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His tight body, adorned in the pristine white of a chef, presses into me from behind, his lips close to my ear. "You taste like a pastry chef's wet dream, Veronica," he whispers huskily. Before I can laugh, his fingers push into me and his tongue encircles my ultra sensitive clit. He wants to please me, he'd said, the first time a man has uttered those words in longer than I care to remember.
When the offer came in for my own cooking show on the Food Network, I was bubbling over with excitement like a freshly uncorked bottle of Dom Perignon. Henri, my sous-chef, business partner, and longtime friend, celebrated by having all the patrons in one of my restaurants congratulate me loudly when I came out of the kitchen and made an extra-large triple-chocolate cake (my favorite), treating everyone to a generous slice.
Peter felt like my success threatened his instead of viewing it as a bonus. He couldn't stand that now, especially with the launch of my cook books and the opening of my sixth restaurant, I had zero dependence on him financially or even socially. His continuous pull for power within our household became obvious even for the most petty of things, making me resent his lack of support.
"Join us in the twenty-first century," I told him once during an argument. "Women have lucrative careers too."
The strain on our marriage was apparent and the situation was in a perpetual state of decline. I absorbed myself in my work, seeking asylum from the negativity he stirred up in me. Thoughts of my rejected sex drive were pushed to the back of my mind, simmering, waiting for just the right time to boil.
I guess you could say that finding Peter with his buxom secretary on the master bathroom counter was the culmination of that explosion.
Truffle canapés, imported caviar, roasted baby pears with goat cheese, my reputed tempura battered seafood... the guests feast on my appetizers and wait for the main courses. Swordfish steak, lobster tail, fresh tuna, and an array of succulent meats. Peter insisted on the extravagance, boasting that the event would be the hit of the year, and we'd make back the money through the networking alone. That was, if he could quell his vindictive side during the divorce, and not try to inflict his malevolence on my reputation.
Luckily, I had some evidence that would be more than valid in discrediting his claims...
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