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  Wrapped Around Your Finger

  Fallon Blake

  Plus-sized fetish model and aspiring chef Indigo Hartley has plenty of tattoos and a fiery attitude to match. When she’s offered a job as a sushi model for one of Miami’s trendiest restaurants, she jumps at the chance. Little does this country-mouse-turned-city-vixen know that what starts out as a modeling job will end up the answer to all of her kinkiest fantasies. Three days serving as a sub to this hot chef is too tempting an offer to refuse.

  Banner Faust has worked his ass off and sacrificed his love life to become a rock star in the culinary world. On what should be the biggest night of his career, he realizes something is missing from his life—the submissive woman he’s always craved. The curvy new model with the blue-streaked hair and innate submissive nature just might be the one he’s been waiting for. And when he gets her home—and in his bed—he soon realizes three days will never be enough.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Wrapped Around Your Finger

  ISBN 9781419931314

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Wrapped Around Your Finger Copyright © 2010 Fallon Blake

  Edited by Grace Bradley

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Electronic book publication November 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Wrapped Around Your Finger

  Fallon Blake

  Dedication

  For my husband who loves me, flaws and all.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Rose of CompassRose Creations, who shared her craft and knowledge of exotic woods with me. I’d also like to thank Ms. Madeline, who graciously answered all my questions about nyotaimori. And last but never least, a huge thank you to Lissa who suffered through this one with me, every step of the way. Love you!

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Barbie: Mattel, Inc.

  California Culinary Academy: California Culinary Academy, Inc.

  Le Cordon Bleu: Renaud Cointreau & CIE

  Nair: Carter Wallace, Inc.

  Volkswagen: Volkswagen Aktiengesellschaft

  Chapter One

  Anxiety nagged the edges of Indie’s already frayed nerves as she waited in the dressing area with the other models. The haughty, judgmental glares from the younger, skinnier Barbie types had her desperately itching to offer a sarcastic smile and a middle finger. So what if she wasn’t even close to a size two? She did okay working as a model for the alternative fetish agency Exquisite Flesh. It wouldn’t make her rich, but it paid the bills and her tuition at culinary school.

  Usually she did pinup shoots and ads for alternative clothing. Very rarely did she take assignments that required nudity. She wasn’t actually naked for this, but damn close to it. Who was she to pass up the opportunity to be a sushi model at a trendy restaurant like Crave?

  “Indigo Hartley!”

  Indie walked through the curtain and into the dining room with pride. Well, about as much pride as one can muster while wearing a flesh-colored thong and paper booties.

  The manager, Elaine, stood waiting in her drab suit and looked rather alarmed. “Oh no, this is the new model? Lance, I thought I told you that she had to fit the type!” She whirled to face the man who prepared the display table before them.

  “Exquisite Flesh was the only agency that had a girl available on such short notice. I’m an assistant, I don’t do miracles,” Lance said with a smirk.

  “Chef is not going to be happy. At all. She’s covered in tattoos and,” she fingered a lock of Indie’s hair, “are those blue streaks in her hair?”

  Torn between mortification and annoyance, all Indie could do was stand there. The last thing she wanted to do was piss off Chef Faust. He was the culinary world’s version of a rock star. He was known for being demanding, flashy and prone to excess, but his talent with food was undeniable. The chance to catch a glimpse of him in action was the main thing that motivated her to accept the job.

  Her agent hadn’t mentioned they’d wanted to book a specific type. Just fucking great.

  “I’m sorry that I’m not what you were expecting. I’ll just gather my things and be on my way,” Indie offered with a polite nod, but was met with the manager’s sigh of irritation.

  “No, no, no. It’s too late to find a proper replacement. You’ve already been prepped. We’ll just have to make it work.”

  Prepped meant she’d been shaved baby smooth and washed thoroughly with an organic unscented soap. It had been an odd experience, having unknown people scrub and shave her so completely. Actually she’d found the whole thing rather arousing. Maybe she should be embarrassed about that, but right now she was too nervous to put much thought into it.

  The manager turned back to Lance. “Take her to pastry and have them airbrush over her tattoos. When they are finished let Chef know he will not be able to put the food directly on her skin. Then get her into place on the table in the corner, the one that’s out of the way.”

  “You got it,” Lance responded as he held out a robe for Indie.

  She thankfully wrapped herself in the silk and followed him into the kitchen. She stopped and stared for a second. She couldn’t help it. It was as if she’d just died and gone to culinary heaven. There was so much space. The polished stainless steel and top-of-the-line equipment almost had her drooling. Everything you ever needed to be a kick-ass chef was in this kitchen. She could just imagine the high-end, exotic ingredients it would be stocked with. This wasn’t a place for cooking. No, nothing as ordinary and mundane as that. This was a place to create art.

