Yes, Chef Quotes

“Our knees brush underneath the bar. Mine, bare past the hem of my skirt, and his, clad in the ugly-hot pants all chefs seem to wear when they work. He runs his finger over the rim of my glass, smudging the coral pink lipstick stain on the rim. As I watch, he sticks his finger— along with the traces of my lipstick— into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Messy,” he chides.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“A chef's jacket, just my size... dyed a lush pink. My initials are embroidered on each sleeve, P.W., with P. Winfield spelled out below the collar. Just like Jack's chef's whites. The fabric is thick and sturdy, the sort of thing that would be perfect to wear in Fable's kitchen.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“If I can handle what we did last night—”
“You had a lot of help,” I interrupt, knowing there are two bright spots on my cheeks. “I still don’t understand how I managed to lose my vibrator on a houseboat.”
It had been lost for so long, I nearly forgot I brought it with me. And then Jack found it mixed up with his clothes, somehow, and we tested it out to see if it still worked.
Repeatedly.
“I like help.” He trails his fingertips over my jaw. “Especially when it makes you scream that loudly, sweetheart.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“He spreads me slowly, lovingly, as if I’m the rarest of ingredients, deserving all of his focus and respect.
The way he devours me, though, is as filthy as it comes.
I cry out, body jerking instinctively, as he runs his tongue down my slit. He spreads me with his thumbs, tongue and lips and teeth roaming everywhere, tasting everything. He teases my clit until I pant, clawing for him everywhere I can reach, only to pull away, pressing his face against my slick flesh. I feel his smile like a brand, his teeth like a tattoo. He leaves delicate nips on the insides of my thighs, as if signing his name. When he finally, finally lets me wobble off the edge, he looks up from the cradle of my hips, lips slick, beard wet, eyes shining like chips of rare jade.
His grin undoes me.
I claw at him until he settles over me. He slides a hand around the back of my head, cradling my neck as we kiss. I moan, tasting myself on his lips, desperate for him to claim me in the deep, unique way I know only he can accomplish.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“What are you doing here? This is a private event."
"That's what your hostess said." She pouts. "I was hoping we could—”
"If my girlfriend said it," he interrupts, emphasizing the word girlfriend softly, intensely, as his eyes flick to mine, "then you better listen."
My eyes widen. My heart hammers against my ribs like a bird taking flight.
Girlfriend. He called me his girlfriend.
Jessica scoffs. "You can't be serious."
His stony gaze doesn't waver.
She looks like she's just been slapped.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“I press my face against her, beard scraping along her delicate skin as I lick and suck and taste. She’s a feast, all for me. She’s salty, and a touch sweet, with a rich note that’s purely her. I slide my hands under her bottom, angling her so I can fuck her on my tongue. She rewards me with a shout. A beautiful sound. It’s clear she’s not feeling the least bit self-conscious, even with our friends in other rooms of the house.
“I’ve tasted nearly everything,” I murmur against her skin. “The best champagne. Caviar. Fruit off the tree, fish off the boat.” I’m rambling, but I don’t care. Not when I’m lost in heaven that’s between Poppy’s thighs. “White truffle. Foie gras. Kobe beef. Saffron.”
“Jack.” She’s laughing.
“Nothing compares to this.” I pause, flicking my gaze upward, and sure enough, she’s looking at me. At the sight of her, I’m breathless; there’s no space between my ribs for air. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. She strokes my hair away from my forehead. “That might win the award for cheesiest dirty talk ever.”
“I accept.” I circle around her clit with the tip of my tongue, then suck until I hear her cry out. “Happily.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Is this what it's like when you... you know... do oral?"
I choke on my next sip of beer. "What?"
"It's salty," she says, in a tone that suggests I'm the weird one in this situation. "And wet, you know, nothing about it is dry—"
"It's nothing like this." I think of the warm, slick heaven between her legs and suppress a groan. The mere suggestion has my dick twitching with interest. "Eating you out is—"
"It doesn't have to be me specifically," she says. "I just meant women in general."
"Forgive me for thinking about the last pussy I tasted."
Beer practically splutters out of her nose. "Jack! We're in a restaurant!"
"You brought it up!"
"And I regretted it right away!" Her face is very red. "You know my mouth. It runs away with a thought before my brain has a chance to veto it."
"And the thought was, Is my vagina like an oyster?"
