—he clenched a soup spoon. And a white dish appeared in front of him in the center of which were large lumps of—
“Rich lobster soup with curry.” She poured a thick pink liquid around the lumps of shellfish.
The scent of curry rose on the steam grabbing his olfactory lobe, taking his brain to a new plane of existence. “Oh. My. God.”
“Some have likened my food to a religious experience.”
The lobster swam in the smooth soup with a hint of curry while his taste buds danced and sang hallelujah, hallelujah. “Any chance I could get this for dessert?”
She took her apron off and sat down. “Not tonight. I have other plans.”
The low cut lace top left little to Jim’s imagination. Torn between appetites, he wondered if there was an intermezzo. He needed to clear his palate—and knew just who he wanted to do it with.
Read the rest in Killer Kisses, available in Kindle or Print