  “Indigo?” Lance’s voice snapped her out of her trance.

  “Sorry, it’s just…this kitchen,” she murmured.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Shame really, but we have to cover those gorgeous tattoos of yours,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “If it were up to me I would—”

  “What is she doing in here?” Chef Faust made a beeline for them, toweling off his hands as he approached.

  It’s him. Indie’s heart did a little dance. Okay, so she could admit she was a little star struck.

  Meticulously he scrutinized her as he stood waiting for an answer. He had the kind of intense features that made him appear almost angry—perfectly straight nose, hard, square jaw, brooding and stormy blue eyes. The man was chest-achingly beautiful. She knew from the articles she’d read about him that he was thirty-four, just six years older than her. To have ach
ieved all of this so quickly, he had to have hunger and drive, two qualities no top chef could succeed without. She bet arrogance and superiority belonged on that list too.

  “Chef, this is the replacement model. I was just taking her to pastry to have them airbrush over her tattoos,” Lance replied with an audible level of anxiety and eyes so huge it seemed as though he was braced for nuclear fallout.

  “May I see?” Chef Faust addressed Indie.

  Showing her personal bits to the executive chef of one of the most acclaimed restaurants in the area was not high on her list of fun things to do. This is what you signed up for so suck it up. She was not ashamed of her body and Chef Faust could go sous-vide himself if he didn’t like what he saw.

  She nodded and let the robe slip off her shoulders to pool at her elbows. The way he drank her in made it seem as if everyone else in the room had vanished. Her already hardened nipples stood out like beacons. She felt the blush creep into her cheeks as she imagined him pinching, tugging, sucking on them. Where had that come from? Her unexpected arousal unbalanced her. She hadn’t reacted this way to a man in a very long time. Disconcerted by the need and lust he’d so effortlessly invoked in her, she averted her gaze before tentatively settling it on his once more. He ran a hand through his shaggy, walnut-brown hair as he studied her. “No. No airbrushing. She’s absolutely perfect,” he exclaimed, circling her.

  Lance let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

  Had Chef Faust just said she was perfect? Indie with the extra padding around the hips, a bit of roundness to her belly and lily-white skin? She followed him with her gaze, watching as he continued to peruse her body. It should have felt cold and dispassionate. He was contemplating whether or not he wanted to use her as a display for raw fish after all. But the way he moved made her feel as if he were a predator and she his prey. It was somehow sensual, and she was incredibly embarrassed that she was turned on by it. Attempting to regain her composure, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, praying he hadn’t noticed the way he affected her.

  “Place her on the center table next to my station. She’ll be the perfect centerpiece for tonight,” he spoke to Lance as he pulled her robe up around her shoulders. “Lance will help you onto the table. Rest your head on the pillow and lie completely still, arms at your sides. You should be reasonably comfortable. I assume your agent went over what this entails, am I correct?”

  “Yes sir.” Maybe it was her culinary training or the fact that his presence commanded it, but the formal address rolled so easily from her tongue.

  She couldn’t believe she would be the centerpiece tonight. Nervous excitement bubbled in her stomach. Her agent had gone over what would be expected of her. She would essentially be a human sushi platter. This assignment was on the tame side compared to some of the jobs the models at Exquisite Flesh were booked for. Unfortunately that didn’t make her any less nervous about it. Posing for a photographer was altogether different than displaying your nearly nude body for a room full of diners, but that was only the half of it. How was she supposed to work so closely with Banner Faust when she couldn’t stop fantasizing about the body hiding underneath that starched, white chef’s coat?

  “Good. But just in case, allow me to go over a few points with you. Tonight is the last night of Craving for Death, the event featuring deadly delicacies. I’ll actually be preparing fugu for your display. I can assure you that I am a licensed fugu chef and you’ll be in good hands. The blowfish will not be placed directly on your skin being that this sashimi isn’t benefited by the warmth of the body. You are to lie still and remain silent unless you are spoken to. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.” Craving for Death had been all the culinary community could talk about for weeks. Chef Faust had received special permission from the FDA and the U.S. Department of Agriculture to have live Tiger Blowfish flown in from Japan. A bit over the top, and beyond expensive, but a huge ordeal considering less than twenty restaurants in the country had been approved to serve the toxic fish. And they were only allowed to import blowfish that had already been cleaned and had the toxin removed. Only a chef with a lot of clout and a lot of ambition could pull off something like this.

  “Excellent,” he affirmed. “The main dining room will open in fifteen minutes. Go ahead and follow Lance out to your table. Thank you, Miss…?”

  “Indigo Hartley, but everyone calls me Indie.”

  “Indigo,” he said thoughtfully. “It suits you and those stunning violet eyes of yours. I’m Banner Faust, executive chef and owner of Crave.”

