Natalie Baum enjoys cooking up hot, tantalizing experiences in and out of the kitchen as well as creating a salaciously satisfying story. Her sensually pleasing tales stir the senses and heighten physical awareness. She travels the U.S. conducting hands-on research and writing erotica and romance books. Get ready for adventure, intellectual stimulation and a randy sense of humor as you follow this curious vixen from city to city reaping voyeuristic benefits that tantalize the mind well past the last page…
Callie Mallory is one saucy chef. She likes her produce the way she likes her men, fresh, fresh, fresh! Debuting as a premier culinary TV show host certainly offers its perks in this regard. Live audience interaction gives Callie the opportunity to decide what she plans to fondle first . . . her tasty organic ingredients or the hungry, muscular men clamoring for her attention. As she travels from city to city every week, she finds the scenery is never boring, and the tantalizing company she encounters along the way makes her glad she’s a woman. Tune in to “Organic Chef on the Go” and join this fearless bombshell as she embarks on culinary adventures that span the globe, arouse the senses, and heighten physical pleasures.
“Good afternoon, fellow chefs! Today’s show is coming to you live from the Windy City’s Farmers’ Market. That’s right, to all you non-Midwesterners, that’s live from the great city of Chicago. Hospitable people, delicious food, and fresh produce make this city a wonderful place to call home any time of year. And we can’t wait to bring it all right to your kitchen on Callie Mallory, Organic Chef on the Go!”
An awesome city that needs a new PR campaign to draw more handsome, available male residents! Almost a whole week without a single date, not right.
Situated in the heart of downtown, Grant Park offered miles of open, green space ideal for music and arts festivals, as well as wine and food fairs. The city’s famous skyline boasted a glass-domed aquarium, jetting out over Lake Michigan on its south perimeter, and the tall, black John Hancock tower on its north end.
Callie Mallory loved her job—endless traveling, fine hotels, room service, and interesting, attractive men at every destination. She pointed behind her to Millennium Park. “That elegant, flamboyant, silver structure darting into the sky is the Pritzker Pavilion. Following the consumption of the tasty meal we’re about to prepare, check out a concert in its cushy amphitheater for a perfect ending to your day.”
I need to go back to San Francisco. Ivan Segal…he knew how to unzip a woman’s dress. How can there not be one man in all of Chicago?
The late afternoon sun beat down on Callie and her crew, but her audience sat on metal, folding chairs and enjoyed the shade of a crisp, white canopy. A long, red, cooking counter and stovetop her crew had erected two hours earlier separated Callie from her fans.
I miss Jerry. No, Cal you swore you weren’t going to think about him anymore. Melancholy is not an ingredient in this recipe.
She searched the audience for a warm and friendly face to draw her attention.
Jerry knew how to listen and respond appropriately in a conversation.
Too much reminiscing about good-natured exes rendered only one thing—excessive dessert exploration following show-wrap. And already between last month’s Denver stop and this week’s Chi-town the top button on her pants started mocking her by refusing to fasten.
“Why can’t someone invent a canopy impervious to fire?” She grinned into the camera. “If we get bored, I’ll place a stick of butter on top of my head and let you watch it melt.”
Laughter filled the park.
Overhead lights dominated the blue summer sky, staggered in sets of two, in two sections, one to her left and one to her right. A large, oval, white sun reflector shield warmed her chest, sending sweat beads dripping down her abdomen. She longed to lift her hand to the buttons on her red silk blouse and slip them out of their slots until she hit the top frill of her checkered apron and could no longer continue. But that would be unprofessional. So, she shifted from foot to foot in her pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes, shaking loose the sides of her skirt from her moist hips.
“Yesterday, I scoured the city’s farmers’ markets for the best vegetables, spices, herbs, fruits, and flowers. And today, I’ll show you how to prepare easy, healthy recipes enjoyed in this region. Utilizing local ingredients, we’ll create popular, Midwest comfort foods and jazz them up with modern-day appeal.”
Callie laid down her knife and reached into the countertop workspace. She grasped soft, white dishtowel and dabbed her forehead. She lifted her hand, swirling it in the air, a silent sign letting her producer know she desired more circulating fans.
“Pardon my wiping, folks.”
She shuffled bowls of meat, vegetables, and condiments around, mixing them together, stirring and pouring into skillets and pans until all the burners were sizzling busily. Looking out at the blue, rippling water, she announced, “I forgive Lake Michigan for withholding its famous windy gusts on such a hot day!”
She paused and took a sip of water, then figured what the heck. She poured some into her hands, rubbed them together, and then she ran the dewy bottle behind her ears and down her neck.
Ah, sweet relief.
An audience member raised his hand. She checked the light on top of the camera—still green—meaning she had two minutes left before another commercial break.
