“Unfortunately, we didn’t take the ajkula’s cock. So, cock a van is off the menu.” Jutuk said the words with utmost seriousness, although his golden eyes danced with mirth.
I laughed, feeling buoyed.
“I could make curry, perhaps.” I considered the large purple alien carrot. “But without turmeric and tamarind paste, the sauce would be shit.”
Jutuk nodded in supportive agreement, although I bet he’d never tasted curry in his life. I’d have to cook some for him when we got back to the space station.
I dropped the carrot into the bin and picked up the alien onion and a bright pink pepper. “I’d give my left tit for some soy sauce. My teriyaki salmon recipe would work great on this fish.”
Jutuk snorted, shaking his head. “I do not wish you to cook anything that would harm your lovely body.”
Jutuk’s intense, golden gaze fixated on my breasts. I felt the weight of his eyes as they traced over my skin, sending a heated flush through my body. My nipples responded to his attention, hardening with anticipation. His stare was like a physical touch, igniting a fire that threatened to consume all rational thought.
I cleared my throat, and the golden eyes jumped to my face. His expression was so sheepish that I nearly laughed.
Reluctantly, I turned back to the fish, my mind scrolling through the hundreds of recipes stored in my brain. Nothing seemed right.
“Well,” I sighed, picking up a small knife. “The only way to know how to cook the fish is to taste it.”
“You tasted the behia and struzzi raw, too,” Jutuk murmured, watching as I cut a small translucent piece of meat from the filet.
“It’s the only way to find the true flavor.” I hesitated a moment, knowing that shark meat possessed a nasty ammonia flavor, then laid the sliver of flesh on my tongue. Surprisingly, the meat held a delicate, mild taste with a slight sweetness similar to crab or whitefish.
I turned to Jutuk, smiling.
“I take it you know what you are going to cook?” He grinned at me.
“Yep. And I’m not cooking at all.”
“Not cooking?” Jutuk frowned as I began piling vegetables on the work counter. “How will you win if you don’t cook?”
“How, indeed?” I teased, lifting one of the grapefruit/lime things to my nose. It had a distinctly more grapefruit scent but should complement the fish nicely. I lifted the knife to slice it in half for a taste when the daunting task of all the chopping that needed to be done for the dish settled into my brain.
“Hey Jutuk, how good are you with a knife?” The words shocked me even as they left my mouth.
“Good enough,” he smirked, eyeing me curiously.
In my restaurants, only the most experienced and talented chefs gained entry to the kitchen. I required at least ten years of culinary expertise before even considering someone fora spot. I watched their every move. Every slice had to be precise, every dice clean and uniform, every whisk fluid and controlled, and every stir purposeful. Only when I felt satisfied that their skill matched the high standard of quality I required did one pass muster.
When Jutuk rose from the stool, I handed him a blade, pointed to the vegetables, and went to work mixing my marinade.
I trusted him.
I trusted him in a way I’d never trusted anyone other than my grandmother.
I only glanced over to check on him once.
Jutuk was good. Honestly, his dicing technique was the best I’d ever seen. The small cubes of vegetables looked perfectly uniform.
It was strange to admit, but I had fun working alongside Jutuk. We moved synchronized and seamless, a dance of chopping, stirring, and seasoning like a well-choreographed tango.
Cooking together is intimate, like a duet between lovers who understand each other’s rhythms perfectly. Just like with sex, you were either compatible or not. It was easy to see we worked well together in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder how the gorgeous seven-foot alien at my side would be in bed.
Especially after that kiss.
My toes still tingled.
Hell, everything still tingled.
