I’m still lost when the door opens, revealing an East Asian woman. “Hello, welcome!” she greets us with a professional smile, moving to the side. “You can hang your coats here, leave your shoes there, and then you can follow me.”
We enter what looks like her home, and I send Lex a bewildered glance. “Lex, what is this?” I whisper.
“You’re about to see, you impatient woman.”
He helps me remove my coat and hangs it next to his. Once we’re barefoot, he takes my hand like I’m a lost child and guides me further into the apartment, following her until we arrive at a massive, spotless kitchen.
The woman goes behind the island in the center of it and turns to us, her hands resting on the counter. “I am Miyata Akira, a certified chef of Korean and Japanese cuisine. Both are part of my heritage since my mother is from Busan, and my father is from Kyoto. During this three-hour cooking class, I will teach you how to prepare a few traditional Korean recipes. At Mr. Coleman’s request, I compiled a list from which you’ll choose the dishes you want to cook, Miss Walker. We should have time for three appetizers, two main dishes, their sides, and one dessert.”
I stay there, frozen, my jaw hanging as I stare at her with stupefaction. This is amazing, but I’m so stunned by how absolutely perfect it is that I don’t even know what to say.
“Is it okay?” Lex wonders at my side, slightly worried.
I turn and look up at him, overwhelmed. I can’t cry—I’m wearing way too much makeup. “Okay? Lex… This is—Oh, my God. It’s so perfect,” I say, overjoyed.
He relaxes instantly, and his expression turns sweet. “Good. I thought our Seoul trip could use a little extension. But I was worried you’d find it weird.”
“Weird? Baby, no! It’s amazing.” I want to kiss every inch of his gorgeous face but hold back, remembering we aren’t alone.
Now that I have approved, Ms. Akira fetches two aprons and hands them to us. She gives us a few safety rules, explains how the evening willunfold, and shares with me a handwritten list. With her help, I chose a few of the twenty listed dishes, and we’re ready to start.
Once our hands are clean, she gives us each three knives, a cutting board, and gets us started on the bulgogi marinade. “Oh, uh, no chili, please,” I say when she tells us to add some red pepper paste.
“None at all?”
I shrug, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, I’m not… I’m not a big fan.” God, I need to wash my mouth with soap after that lie.
“Okay, no problem,” she agrees with a nod. When we return to combining all the ingredients together, Lex tilts toward me and says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m not letting anyone judge my boyfriend’s weak palate,” I counter with a grin.
After half an hour of hard work, she offers us a glass of wine—either traditional rice wine or red from the Napa Valley. I pick the Korean one while Lex plays it safe. Ms. Akira is an amazing teacher. Not only are her instructions easy to follow, but she’s also very good at making us feel comfortable.
As enthralling as she is, though, I’m constantly distracted by the disoriented man next to me. It’s clear that Lex picked this date solely for me because cooking is definitely not his thing. So, whenever she isn’t looking, I switch my board with his so he has my efficiently chopped ingredients while I work on what he has left. His visible relief every time is worth the playful sneakiness.
I also spend the whole lesson “accidentally” touching him. Any excuse to plaster myself against him is good, as well as grazing his arm or hands—and even his ass, once. At some point, while Ms. Akira is busy in the sink, I grab his hand and bring his sauce-covered finger to my mouth to suck it all off. That one earns me a dark, hungry glare, but I don’t care, and grin when he adjusts the front of his slacks.
The three hours go by in a blink, and before we know it, we’re all done. She guides us to a beautifully decorated dining room where a table for two has already been set. We sit down facing each other, and she fills our new glasses with wine before disappearing back to the kitchen, closing the Japanese screens behind her.
Lex and I stay silent for a moment, staring at each other with unmasked appreciation. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks before bringing his glass to his tempting mouth.
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“It was, but I want you to say it.”
I laugh behind my wine, take a sip, and answer, “I enjoyed myself a lot, Alexander.”
Because he feels so far away, I lift my legs under the table to rest my feet on his lap. He gives me a questioning glance, his eyebrow arched up, but still sends a hand under the table to my shin. “I’m glad you feel that way,” he says as his thumb grazes the side of my calf.
“And you? Are you having a good time?” As I ask, I slide one of my feet to graze the bulge at his crotch. Fire ignites behind his irises. I’m a fucking tease, and I wear that title with honor.
“Any time spent with you is a good time, Andrea.”
He bends closer so his hand can slither up my leg, never breaking eye contact. He can’t go much further than my knee, but it’s enough to send shivers all the way to my core. When a couple of knocks interrupt his enterprise, Lex straightens up and removes his hand. Since Ms. Akira can’t see my feet on his lap, I keep them there when the screens part and she walks in. She’s carrying a tray where she has beautifully arranged the appetizers we’ve prepared. Although we made kimchi together, she switched it for some that is already fermented—but she insists it’s the same recipe.
Once she’s done setting it between us on the table, I press my foot a little harder on Lex’s dick, which, if I’m not mistaken, is getting harder. He jumps slightly, gives me a warning glare, and I hide my smile with a sip of wine.
As soon as we’re alone again, I grab my chopsticks, ready to dig in. When Lex picks up his, I say, “We have forks as well, look.”