Typically, Q&A occurred the last five minutes of the show. This appeased her fans and kept her shooting schedule on track. Resisting a dark, wavy-haired man wearing shiny, silver spectacles, however, would be like resisting fine, imported, dark chocolate. And with his rich complexion being her favorite color—like lightly toasted biscotti—well, how could she ignore him? Plus, those manners. So polite. He’d raised his hand instead of just shouting out his question; she knew she’d answer anything he posed with avid delight.
Her producer stood next to the cameraman, his head down, face buried in clipboard notes. Typical! Exactly when she needed help, there he was, fumbling with something else. At least he wasn’t busy making passes at one of her cooking interns. She’d tired of interviewing and breaking in new ones four weeks ago, after the show got picked up for the season. If it wasn’t for his production dollars keeping them on the road, Callie wouldn’t tolerate his advances, either. The price of fame and being pretty—that’s what her agent had told her. And she agreed. Best to wait until signing on for Season Two before swatting him upside the head, no matter how much he truly deserved it. She could handle pretending his hairy paws didn’t make her want to run for the washroom every time he grazed her while handing her something.
She cupped her hand above her eyes and let her gaze fall upon the audience. Where was Mr. Hot Pants when the production assistants were filling the VIP seats at the guest lunch table next to the stage? The table where fresh daffodils and tulips they’d bought yesterday sat in full bloom. What a shame he wouldn’t be joining her there; she wouldn’t have minded presenting him with her dishes for his tasting enjoyment at the close of the show. She imagined slowly leaning into him with a big, wide spoon and offering him a second helping . . . . And, of course, her arm would accidentally brush across his broad shoulders or muscular back. She’d bend down to rest her mouth beside his ear, and teasingly ask, “Sure you wouldn’t like a take-home portion, sir?” He’d smile and she’d smile back, knowing she’d made him want three, four, five additional helpings. Knowing she’d eagerly serve him as much as he wanted, if only he said the right things and kept a comfortable distance until she let him know she was open to his advances.
She turned her attention to the camera to address her at-home audience. “If you’re making this with me in your own kitchen, just mark the sauce to simmer and keep stirring your steamed vegetables periodically.”
She twirled a metal spoon in the creamy mushroom sauce, then lifted it to her tongue, tasting its rich goodness. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the hottie, who still had his hand in the air, waiting patiently. A grin stretched across the man’s face, revealing pearly teeth. The shade of decadent white chocolate, she thought.
“Just about right, folks, but it needs a dash more basil.” She dipped her fingertips into one of the little white cups holding various spices—oregano, thyme, basil, salt, and peppercorn—withdrew a pinch of the dried spice, and sprinkled it into the sauce.
She stirred the thick sauce, then lifted the spoon to her lips. But instead of simply tasting, she held the spoon above her mouth and allowed the sauce to drizzle slowly onto her tongue. She tilted her head back, glancing at the man, trying not to tip off the studio audience that she appreciated his looks more significantly than the rest of theirs.
Catching his gaze, she continued to let her tongue dance over the curved metal edges of the spoon. The poor guy still had his hand up. She appreciated his persistence, briefly wondered if such perseverance translated into the bedroom. He exuded confidence in his luxurious, finely made, navy suit, perfectly offset by his crisp, white shirt. A pastel pink and navy-striped tie rested smoothly against his chest. Her hands itched as a vision of her running her palms over those covered muscles filled her head.
“Mmm . . . .” she murmured. She’d run her arms up and inside his coat, wrap him in her warm embrace, her soft breasts pressing against his hard chest, their nipples brushing against each other through her lacy bra. She could just imagine . . . .
Cal, you’re on live television. Get it together, for Pete’s sake. She shook her head and refocused on the menu.
“I like to add one unexpected side dish to each meal. Today’s edible mate is a delectable cranberry orange relish.”
Callie pulled a mixing bowl from beneath her counter and emptied a dish of cooked cranberries into it. She scooped up an orange, sliced it in half and squeezed the juice onto the cranberries, then sliced up two more oranges and added those bits into the mix.
“What you want to do next is mash the cranberries and oranges together.”
She dipped a spatula into the bowl and swirled her hand around, folding the bits over and over and over each other and wiping the sides of the dish with the spatula’s tip. She drew a bite out of the bowl, slowly parted her lips, and slid the spoon in her mouth.
“Delicious.” She smiled at the audience of people who didn’t know she was referring to the fantasies running rampant in her mind and not the relish.
From the look of his tailored suit, she imagined the handsome audience member to be a Salsa man.
Yum, salsa! Good idea for next week’s Tuscon show.
Or maybe the Tango? Tango France or Tango Argentina? Who cared, as long as he left her breathless in the end, his cheek mashed tightly against her naked flesh. If he preferred solo performances, she could do a for-his-eyes only Flamenco in her hotel room after the show. Best to get his name first, though, before making such grandiose plans.
Dragging her mind back up out of the lust-filled gutter, Callie smiled at the man who had so totally captured her imagination. She really needed to answer his question and put the poor guy out of his hand-in-the-air misery. She wondered if he’d come there straight from the office, or if he always dressed to the nines. Either way, he definitely added a sense of class and style to her humble little cooking show. The least she could do in return was see what he wanted to say.
