Wearing only a white apron, Chef entered the room holding a metal pot in one hand and a silicone pastry brush in the other. He ignored her, at first, mixing his creation with the little blue implement and smiling like he could see the future in his sauce.

"What is it?" she asked.

She wasn't supposed to talk, but oh well. If he didn't want backtalk, he could eat his food off china like a normal person. But, no. He wanted to taste it on her skin-she knew him too well. The secret ingredient was that combination of her sweat and salt and body oils. Her flesh was a regular bouquet garni of human aromas.

He raised the silicon brush up, allowing a viscous dark brown, almost burgundy, fluid to drip back into the pot. Was it molasses? It did smell sweet, but she thought she got a whiff of chocolate, too, and...chili pepper? Strange combination.

"Mole Poblano," he said at last.

"I don't know what that is."

His gaze was steel. So was his cock, judging by the tent in his apron. "You don't need to know," he replied, stirring the dark concoction. "You won't be eating it."