"One has to look at it and wonder, that's all!" She's half hysterical, half on the verge of laughter.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Afterward, we stay on the floor together, lounging in a patch of sun like a pair of cats. He holds me to his chest, fingertips skimming over my bare skin. I like the cage his body makes, comfortable and secure. The smattering of dark hair on his chest and legs, which contrasts with my smooth skin. I rub one flat nipple, then kiss it. I turn his free arm from side to side, admiring the bold tattoos inked into the sun-warmed skin. I even nip his bicep, smiling at his huff of amusement. “What’s this one for?” I’m running my nail over a blue-black inked moth.
“Just thought it looked cool.”
“Really?”
“That’s the secret us tattooed freaks don’t want the rest of you to know.” His breath ruffles my hair. I shiver pleasantly. “Sometimes it’s just because we wanted the ink.”
“I think you wanted the pain.” I slant my eyes upward. I know I’m right, judging by his eyes. “What about my favorite one?”
“That one I planned. I got it after my first shift in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It’s me.” He says it with such confidence, I know he’s serious. He thinks of himself as a panther, stalking alone through the forest, knife in his maw. I can’t imagine anything lonelier. Florida panthers are endangered, after all. “Why is it your favorite?”
“I don’t know.” I pet the panther. It’s one of the most detailed pieces he has. “I guess part of me realized it was one of the meaningful ones.”
Now that I think of it, all the most detailed tattoos are of animals. I can’t even imagine how long it took to ink the octopus splashed across his chest and collarbone.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“His deep voice is oddly soothing. I want the pain he’s promising, and the praise that I know will follow.
The flat part of the spoon smacks against my backside. I startle at the sting, then moan.
“You know what I want to hear,” he murmurs. “Give it to me.”
Another whack, harder this time. Desperate heat blooms throughout my body. My mind narrows to the here and now, discarding idle thoughts about if I’m too eager, if this is too dirty, how the cries tumbling from my lips sound to him, whether I’m attractive enough in this position. It’s freeing. Intoxicating, the way he grounds me. He murmurs praise in between each spank, rubs my clit to distract from the sting. It isn’t long before each touch feels like exquisite torture, the pleasure and pain so entwined I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins.
I’m going to come like this, and we both know it, and I don’t want to hold back when it hits.
“You’re so beautiful.” His voice is hoarse. He tugs my braid; gives my bottom another firm smack. His hand, this time, not the spoon. My core clenches at the intimacy of it; the way his fingers dig into my tender flesh. “Fucking gorgeous. I’m dying to get inside you.”
“Please,” I breathe. I want him to spear me open, inch by delicious inch. I want him everywhere. “Jack, please, I need it.”
“If you’re good and come first.” He gives the braid a harder pull. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
My scream echoes in the gleaming steel of the kitchen as my climax crashes through me. It’s ferocious, pulling from some primal place I can’t quite name. I’d be embarrassed with anyone else, in any other situation; but I’m with Jack, and he’s spinning me around, and we’re tumbling to the floor together in a chaotic cloud of flour and breathless kissing. Sex has never felt like this. I’ve never felt like this. So utterly myself, with no concessions.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“As I watch, Jack takes out a baking tray.
A baking tray filled with golden-brown, uniform pop tarts.
He sets the tray on the cooktop. The air is thick with the scent of sugar and dough and jam, a trio of the best smells in the universe. My mouth starts to water. He turns to another tray, filled with pop tarts that must be cooled, and drizzles on thick, pale purple icing. Then he leans down, taking a pair of tweezers and painstakingly applying an array of jewel-like sugared berries, edible flowers, sprinkles. My heart squeezes tightly. He transforms into an artist when he plates food.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“You’re manhandling me.”
I gather her wrists together and hold them over her head, tightly enough she’d have to work to free herself. I ease into her again; a slow, painful glide that takes a considerable amount of my rapidly fraying self-control. Despite the pinch of her eyebrows, she digs her heels against my lower back, drawing me ever closer.
“You love it,” I murmur. Her eyes hold a kaleidoscope of blue. Sky blue and navy and cobalt and robin’s egg and everything in between. “You should be chanting my name right now.”
“Someone’s confident.”
“You’re clenched around me like a steel trap, darling.” I let the words wash over her lips, so near to a kiss, yet so far.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“There’s a downy patch of blonde curls at the top of her folds, but otherwise she’s smooth, her skin flushed and wet. I drag my finger down the heated flesh. When I blow gently, she whines, her nails digging into my shoulders.
“I th-thought you wanted to savor it.”
“Oh, I fucking will.” I kiss her thigh, lifting my gaze to trail over the expanse of her body. Her hands keep working through my hair. “No covering up those pretty noises, sweetheart. This comes with conditions.”
“Jack,” she whines.
“If you want to come, I need to hear you.”
I lick her seam from top to bottom. Her foot jerks against my side. I tease her center with my tongue, groaning at her rich, salty taste. The world narrows to a tiny point. All that matters is this, right now. And more than anything, I want to take my time.
At the first touch of my tongue against the swollen bud of her clitoris, she jerks as if shocked. I chuckle against her skin, knowing the vibrations are hitting her core. She jerks, pulls my hair, begs. I tease her until she’s trembling, one minute sucking on her clit, the next ignoring it completely in favor of fucking her with my tongue. My cock, trapped between my body and the wood floor, twitches with each helpless noise that spills from her throat.
“That’s it.” I stroke down her leg as she shakes, right on the edge of coming. I don’t give her the satisfaction, waiting instead until she’s practically pushing her pussy into my face before going back down on her. “That’s my girl. You know what I can give you.”
“Jack, please.” Her voice breaks. “Don’t stop, I need more—”
“You taste incredible.” I find her clit again, teasing it with my teeth. I’m lost in her: the heat of her skin, the helpless noises escaping her lips. “Go on and scream, Poppy. Be a good girl and let me hear you.”
That final push must unlock something in her. She lets out a sharp cry, although she clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle it, writhing underneath me like a mermaid caught in a net. She jerks my hair sharply as the orgasm overtakes her. I soothe her with laps and licks and kisses. I rest my chin on her thigh, admiring how thoroughly she’s been taken apart.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“We'd play video games, or do homework together— well, I did my homework, at least. Usually in the kitchen, while Dad and Jack cooked. School wasn't really his thing."
That, I can definitely relate to. "That sounds nice. What video games?"
"It was." She smiles. "He was a beast at Mario Kart. Played as Bowser every time."
I roll my eyes. "Naturally.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“I drag my nails down his chest, cataloguing tattoos I haven’t noticed yet. Orange blossoms along his ribs. The outline of a bird with a fish in its mouth. “I had a sex dream about you.” I bring my hands up, tugging his hair. “Here. In this bed.”
His moan sends a sharp pang through my core. His hips jerk slightly, betraying his own need. I clench around his fingers, pleased when he grinds against me. I’m so close, it’s getting hard to concentrate on anything but the relentless desire pulsing through me. I wiggle free of his grip, hips rising to seek that perfect angle.
He pins me against the bed, halting my crude motions, and treats me to a third finger. It grazes the spot inside me that makes me see stars, and when he realizes that, he teases it mercilessly.
“So goddamn pretty when you’re on the edge.” He pinches my clit, eliciting a helpless gasp. “What were we doing in your dream, Poppy? Was it this?”
I nod shakily. “Tell me yours.”
His lips graze my ear. “I thought about bending you over a counter. Pounding into you like an animal. See if I could get you dripping down your legs.”
“Jack,” I say breathlessly, jerking his hair hard enough to make him hiss. “I’m almost there. I just need—”
“And when you did,” he continues, voice full of wicked promise, “I got on my knees and licked up every drop. I made you come again and again until I was hard and ready to get back inside your tight little—”
My orgasm rips through me, delivering a tidal wave of sensation that leaves me gasping for air.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“God.” He swallows, gaze on my breasts. “I’ve been dreaming about these.”
I stiffen, waiting for a comment about how they’re not what he imagined. Too big, or too small, too something. I’ve heard it all before, online and in real life.
He rubs his thumb across one flushed nipple. “So fucking pretty.”
“Are you sure? Because—” I whine at his ministrations— “I don’t know, it never seems like guys—”
“Am I sure?” He cups them, squeezing roughly. “Fuck, baby, they’re perfect.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“His evergreen eyes bore into mine. Watching. Waiting.
"You look like a panther," I blurt. My gaze drifts to his panther tattoo, still a little red from the burn I gave him. "Like you just dragged me back to your den."
His eyes are endless green. So easy to get lost in. "And you like it.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Our eyes catch, blue on green. His fingertips brush my lips as he feeds me the small morsel. He caresses my bottom lip with his thumb before easing away.
The small gesture freezes me so thoroughly, I don't remember that I have something in my mouth until my taste buds are overcome with flavor. It’s cheese. Nutty, rich, and yet like silk in my mouth. He watches as I swallow, those irreverent eyes shaded by the tree’s branches.
