Saturday evening. It’s exactly 5:55 p.m. and I am already a mess. I just got out of the shower, water still clinging to my skin. I threw on a simple navy T-shirt that hugs my chest and a pair of black shorts that are loose enough to be comfortable but short enough to show off my thighs. No sweatpants tonight. I told myself it was because it is warm in the house, but deep down I know the truth. I want Julien to see more of me. I want him to look.
My heart has been beating faster than it should since noon. All day I kept replaying Thursday night in my head, the way his finger tasted when I licked the glaze off it, the calm way his eyes stayed on mine. I have been half hard for hours just thinking about him coming back tonight. Six o’clock feels both too far away and way too close.
The doorbell rings right on time.
I wipe my palms on my shorts and walk to the front door. When I open it, Julien Duval is standing there looking even better than last time. He is six foot two of pure muscle wrapped in a plain white shirt that is stretched tight across his broad shoulders and thick chest. The fabric clings to every ridge of his pecs. Below that he wears tight black pants that hug his powerful thighs and mold perfectly to the round, muscular curve of his ass. He is carrying his large branded bag, the one with his name “Chef Duval” stitched on the side. His dark hair is styled with that effortless messiness, and his sharp jaw is covered in light stubble. The same faint scent of cedar and warm spices hits me immediately.
“Good evening, Connor,” he says with that smooth French accent. His dark eyes scan me quickly, taking in my navy T-shirt and shorts. A small smile tugs at his lips. “You look comfortable tonight.”
I shake his hand. His grip is strong and warm again, and the contact sends heat rushing straight to my cock. “Come on in, Julien” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
Julien steps inside and follows me to the kitchen. He moves with that same calm confidence, like he already owns the space. Once we reach the marble island he sets his bag down and starts unpacking.
“I always like using my own tools,” he explains as he pulls things out. “My personal apron whenever I want to wear one, my set of custom knives. Everything feels better when it’s is mine. It gives me better control.”
I stand a few feet away and watch him work. His back is to me now. The tight white shirt stretches across his wide shoulders and tapers down to his narrow waist. The black pants cling to his ass so tightly that I can see the strong muscle underneath with every small movement. His tattooed forearms flex as he arranges the knives on the counter. The ink shifts and moves with every ripple of muscle. I cannot stop staring. My eyes trace the line of his back, the way his shoulders move, the perfect roundness of his ass in those pants. My cock is already starting to thicken at the sight of Julien.
“What are you making tonight?” I ask, my voice a little rough.
Julien turns around to face me. His white shirt pulls across his chest as he moves. “Seared scallops, cauliflower purée, and fresh microgreens,” he answers with a smile. “Simple but elegant. High protein, clean flavors. I think you will enjoy it.”
“That sounds really good,” I say honestly. “I am looking forward to it.”
While he finishes laying out his ingredients, I excuse myself for a moment. I walk to my home office, grab my laptop, and come back to the kitchen. I pull up a stool at the bar counter and sit down so I am facing him directly. The height is perfect. I open the laptop and pretend I have some emails to answer, but really I just want an excuse to watch him without looking too obvious.
Julien keeps working for another minute, then suddenly turns toward me. Without saying a word he reaches up and starts unbuttoning his white shirt. One button at a time. Slowly. Deliberately. My breath catches in my throat.
The fabric parts inch by inch. First I see the top of his smooth, thick chest. Then more. Big slabs of heavy, defined pecs come into view, full and powerful. His nipples are dark pink, already slightly peaked from the cool air in the kitchen. Below them his abs are carved into deep ridges, eight perfect blocks of muscle that tighten and relax with every breath. His torso is completely clean and smooth, warm skin with just the faintest sheen starting to form. A light happy trail of dark hair disappears into the waistband of his tight black pants. The shirt slides off his shoulders completely, revealing the full glory of his upper body. His arms are thick and veined, the tattoos wrapping around the muscle like they were painted on.
Not that I am complaining, but this must be part of the sensual dining experience, I think to myself. My cock is now fully hard and pressing against the thin fabric of my boxer shorts.
Julien folds the shirt neatly and places it on the counter beside him. He stands there shirtless, wearing only the tight black pants and the black apron he ties low around his hips. The apron sits just below his navel, framing his abs beautifully.
“I don’t like wearing a shirt when I cook,” he says casually, as if it is the most normal thing in the world. “It keeps me free and flowing. More comfortable.”
I let out a short laugh, trying to sound relaxed. “I am definitely not complaining.”
Julien laughs too, a low warm sound that vibrates through the kitchen. He ties the apron strings behind his back, the movement making his pecs flex and his abs tighten. Then he turns toward the stove and begins prepping the first scallops.
His body moves with smooth, confident grace. Back muscles ripple under his smooth skin as he reaches for pans and ingredients. His wide shoulders shift powerfully. The tight black pants hug his muscular ass so perfectly that every step makes the fabric stretch across those firm cheeks. His tattooed forearms flex and release while he works, the ink dancing with every motion. The kitchen fills with the rich scent of butter and garlic as he starts searing the scallops.