“It seems we have a question, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, first addressing the camera, then the live audience. Time for just one while the sauce is simmering? What do you think?”
She raised her eyebrows and smiled, caressing the spoon handle, showing the man what she liked to do when not working and hoping he was smart enough to catch the hint. She tapped her nails lightly on the metal, slipped her pinky into its end loop, and thought about all the inappropriate things he had to offer that she wouldn’t mind sticking in her mouth and sucking on.
“We typically hold all questions until the very end, sir. You might have noticed that if you watched every week.” She knew she sounded rude but looked forward to gauging his response to see if she should waste any more time considering letting him touch her. If he got angry too easily, she’d move on . . . with a quickness.
“Haven’t missed an episode yet,” he replied, pressing his long fingers into his thighs and rising from his seat. He folded his hands in front of him and said, “But this isn’t a cooking question.”
She grinned, remembering she’d donned her favorite shade of red lipstick earlier that morning in the hopes something unexpectedly exciting would occur. This definitely qualifies, she thought, thrilled she’d planned ahead, just in case . . . her moist, full lips could easily be viewed, easily be appreciated by an admiring suitor beckoning her from across the vibrant, green lawn.
What she wouldn’t do to watch him jump over the cable wires resting at his feet and lunge at her like a lion seizing his dinner. Warmth spread throughout her at the idea, starting at her feet, then rising like a freshly poured glass of bubbly champagne, tingling along her calves, her thighs, her stomach . . . .
“And I promise I’ll be quick,” added the man.
What a disappointment that would be, she thought. She certainly wasn’t trying to give him the impression she wanted him to hurry, not now or later or in anycapacity. Unless his tongue tasted bad or he grabbed her nipples like he was trying to unscrew a pickle jar, or he smelled so unexpectedly bad that even forcing her strongest garlic recipe down his throat prior to undressing wouldn’t distract her from his unfortunate stench. Under any of those circumstances, by all means, please hurry away—run far, run fast, hop on rollerblades or a bike, if need be—get moving and get lost fast, don’t look back, do her the common courtesy. Sure, he needed to keep his DVR programmed to her show so she could maintain a ratings climb, but there was no need to show up at any tapings in future cities.
“What do you think, audience, should we award this rule breaker special treatment?”
The women nodded, fanning themselves with small wallets and packets of tissues. The men sat quietly.
Smart men. They obviously knew better than to mess with serious-minded females in the kitchen. Women who were hungry with lust, thirsty for adventure, and willing to ignore etiquette to satiate inner urges.
“He’s welcome in my kitchen to ask as many questions as he wants, anytime,” a dark haired woman shouted from across the grass.
“As long as he’s naked from the neck down,” the woman beside her added.
“By all means, then, sir, what is your name, and where are you from?” She added the last part in an attempt to extract a bit of personal information from him.
Callie picked up a stalk of celery, laid it down gently in front of her on the cutting board, gingerly sliced through it, and then added it to the sauce. She allowed the tip of her tongue to sneak out the corner of her mouth and slide across the top of her lips, pretending to search for crumbs or remnants of the sauce she’d sampled earlier. She maintained eye contact with her finely dressed potential conquest, in case her earlier metal spoon handle trick hadn’t coaxed him into wanting to know her more intimately.
“Basil,” he replied and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
No city or last name, but still intriguing. Her favorite fresh cooking ingredient and, apparently, the name of this sexy man—both of which made a delicious statement, one subtle upon arrival, but promising powerful, lengthy delivery.
“With a name like that, how could I deny you?” she answered, hoping her smirk could be viewed across the lawn.
He stepped out of his row and walked up the aisle. His legs made long strides as the tips and heels of his loafers dipped in and out of the grass.
Yummy, confident stride equals confident cock!
Security rushed at him off-camera, but she waved them away.
Her lips parted. She liked the way he refused to break his gaze away from hers. Deep breath, Cal, deep breath. Hot men happen every day.
Her producer glanced at his watch and held up his hands in a “T” formation.
Thank God. Time to shift her attention to the camera and her at-home audience. “Looks like our new friend is going to have to hold his question until we’re back from break. Keep stirring that sauce, and I’ll see you in a minute thirty.”
Natalie Baum Releases “Callie Mallory, Chicago Adventure”
New York-based author Natalie Baum will release the latest installment of her “Callie Mallory” series on Monday, December 19, 2011. The book will be available at Noble Romance under their Erotic Romance category. The series focuses on TV chef Callie Mallory’s erotic exploits as she travels across the country filming her cooking show. The series combines romantic erotica with travel and cooking for a tantalizing read.
Natalie Baum is online. Visit her website at www.nataliebaum.com. Follow @NatalieBaumSexy on Twitter and become a fan of Natalie Baum Stories on Facebook. Read Natalie’s blog http://nataliebaumsexy.blogspot.com/.
Contact Natalie at email@example.com.