We’re close enough that it’d take no effort at all to touch. No effort to kiss, our mouths messy with flavor.
“Good?” he asks roughly.
I nod, mesmerized by the way he’s looking at me. I can’t manage to get my lungs to work, much less my voice. There’s a raw, almost carnal edge to his expression. I feel stripped down, even though we’re in public. The banyan canopy might as well be a curtain. We’re ensconced in our own little world, quiet and full of possibility.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice more tender than I’ve ever heard it. I clench around his fingers so tightly he groans. “Just like that. Now, sweet girl.”
I wake with a start.
The smell of sea air fills my nose. I squint in the darkness. My core is throbbing, on the edge of release and needing just a little bit more. I inch my hand down my panties, making a face at the wetness coating my fingers.
I had a sex dream.
A sex dream about Jack Hartman.
In his bed.
At least he isn’t down here. He has no idea that I was just dreaming of him touching me. Praising me. If I didn’t wake up, I’m sure dream-me would have ridden dream-Jack’s cock.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“I can practically taste the lavender icing, the lemon-scented pastry. “In Carmel. All the way in California. They had the most amazing pop tarts.”
“Pop tarts?”
“Yeah, but not like the boxed ones. They were flaky and fresh and perfect. And the baker made each one look like a work of art. There would be swirled icing, and bits of candied fruit, and sometimes edible flowers.”
“Breakfast fit for a princess.”
I smile. “Yeah. That’s exactly how I felt.”
At the thought of those sleepy California mornings— my heart aches. I can’t deny that the distance has been good, but I miss my family. Letting Dad’s calls go to voicemail has been hard. I know that when Julia calls me Pop Tart, she’s remembering those mornings too.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Everyone has food memories. Some of the strongest moments in our lives are tied to food. Good and bad.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“It’s a constant.” He sips a beer. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “We need food to survive, right? But we don’t view it as survival. Every culture in the world puts food at the center in some way. We celebrate with it. Mourn with it. Remember with it.”
I knew Jack loved food— it would be impossible for him not to— but the passion in his voice speaks to my heart. At the end of the day, he loves to cook. Loves the power that food can hold. It’s undeniably sexy, hearing him speak about it.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“It might be a little hot—”
She’s already taking a bite. Her eyes slide shut as she chews. “Oh, fuck.”
“Good?”
“Shh.” She takes another bite. She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan. “I can’t even. This is ridiculous. Amazing. Orgasmic.”
Never mind kissing. At that sound from her lips, that word, my mind shoots in ridiculous, impractical directions. What noises does she make when she’s being touched? Does she like it fast or achingly slow? What does she taste like when she’s flushed and slick and begging?
Oblivious to my torment, she polishes off half the sandwich, leaving her lips shiny enough I want to lick them.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Jessica wasn’t blonde like Poppy, though. Poppy’s hair is like sunshine. Egg yolks. Lemon zest. Corn after it’s been roasted, all sweet and summery. It holds hundreds of shades, same as her jeweled eyes. I bet it’s silky, like softened butter.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“She was entirely too pleased with herself when we exchanged numbers, and she put her contact in my phone as a pink heart and crown. For my contact in her phone, she chose a black heart and a knife.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Yes. Definitely yes.”
“Good.” I clear my throat, looking anywhere and everywhere but those doe-eyes and curtain of golden hair. “And it’s yes, Chef.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“Jack Hartman? Poppy, the man has his shit together even less than you."
"Then we'll be a good match."
I lift my chin, refusing to back down. I'm bursting with energy. I want to run upstairs and pack. Get to the airport. Figure out where exactly Diamond Bay is, other than north of West Palm Beach. The hardest part will be convincing Jack to let me stick around, but I'd be willing to bet he already knows how much he needs me.
"You want me out of the house, right? Doing something other than promoting cheap wellness products?" I direct the last bit at Julia, who flushes.
"Poppy," Mom says carefully, "are you sure—"
"I heard you all, just now." I look at Dad, into the blue eyes I inherited. I've always chased his approval the most. Maybe, through this, I'll finally earn his admiration.
Promoting a restaurant can't be all that different from promoting a product, after all. If I play this right, I might even end up with a position within the Winfield Group like Julia.
"And for the record? This is me trying my best.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef

“His forearm flexes slightly, showing off a tattoo of a panther with a knife in his mouth. His chef’s jacket is draped over the back of the barstool, leaving him in a white T-shirt that clings to his biceps.”
― Grace Reilly, Yes, Chef