  Oh God, had she just blushed again? “Thank you,” she managed softly as she watched him walk away.

  * * * * *

  Indie nervously fidgeted with the lapels of her robe as she stood by her table. Chef Faust had not been kidding. She would be the centerpiece. The table meant for her was placed at the head of the dining room next to a small station used for preparing fresh sushi. She’d be lying on a thin silk pad that ran the length of the pale wood. There was a small cylinder-shaped pillow at one end for her head. The other three models had been placed on the outskirts of the room amid the black high-top tables and chairs. She watched as they were decorated with greenery and orchids; seashells strategically placed over their nipples.

  The dining room itself was a juxtaposition of simplicity and opulence. Dozens of clear glass spheres that contained soft lights seemed to float from the ceiling. The back wall was a garden of live bamboo. The slate stone floor actually contained a narrow, shallow stream that ran the length of the outside glass wall that overlooked the terrace bar. And being sixteen floors up, the twinkling lights of downtown Miami created the perfect backdrop. The entire effect was breathtaking. She couldn’t imagine the kind of funds it had taken to make this a reality.

  Lance came out of the kitchen at warp speed, carrying a stepstool. “We’re about to open. You ready gorgeous?” He was very attractive in a manicured, high-maintenance sort of way. She happened to like her men a little rough around the edges with a take-charge personality. Tragically most men seemed to think asshole was included somewhere in that description.

  “Let’s do this,” she replied. She steeled herself as she shed her robe and got into place on the table. Surprised by how comfortable it was, she settled herself in and took a deep breath as she heard the patrons start to wander in from the terrace bar. God, what she wouldn’t give for a shot of something right now to dull her prickly nerves.

  “Just imagine yourself some place relaxing, but whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. We had a girl do that last season and can you believe the bitch was actually snoring?” Lance snorted, making Indie laugh.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll have that problem.” As if she could sleep while people plucked bits of sashimi off her body with chopsticks.

  “Hey, at least you’ll have Chef Faust’s damn fine self for eye candy. Sadly, he’s straight.” Lance sighed dramatically. “But don’t get your hopes up. He doesn’t date the models either.”

  “Oh I’m not—”

  “Save it, sweetie. I saw the way you looked at him. You’d have eaten that man up with a fork and knife if someone had served him to you on a platter,” Lance said with a smirk. “I’ll be back to help you down when your shift is over.”

  She watched him walk away and suddenly felt very alone even though the room was full of people. The sound of a cart being wheeled toward her had her wanting to sit up to see who it was, but she stayed still. Chef Faust came into her field of vision, a small porcelain cup in his hand.

  “I don’t usually allow the models to drink alcohol while they’re posing, but since this is your first time, I thought I’d make an exception. It’s sake,” he offered.

  She tried to sit up, but he shook his head.

  “Here, let me,” he murmured as he placed his other hand behind her head. His touch was gentle, almost caring, or was she reading into it? He brought the cup to her mouth and she leaned forward to drink. The d
ry, earthy flavors of the chilled sake washed over her tongue, letting her know that it was aged and expensive, definitely not the cheap stuff. She welcomed the bite and instant warmth that flared in her stomach from the alcohol. He was so close. When she looked up into those gorgeous blue eyes, she wondered what he’d taste like. God, she needed to get her mind off how insanely sexy he was and on the job she’d been hired to do.

  “Thank you.” For not noticing that I’m drooling over you.

  “I should be thanking you for taking the job on short notice. You’re the perfect accompaniment to this evening’s delicacy.”

  Her face filled with heat. What on earth was it about this man that made her blush? She never blushed. She was a fetish model, damn it. It annoyed her even more to know that every blush would show vividly on her fair skin. Since she was nearly naked, there would be no hiding it.

  Banner couldn’t help but smile at the adorable flush that spread across her skin or the fact she seemed pretty irritated by it. She was beautiful, every inch of her delectable porcelain skin. And so unlike the brown-eyed, brown-haired models he hired during these seasonal events. He’d chosen the specific type to provide a blank canvas to decorate with sushi and sashimi. They were nothing more than pretty plates. Sounded horribly objectifying, but it was the truth.

  Indigo Hartley was not a blank canvas. The moment he’d seen her, she became the quintessential complement to the blowfish he would be serving. This delicious little siren was every bit as exotic as the food she would display. She had coal black hair accented with dark blue streaks. They weren’t glaring, but just enough to pick up the intense and unusual violet of her eyes. Detailed tattoos in both black and gray and brilliant color decorated her arms. She was sexy in a way that made him a little crazy, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He needed to focus on the arrangement he would create or his apron wouldn’t just be keeping his pants clean. It would also be hiding a hard-on.