I am openly staring now. My laptop is forgotten in front of me. I cannot look away from the way his body moves around my kitchen, shirtless and powerful, completely at ease. My cock throbs hard in my shorts as I watch Julien Duval cook for me.
He moves with fluid confidence, reaching up for a pan on the higher shelf. His thick pecs bounce slightly with the motion, the dark pink nipples catching the warm light from the recessed fixtures. When he leans forward to stir the cauliflower purée, his abs tighten into sharp ridges, each muscle clearly defined under smooth skin. His tattooed forearms flex powerfully as he works the whisk, the black ink shifting like living art with every turn of his wrist. The tight black pants stretch obscenely over his muscular ass every time he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The rich smell of seared scallops, bubbling butter, and fresh garlic fills the entire kitchen, making my mouth water for more than just the food.
I pretend to type on my laptop, fingers tapping randomly on the keys, but my eyes keep drifting up. Every few seconds I glance at him again. This feels nothing like the nights I spent with my ex-wife Lauren. The sex with her had been genuinely good for years. I was loyal, attentive, and I loved her. But even back then, deep down, I knew I was bi. I had buried it after those frat house nights with Ryan. Watching shirtless Julien Duval move around my kitchen now, his body on full display, feels like undeniable proof that I am still into men. My cock is rock hard, straining against the thin fabric of my shorts. I glance down to make sure the counter hides my bulge, then reach under and adjust myself. I cannot help it. I give my shaft one quick, desperate stroke through the shorts before pulling my hand back.
Julien turns his back to me for a moment while he works at the stovetop. My gaze drops immediately to the tight, muscular curve of his ass. The black pants cling to every inch, outlining the powerful glutes. A ridiculous thought pops into my head. I wish he would just take those pants off too so he feels even more free around my house. The idea makes me chuckle out loud before I can stop myself.
Julien turns around instantly, catching me in the act. A knowing smirk spreads across his handsome face. “Enjoying the view, Mr. Whitaker?” he asks, voice low and teasing.
Heat rushes to my face. I blush hard but manage to nod. “Yeah… can’t wait to taste… uh..the food.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, the double meaning hits me like a freight train. In my head I am not thinking about the scallops at all. Julien laughs, a deep, pleased sound that vibrates through the kitchen. He turns back to the stove without another word, but the smirk stays on his lips. Even though I was talking about tasting the food, I wanted to taste him so fucking bad.
A few minutes later he plates the dish with beautiful precision. Perfectly seared scallops rested on a silky bed of cauliflower purée, finished with bright microgreens. He carries the plate over to me, still completely shirtless, and sets it down in front of me.
“Bon appétit,” he says softly.
I take the first bite and my eyes widen. The scallop is crisp on the outside and buttery tender inside. The purée is incredibly smooth and creamy. “Fuck, that’s really good,” I say, unable to hide how impressed I am. “The cauliflower purée is insane. So creamy and flavorful.”
Julien leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed over his thick chest, watching me eat while he starts cleaning up. “Thank you. Sauces and purées are my specialty. You are going to enjoy the creamy texture of everything I make for you.”
His words hang in the air, carrying a weight that feels more intimate than they should. Right now all I can think about is the creamy texture of Julien Duval’s cum. The thought flashes through my mind so vividly that my cock twitches hard under the table.
I keep eating, trying to focus on the food, but my eyes keep drifting back to him. While he wipes down the counters, a small smear of the white cauliflower purée ends up on his lower abs, just above the waistband of his pants. The creamy streak glistens on his smooth skin. He does not bother wiping it away. I cannot stop staring at it, imagining leaning forward and licking it off slowly, running my tongue over those hard abs. His torso looks even better under the kitchen lights, broad pecs rising and falling with each breath, dark pink nipples still slightly peaked, abs flexing as he moves. The tight black pants sit dangerously low on his hips, the V lines pointing straight down.
I finish the last bite and set the fork down, genuinely blown away. This hunk of a Frenchman is not just incredible eye candy. He cooks like a damn professional.
Julien finishes packing his tools and containers, still shirtless. He takes his white shirt and slings it casually over one broad shoulder. He picks up his bag with the other hand and turns to me.
“Tomorrow we will do a proper blind tasting,” he says, voice calm and confident. “You will like it. Trust me.” Then he winks, slow and deliberate.
We walk together to the front door. The eye contact between us lingers, thick with tension. Julien steps outside still shirtless, his shirt draped over his shoulder, bag in hand. He gives me one last smile before heading down the walkway.
I close the door and immediately lean back against it, breathing hard. My hand slides straight into my shorts. I wrap my fingers around my aching cock and start stroking slowly, replaying every second of the night. The slow unbuttoning of his shirt. The way his thick pecs and dark pink nipples looked in the light. The sight of him cooking shirtless, ass tight in those black pants. That creamy smear on his abs. The wink. The promise of tomorrow’s blind tasting.
I am no longer pretending this is only about food.
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