A MF Contemporary erotic romance/romcom with mild bondage
Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.
When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee “Emily” Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is skeptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.
Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting Monsieur Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.
Buy Links
Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G6X5D959
Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0G6X5D959
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Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion. Sample HER SECRET INGREDIENT,
new #Contemporary #EroticRomance by @LisabetSarai
https://books2read.com/u/mdkrAw
Review Quotes
Her Secret Ingredient was a great short story. I loved the unique plot, the realistically drawn characters and the writing style. ~ Lucy Felthouse, Goodreads
I’ve always been a sucker for books set in the kitchen, and even as outlandishly over the top as this one is, it was a lot of fun…lighthearted and silly and sinfully sexy. ~ Steph, The Romance Reviews
In Praise of Nerds
Since I joined the romance authors community, I’ve heard a lot about alpha heroes. Rugged but handsome features, broad shoulders, chiseled pectorals, powerful thighs that naturally invite musings about what lies sheltered between them – attributes like these apparently constitute the romance ideal. Our hero should also be physically strong, courageous, and generally the dominant type, though some sensitivity or a shameful secret will not be taken amiss. It helps, apparently, if the guy is also wealthy, suave and well-dressed.
Well, I don’t completely buy it. I mean, a nice bod and a pretty face are not to be sneezed at. But they’re not enough. Call me perverse, but I find intelligence to be the most essential aspect of a sexy hero. Furthermore, I’m willing to accept less than stellar physical qualities if my hero is a clever, imaginative, horny genius who can figure out how to get his heroine out of sticky situations and who understands what truly turns her on.
So I’ve got a thing for nerds. I was hopelessly in love with Mr. Spock. Near the top of my sexy, romantic movie list is “Earth Girls are Easy”, featuring gangly, geeky Jeff Goldblum as a brilliant alien. It’s fairly easy to understand why I feel this way. Growing up, I was the egghead, the bookworm, the too-smart girl whom everyone made fun of. The only guys who could deal with me were the ones who were at least as smart as I was. They weren’t on the football squad; they weren’t voted Best Looking or Most Popular. But they had that something that could start my motors. It was intoxicating, yes, arousing, to have a conversation with some of these guys, especially when I got out of high school and into college. We understood each other, and I began to discover that despite their definite nerdish qualities, they were enthusiastic and innovative when it came to sex.
Actually, research has shown that in defiance of their public image as socially challenged losers, nerds are more successful than the general population in finding mates, staying with them, and producing children. Of course, that is not necessarily going to endear them to romance readers, but it’s something to consider.
Not all the heroes that I create are nerds, but many have some nerdish qualities. Harry Sanbourne in Her Secret Ingredient is a classic example. He’s fashion-challenged, with unruly, overlong hair. Seriously near-sighted, he wears clunky, dark-framed glasses. He’s easy going and informal, without a sophisticated bone in his body – a body that looks pretty ordinary in his baggy jeans and out-of-shape sweaters.
Once those clothes are off, though, Harry turns out to be an exceptionally talented and considerate lover. And unlike the suave and impeccably groomed master chef (and apparent alpha), Etienne Duvalier, Harry has an intuitive understanding of what Emily needs.
Excerpt (Slightly Spicy):
“Here we are. Try a couple of these and let me know what you think.” I positioned the platter so that the augmented tidbits were within Etienne’s easy reach. He was sitting on one of the stools in front of the counter. His thigh muscles strained against the black leather of his pants. A lock of hair had overcome the gel to settle on his high forehead. His eyes sparkled, ocean-blue in this light. He looked good enough to eat—highly appropriate for a cooking show.
“Thank you. They look exquisite.” He positively oozed charm as he picked up a pastry round with his finger and thumb and placed it upon his tongue. I imagined all the women watching the show, eyes glued to his every sensual move.
“Oh, Mei Lee! These taste even better than they look!” He sipped his wine, then popped another pissaladière into his mouth and chewed with obvious enthusiasm.
“You’ll put the recipe on the channel website, won’t you?” He turned to the camera. “Ah, mes amis, this simple little dish provides a glorious mixture of flavors. And quite a straightforward process, I guarantee. Any one of you can make these in your own kitchen.”
I helped myself to a pissaladière of my own, carefully choosing from the unadulterated side of the tray. They were good—the pastry light and crisp as spun cloud, the topping complex and savory, thyme, garlic and pepper lingering on the tongue long after swallowing. I took a second hors d’oeuvres. Etienne gobbled down two more, licking his long, elegant fingers after each one. The audience must be dying, watching that pink tongue clean away every crumb of pastry, every fragment of olive. I nursed my burgundy and smiled for the camera as he consumed a fifth pissaladière. Low-level lust hummed through me, too, though I’d been careful this time to avoid ingesting any of the aphrodisiac.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and drained his wine glass. “Ms. Wong—” he began. A wild light blazed in his face. “I want to ask your pardon—I want—oh, please…” The smooth, urbane voice sounded confused, ravaged by uncertainty. What was going on?
Etienne slipped from the stool to the floor and knelt at my feet. The next thing I knew, he was pressing his lips to the gilt leather of my high-heeled shoes. “Ms. Wong—Mistress Wong—please, let me serve you…”
“Etienne? Monsieur Duvalier? What are you doing?”
He trailed kisses up the inside of my ankle. “I adore you, Mistress.”
“Etienne!” I snatched my foot away in alarm. He gazed up at me, a mix of disappointment and reverence shining in his face. “Stand up. Remember we’re on camera,” I added, sotto voce.
“Yes, yes, but that doesn’t matter now,” he continued in the same crazy vein, though he obeyed my order and rose to his feet. “I am your willing slave. Let me please you, Mistress. Let me suckle your sweet, hard nipples. Raise your skirt and allow me to worship you with my mouth, the way you deserve…”
“Ssh!” I hissed. “Do you want to get us thrown in jail?” I peered through the glare of the lights, trying to signal to someone to stop the transmission. There was no flurry of activity there, however. No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
“I don’t care, as long as you are satisfied.” He paused a moment, then unknotted his scarlet cravat and handed it to me. He held out his wrists. “Bind me, Mistress, if you wish. Torture me. I’ll bear any amount of pain for you. Test me—test my devotion.”
He had the same rich voice as before, the same handsome features, the same lithe, muscular body—but this was a different man entirely. I searched his face, yearning for the arrogant, self-involved chef who’d been bossing me around half an hour before.
There was no trace of him. Instead, I had to deal with this—this eager, self-effacing slave boy.
I’d created a monster.
About Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, BookBub and Twitter. Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh
