He�s clearly not into me. I wait quietly on the counter and watch his skillful, knowing hands work. Desire pools way down in my cavity and in spite of myself I start to daydream while he preps a radish.

He cocks an eyebrow. �Penny for your thoughts, Miss Hen?� He appears focused on his task, but there�s a sly glint in his eye.

I flush. Oh, I was just imagining your hands traveling up my thighs and your teeth nibbling my breast.

�You seem to have a lot of little bowls,� I say as calmly as possible.

He has arranged a dozen tiny ramekins in an orderly row on the counter. He fills each of them with a spice, an herb, or a chopped ingredient carefully portioned from a measuring spoon.

�You�re a very sharp-eyed chicken,� he says, and that look returns. �I exercise perfect control over everything that happens in this kitchen. I require exactitude from my ingredients.�

What a control freak. And arrogant to boot. But the apron he�s wearing hangs off his hips in a way that turns my bones to jelly.

�So, what are you whipping up there?� I ask hopefully.

�Well, what I�m �whipping up,� as you put it, is a salade compos�,� he says without a trace of humor in his smile. �I create experiences. It�s my belief that a meal can be a transcendent experience, like a Bach concerto. It�s all about finesse. I know what makes ingredients tick. I find the best ones, and then take them beyond themselves. The bottom line is that it always comes down to ingredients that know what I want.� He stares at me intently.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? He�s constantly shifting. One minute he�s all foxy looks and hungry smiles, the next he�s curt and sharp. His fridge is packed with exotic foods, but he seems to have eyes only for the radish. Could it be?

�Are you a vegetarian?� I blurt before I can stop myself.

He draws a sharp breath. I am mortified beyond words. Double crap. Why can�t I keep my head on for once? My agonized subconscious is begging me on bended knee to stop gabbling.

�No, Chicken, I�m not.� He cocks his head to one side and stares coolly at me. He is not amused. I cringe. I feel the blood drain from my entire body.

�I�m sorry,� I stammer, �it just popped out.�

A timer goes off, saving my skin.

�You know, I could find a use for you in this menu,� he says suddenly. �The preparations would be minimal enough for a novice, with relatively uncomplicated flavor profiles.�

Is he considering me for an entr�e?

�Oh, thank you, but I don�t think I�m up to scratch.�

�Why not?�

�Isn�t it obvious?� I�m underweight, graceless, and wrapped in cheap plastic.

�Not to me. I suspect you have great potential. You seem so versatile.� His gaze is intense, and I feel a strange pull low down in my body.

�I appreciate the offer,� I stammer. �I really do. But I don�t believe I�m prepared for the position.�

He sets his mouth in a hard line for a moment, then picks me up in his hand. He adjusts my wrapper and helps me back into the Sub-Zero.

�Very well, Miss Hen. Until we meet again.�

I feel a strange charge come through his fingertips before he sets me down. Must be static electricity. I believe I�ll never live down the �vegetarian� question. But I have a thrilling, dark intuition that those hands aren�t done with me.

The brandy is definitely not a good idea. But it�s time to celebrate�here�s to flying the coop, to a new life in the big world! I want to shake my tail.

Before I know it, there he is, my Mr. Blades. Somehow he always shows up when I�m feeling vulnerable and raw.

He takes me from the fridge and lays me gently on my back on a platter. His fingers are so strong and commanding, and the alcohol is making me cocky.

�Does this mean you�re about to make dinner with me?� I blurt.

His expression is hooded. �No, Chicken. First of all, I don�t make dinner, I cook� hard,� he says. �Second, we need to look at some recipes together. Third, you�ve had too much brandy and you need a rinse.�

Recipes? Me, in a recipe? I hear my subconscious squawking a warning from somewhere far across a brandied mist.

Blades holds me under the faucet. The touch of his hands and the flowing water make my tail convulse deliciously. The tension grows unbearable. I feel precarious, as if I were about to fall for him again. A cluck of longing emerges from deep inside me.

Suddenly we can�t help ourselves, and his long-fingered hands are all over me. �I want to cook you,� he whispers. �Whole.� Oh my. I�m heating from the inside out.

He reaches over me to open a colossal cabinet full of spice jars. �Tell me, how do you want it? You choose.�

�Want it?� I say, gaping. I�m a roaster. What should I want besides a little salt and pepper?

�Yes�you know, spices, method. What recipe?�

Now I finally get it. I feel like such an idiot. He wants to flavor me.

I try to hide my disappointment. �I�ve never been seasoned,� I mumble despondently. �Or even, um, prepped.�

His mouth presses into a hard line and I can feel his shock and exasperation.

�Never?� he whispers.

�Not like this,� I confess.

�No one�s ever even crisped you?�

�No� and I�m not sure I�m ready for the spicy stuff.� The sprawling spice cabinet stands wide open like a kinky taunt. I�m practically pink with embarrassment.

My unconscious squawks with indignation. Why should I be ashamed? I may be a tipsy chicken, but I�m a free-range organic tipsy chicken with an unexpired sell-by date. I shouldn�t need spicy additives.

For the first time he appears to be at a total loss. He drums his fingers on the cutting board. Finally he seems to reach a decision.

�Into the bowl,� he commands, ripping a sheet from a packet of foil. �I don�t do vanilla. I�ve never done vanilla. But tonight we�re doing vanilla.�

�Vanilla�s all right once or twice, but we can�t keep that up,� he says.

My subconscious hides her eyes. He�s way out of my league. A man like him could never get excited about chicken. How could I think I might ever be what he craves? What does a man like him crave?

He fixes me suddenly with a predatory stare. �We�re going to remedy this situation right now.�

�What situation?� I ask, alarmed.

�Your situation. You�re utterly unseasoned. I�m contemplating haute cuisine with you, when you�ve never been paired with anything, it seems.� He cocks his head to the side.

Paired? My inner goddess pulls her head from under her wing.

�I�m going to make dinner with you right now. We�ll begin with something sweet, soft, and juicy.�

Holy shit.

�I thought you didn�t make dinner,� I say, my heart pounding. �I thought you just cooked, um, hard.�

I hear his stomach growl deeply, the effects of which travel all the way to my tail at the base of my cavity�down there.

�Don�t think I�m getting all hearts and flowers. This is a step in a process. A process that I think will make a superb finish. I hope you�ll think so, too.�

I cluck low with anticipation.

His stomach growls again. �Chicken, will you please stop clucking? It�s very� distracting.�

He lays me face down and starts to drizzle my back and thighs with oil.

�Are you sure you want to do this?� he says gently.

�Yes,� I beg. �Oh, yes.�

�I�m going to cook you now, Miss Hen,� he mutters as he opens the door of the oven. He slides me into the oven.

Beneath me is a bed of wet, dark, pitted cherries. The dry heat takes me into its sudden embrace, and my juices flow freely over the torn fruit.

I never thought it would feel like this. I never imagined it could be this good.

B�gaaaawk!

Two blue eyes twinkle in the light of the open Sub-Zero.

It�s not Blades, it�s some other guy with an easygoing smile and a box of frozen Tater Tots.

�What do you mean? You have a ton of grub in here,� he calls behind him. �And I�m starving!�

�It�s not grub,� I hear Blades scold. �They�re my Ingredients. And you can�t have them. They�re mine, for my work.�

The sound of his voice makes me long to see those strong hands, to feel them on my breast. How does he do that?

�Whatevs, bro. I�m not into your fancy stuff anyway. Hey, what about the chicken? We could just throw it under the boiler. Looks tasty.�

�No,� Blades says, too quickly. �You can take the Christmas ham. Don�t touch the chicken.�

Before Blades even finishes the sentence, his brother fixes his famished gaze on the rosy ham. He grins and slices off a tender morsel, which seems to please the ham very much. Then he quickly slices off another chunk, plunging it into a jar of mustard before devouring it. The ham glows excitedly, in a way I�ve rarely seen. I know what that glow means.

Oh, Ham. She�s only just met him.

Meanwhile, Blades reaches into the fridge and gently helps me out. I thrill to the unexpected touch of his hands.

�You have far too much potential to be tossed under a broiler, Miss Hen.�

Holy crap. Mr. Blades thinks I have potential.

�Extra-virgin,� he whispers, making it sound like forbidden nectar. �I�m going to rub you with extra-virgin olive oil, the best I have.�

Once again he turns my drumsticks to molten confit with just his voice. It�s a mind-blowing skill. He lays me flat on the cutting board and drizzles me slowly with the thick, golden liquid. Suddenly he stills his hands as a loud ping comes from the other side of the kitchen.

It�s his brother working the microwave.

�What�s in there?�

�That�s my side dish for the ham, bro.�

�What is it?�

Blades�s brother grins mischievously.

�Taters, baby.�

�What kind of stove is this?� I ask.

�It�s a Wolf LP dual-fuel with six dual brass burners and an infrared griddle,� he says offhandedly.

Wow. Boys and their toys. He flicks a knob and an outsize burner ignites with a roar of flame. A heady aroma wafts from a gleaming skillet he�s rested carefully on top of it. Is that bacon?

I�ve been placed precariously on the countertop while Blades does his mise en place. Once again I feel myself teetering on the edge. The edge of desire, the edge of despair�the edge of the counter. Crap.

It all happens in a flash. One minute I�m falling, the next I�m in his arms and he�s clasping me tightly to his chest. He smells of bacon and imported onions. It�s intoxicating.

He stares down at me with a hungry look. I�m so close I can feel the rumbling deep in his taut belly. Slowly he peels me from my wrapper. The plastic comes away, exposing my naked flesh.

Heat me, heat me, I silently implore, but I can�t do more than cluck softly.

�What is it about falling poultry?� he mutters. He carries me in his arms to the sink. �I want to rinse you,� he says. �Now.� A strong, graceful hand cradles me under the cascading tap water while the other caresses me smoothly over the sink. His manicured fingers move in agonizingly slow arcs across my breast and the crease of my thigh. Holy cow. What is he doing to me? There�s a burning smell, and in my delirium I wonder if I�m already cooked.

A timer goes off and smoke is rising from the Wolf.

�Ignore it,� he breathes as he pats my legs dry. �I have a much better use for bacon.�

He sits down at the table, and jeez, does he look hot. He pulls off his white apron and runs a hand through that amazing just-cooked hair. I think I could faint before he even takes a bite.

I�m in warm pieces all over the plate. My own juices mingle with the sticky sweet jam he�s spread all over me. My skin feels melting and soft. He ignores the fine silver flatware and picks up a thigh with both hands. Wow. He slowly closes his mouth around my thigh, causing clear, hot juice to drip over his delectable lower lip.

�You�re so sweet, so succulent, so good,� he says in a low voice.

My inner goddess writhes in her velvet coop, licking her own wings and breast as if insatiable. She�s making a real meal of herself.

�Yes, oh, yes,� I breathe. I want him to finish me, every last bite. I�m his and only his. Engulf me, devour me, consume me.

He stills and lays my thigh back down on the plate. He looks troubled.

�Too good,� he sighs. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives a small shake of his head as if in answer to an invisible waiter.

�Chicken, I�m not the right man for you. You�re perfect as you are. My singular tastes would only lead you astray. You should stay well clear of me.�

What? Where is this coming from?

�You deserve hearts and flowers, and I can�t give you that. I�m sorry. I�m going to set the fork down and let you go now.� He gently pushes the plate away.

I�m devastated and heartbroken. He doesn�t crave me. He�s really not hungry for me. Somehow I have royally fouled up dinner.

My inner goddess doesn�t seem to notice at first, overcome as she is by her own succulence. Then she looks up from her nibbling to search the emptiness for something to go with it. But there�s nothing.

She calls sadly, Taters, baby?

The ham is giddy with curiosity when I return to the fridge, but her smile vanishes when she sees that I�m in pieces.

�Oh, no�what�s that bastard done to you?�

Crap, not now. Not another grilling from the baked ham.

�Nothing� everything�s fine,� I chirp, but she can always see right through me.

�You�ve really fallen hard for this guy, haven�t you?�

Man, if she only knew. The fact is I see less and less of the ham, as Blade�s brother keeps slicing off naughty little bits each night. There�s even a bite mark near her rump. She can�t repress a goofy, glazed smile.

�If he�s an asshole who�s just going to burn you, then dump him. But I can tell he likes you by the way he stares at you.�

�He has a funny way of showing it.�

�Oh, he�s into you. But he�d better watch himself,� she threatens.

�Please, I�m fine,� I lie.

�You need rest,� she says warmly. �Put this on. I was going to use it myself, but you need it worse than I do.� There�s a bowl of marinade next to her.

The ham is an angel. I crawl into the bowl and let myself sink into the liquid. It�s bracing and aromatic. It doesn�t make me forget my troubles, but somehow it�s perfect. I�ve been seduced by a shifty mystery man, who then dumps me for no obvious reason.

I brood in the luscious marinade. Some jerks are nicer than others.

He�s back. Yesterday he sent me some parsley and a bouquet garni. I can�t keep up with his mood shifts, but I�m a sucker for aromatics.

Today he�s going to extra lengths to soften me up. He�s got me in a hot soak with more aromatics, plus something mysteriously piquant. It was impossible to stay mad at him when he brought me the beer.

�I just couldn�t stop thinking about you,� he says. �There�s something about you, Miss Hen. I don�t know what it is. But I find I must have you.�

I am dumbstruck by his hungry expression. Wow� to be desired by this great, golden god of a cook.

�Now, if we�re going to do this, we need to talk about recipes,� he says sharply. Uh-oh, here it comes. I steel myself for bad news, and my subconscious does a duck-and-cover.

�First, as my Ingredient, you will submit entirely to my control. I will cook you any time, any way I want�as the mood strikes me.�

Jeez. Moods like his could keep a girl hopping.

�What does that mean, your �Ingredient�?� I ask.

�It means that for the foreseeable future I will cook you, and only you.�

He wants to cook me. Blades wants to cook me! And I realize, in a flash of insight, that�s exactly what I want. Maybe it�s just the beer talking or the way the chiles are making my skin tingle, but right now what I want most in all the world is to satisfy this man�s chicken cravings.

�And in return, you will surrender your body to my gastronomic virtuosity. You will be my obedient Ingredient�warm or cold, dressed or undressed, whole or in parts.� He pauses to stir my bath. �Or highly spiced.�

I�m still on the fence about this. �Why would I want to do such a thing?�

�To please my palate,� he breathes, savoring the words.

His voice is hypnotic and the bath has had its effect. I�m soft and pliant, and suddenly I feel prepared for anything he can dish out.

�And lastly, Miss Hen,� he adds firmly, �when we�re cooking, you will address me as Chef.�

�I will consider your proposal�� I cluck demurely. �Chef.�

�Trust me?� he whispers.

�Yes�� That is not entirely true, and my pulse starts to race.

�Good girl. Do you have any idea what I�m about to do to you?� he asks, caressing my raised breast with a coil of 16-ply twine. The touch of the natural filament is shockingly sensual. The deepest, darkest parts of me clench in the most delicious fashion.

�No,� I breathe.

�No, what?� he asks menacingly.

�No, Chef.�

He takes a tangerine and eases it slowly, slowly into my orifice until it�s buried in me. Oh, the fullness.

His deft fingers draw a length of twine from the coil. Adrenaline spikes through me like a carving fork.

He ties my ankles together tightly. The twine is tight but not so that it bites into my skin. I feel restrained but strangely free. An electric charge thrills dangerously up my spine.

�You have a captivating, perfect tail, Miss Hen,� he says. �How I will enjoy biting it.� Oh my.

He inserts me into the Wolf and my flesh succumbs to the rushing waves of heat. Juices flow in torrents inside me as my doneness builds, engorging me down there�and everywhere else. I have never felt so ready. So evenly, so dreamily ready.

He pulls me out of the oven.

�Hmm. You are so sweet, Miss Chicken.� He reaches over for a package of foil and rips off a sheet.

My body is responding�now. All it takes is one quick thrust of the meat thermometer, and I become all flesh and sensation, my gushing juices running utterly clear.

He picks me up from the shelf and I notice for the first time an ingredients list posted on the door of the Sub-Zero. His list reads as bossy and kinky as he talks, and it includes peanuts, chocolate, raisins�and me. Pervy.

�Are we making cookies?� I cluck coquettishly.

He glances at the list and narrows his eyes at me playfully. �No, Miss Hen. I haven�t figured out how to make you a dessert. Yet.� He quirks his lips into a smile. �I have something more�elaborate�planned for today.�

�Ah, well. What if I don�t feel elaborate today?�

�You don�t want to cook?� he asks.

�Not just cook,� I murmur tentatively. Am I really going to ask?

�I see.� He frowns.

Okay, here goes nothing.

�I want you to make dinner with me. Simple. Normal. Unfinessed.�

His face clouds. Shit, this isn�t going well.

He cocks his head from one side to the other. And again. Jeez, he�s really discombobulated.

�You want candles and linen, hearts and flowers,� he says. �But I don�t know how to do that, Chicken. My tastes are very particular.�

�I want you to taste only me. Taste me for what I am. Clean your plate. Mop up my juices with bread��

He takes a dazed step back, and for a moment the air grows tense.

�Please,� I whisper.

�I don�t know,� he mutters, and he stalks off to find something.

My subconscious is hopping mad. Now you�ve done it. You�ve made him chicken�out.

But he returns with that foxy look in his eyes. His apron hangs off his hips in that way that makes my whole body gabble with glee. He�s holding something. It�s a chunk of chocolate.

Oh shit, he really knows how to distract a girl.

I still wish he�d make dinner with me, with me tasting like me. But maybe it�s okay to let him cook me if there�s chocolate involved. Just this once.

�You really can�t keep buying me things.� I�m looking furiously at yet another spice he�s purchased.

�I like you in fine things,� he replies. �I have the means. Besides, there�s a recipe��

�To hell with the recipes!� I interrupt, fuming. I can�t keep up with him. Every night it�s some hot new preparation. And this one looks downright fiery.

�But the harissa will be good on you. It will test your limits. And mine.� He smiles that searing smile, and my bones loosen. Involuntarily I relent.

He goes to the stereo to put on some loud pop music. He coats a brush with the hot paste. He lashes the harissa into my skin with the brush. Ow�it smarts. But quickly my skin is singing at its touch. He strokes my neck and shoulders, painting a trail of fire leading all the way down there. Hot damn.

He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. The touch of his spiced fingertips ignites hot sparks under my skin that fire into my bloodstream and pulse around my body, heating everything in their path. I groan� Oh my�a conflagration radiates throughout my cavity� everywhere. Fuck.

I�m building unstoppably. He continues to paint my skin with fire, in slow, even strokes at first� but as his control unravels, the brush moves faster and faster. My back arches as I open myself to the consuming, punishing, heavenly sensation� pushing me, pushing me� Scoville unit after Scoville unit� spiraling into a peppery paroxysm. When I think I can take no more, he abruptly stills.

His breathing ragged, he turns me gently over onto a soft bed of beans.

�You wear that well,� he says. �Keep it on for the rest of the day. I�ll cook you tonight.�

�Oh, Chicken, did you just cluck at me?�

Crap.

�No,� I squawk hoarsely.

�I believe you did. Yes, you did. You remember what I said I�d do to you if you clucked?�

Aw, jeez. �Yes.� I pause before I add, �Yes, Chef.�

�My word is my bond,� he crows. �I�m going to spank you. And then I will cook you, very hot and hard.�

I know what his hard cooking is like.

�I�m not sure I can take any more quite yet,� I whine.

�Stamina, Miss Hen,� he says brightly.

My inner goddess has donned a tiny cheerleader�s uniform and starts to chant.

Give me a B!

Whack.

Give me an L! Give me an A!

Whack whack.

Give me a D! E! S!

Whack whack whack.

What does that spell?

Control-freak poultry-beater, that�s what it spells. But I don�t fancy another swat, so I manage to keep the thought to myself for once.

He roasts me gently until I reach sweet doneness.

�You are a most beautiful sight,� he says, pulling me out of the Wolf. �And your smell is intoxicating.�

Afterward, everywhere he spanked me is stinging and warm. The experience was humiliating and mustardy and unbelievably hot. I definitely don�t want him to do that to me again. But now that it�s over I have this warm, safe, golden brown afterglow. I feel contented, and totally confused.

I must remember to cluck at him more often.

Fry?� We�re going to fry?

�Yes, and fast. The Wolf does 16,000 BTUs in a single burner.�

Suddenly a thousand butterflies are moshing in my belly. Holy shit, what kind of caper is he planning this time? I�m not sure I�m prepared for this.

�I�ll prepare you, darling. Don�t worry,� he says dryly. He must be telepathic. It�s uncanny.

But am I a fryer? Maybe I come across that way, but I�ve always thought of myself as more of a roaster, a low-heat bird. No way do I have legs plump enough for batter and hot oil.

�Do you like to fry?� I ask a little timidly.

�It requires intense preparation and control. How could I not?�

He flicks on the Wolf with a roar and sets a heavy Dutch oven on top. It�s a beast of a pot�big, solid, enameled flame-red. He pops in a thermometer, and its bright red tongue shoots up in sync with my soaring desire. Oh, I�m prepped, all right.

Blades is already sifting flour. His hands expertly shake a perfect bed of powder onto the plate. He�s just so competent.

�On the plate,� he commands, and rolls me around in the flour like a pro.

Hot damn. I�m nearly cooked from just the heat of his fingertips. My inner goddess is swooning in her red velvet coop. She crows with ecstasy when, with a sudden shake, he de-flours me.

With a loud whoosh of oil I�m frying. I�m really frying. Is there anything this aproned Adonis can�t do? I have a vision of myself as Icarus, wings singeing as he nears the sun.

But my wings aren�t burned�they�re flaky and crisp and delicious.

You have the most beautiful skin, pale and not one feather. I want to crisp every single inch of it.�

�You can crisp me any time,� I purr.

�How about a little honey and spice?� he asks suggestively.

I can�t help but cluck derisively. His spice thing is out of control. I know I�m pushing it, as my inner goddess pokes her head out of her golden henhouse.

�You didn�t just cluck, did you?�

�Oh no,� I answer quickly.

�I�m going to drizzle this on you,� he says.

�You really know how to warm a chick up.� I pause before adding, �Chef.�

His eyes flash with irritation. �You have a smart mouth, for someone without a head,� he whispers. �I may have to do something about that.�

My inner goddess high-fives me with a feathered wing. I�ve gotten under his skin. Holy crap.

The ingredients list on the Sub-Zero is unusually detailed today. It�s classic Blades�bossy, elaborate, and demanding, and it ends with �PURE New Mexico chile powder.�

Jeez. To his usual arsenal of barked commands, bullying stares, and aggressive flavoring, he�s now added shouty capitals. Is he trying to impress me or intimidate me? He�s so mysterious.

When he struts back into the kitchen, barefoot in jeans and a tight black T-shirt, he places a bag of bright red powder on the counter in front of me.

�I brought us something new to play with today.�

I think I�m scared of whatever it is.

But I can�t take my mind off the chile. It looks dangerous, exotic, hot. I imagine his skilled fingers rubbing that tangy sting deep into my skin. Who�s hot tonight, squawks my inner goddess, who�s hot tonight? She�s got a little pitchfork and she�s thrusting it up and down suggestively. I�m really not sure what she�s trying to tell me with that one, but somehow it�s convincing.

He�s at the front burner of the Wolf sweating onions and peppers, his apron hanging off his hips in that special way. He pours himself a little wine and sways to music only he can hear. I feel loose-limbed, my bones like jelly.

My stars. The onions aren�t the only thing he�s sweating.

�Have you ever wondered what�s on the other side of your limits?� he asks. Without waiting for an answer he punches something into the stereo remote. Holy fuck, what�s he going to do next?

A stormy surge of strings issues from unseen speakers, while Blades pinches gently at my flesh. It�s just a little tickle at first, but as the music builds, so does he. Suddenly, sharply, he pulls a strand of dark meat from my drumstick.

�B�gawk!� I cry out. It takes me by surprise, but I find I like how it feels. It tingles. He does it again, harder.

As the music surges on, his fingers dig more deeply into my flesh, stripping morsel after morsel of my body in perfect time with the music. It�s a sweet agony, as he strips me down with his masterful fingers. I am drawn deeper into my most hidden desires by the delicious sensation and the otherworldly harmony of strings and winds.

The music stills a moment and so does he. Then a second musical theme emerges, less stormy than the first�in my mind I see the motions of a hen as she crosses a country road. Something dangerous and irresistible pulls her toward the storm on the other side. The birdlike warble of a single oboe floats over the strutting strings, as Blades�s deft fingers continue to ravish my pulchritude� pluck and pluck again� but the music, transporting me� his fingers deconstructing me�Yes, I get this. I�ve navigated into a dark and carnal place. When at last the music drives for its climax, so do I, churning and flying apart like a blender on liquefy. Wow.

�What was that music?� I groan incomprehensibly as I recover.

�The allegro from �The Hen��Joseph Haydn�s Symphony No. 83 in G Minor,� he says. He inserts me between two soft buns. �For some reason I�ve always wanted to cook to it.�

The vision of the country hen comes to me again. It�s so mysterious. But I think I know now why she crossed the road.

I�m dripping and fragrant as he helps me out of the basin�white stoneware, egg-shaped, and very stylish. A scent of thyme and expensive oil clings to my skin as he sets me on a clean white kitchen towel. I consider how I must look. I still can�t believe this prince of the kitchen wants a pale, underweight ugly duckling like me. Surely there�s been some mistake.

�Hey,� he says, jolting me back to the present. �You�re a gorgeous, perfect bird, a beautiful swan of a chicken. Don�t droop your neck like that.� He tilts me up to let the last of the marinade flow out of me. His eyes are soft and warm. He quirks his mouth into a smile. �Trust me?� he asks in a low voice.

�Yes,� I breathe, unsure but unable to say anything more. Deep longing oozes in the marrow of my bones.

�Good,� he says. �I have plans for you.� He�s holding something in his hand, but I can�t quite make it out.

He turns me away from him, leaving my backside totally at his mercy. Slowly and gently, he pushes something deep inside me. It�s a lemon from the marinade. It fills me deliciously, as he simultaneously slips two long, knowing fingers within me. They trace slow circles reaching nearly all the way inside, and then back to the opening. Holy fuck, his fingers are so deep inside me. Those stunning hands are caressing my most secret parts, seasoning me to the point of eruption.

My inner goddess is running fast from side to side of her chicken run, as if she has lost her head.

The Wolf is already preheated and waiting�as always, he�s planned ahead. He places me on my back in a shallow bath of water. I feel a wet heat suffuse me, penetrating everywhere inside and out. I am melty and delectable.

It�s not long before I feel my doneness build, and when it comes it�s one of the most intense yet. My inner goddess bolts madly across her run.

The sky is falling, the sky is falling!

The lists are getting more frequent and more overbearing. He plies me with aromatics, rubs me with oil, flecks me with spice. My vitals clench deliciously as I recall his deft hands, the slow, low heat, even his fussy way of making dinner.

My unconscious clucks at me. Not making dinner. Cooking, she cackles. I ignore her as best I can, but she�s awfully shrill.

She has a point. I know he needs more than just white and dark meat with a bit of crispy skin. He craves spice, not sustenance. And I crave him.

I�m distracted from my musings by the pop of a cork. Blades is opening a bottle of fine red wine. He�s wearing his usual white apron that hangs, in that way, off his hips. Holy cats.

�Burgundy okay with you?�

�You know I know nothing about wine. I�m sure it�s great.� My voice cracks as I speak. There�s already a heady smell of bacon wafting from the gleaming cooktop. It�s discombobulating. He�s planning something special, but what?

There�s a loud hiss as he pours some of the wine into the hot pan. He fondles my drumstick with his strong fingers.

�You are mine,� he says softly. �Mine alone. Never forget it.�

I prevent myself from clucking, but merely make a low sound of assent. Though I might resist the thought, I am his.

�But tonight�I�m having a dinner party.�

Holy fuck.

�And I�?�

�Why, you�re the main course, Miss Hen.�

�Before you can agree to be my Ingredient, you�ll need to understand the recipes.�

Recipes? �Do you really need those?� I cluck coquettishly. �I thought we might just wing it.�

�No, Miss Hen,� he says as if I were an errant chick. �I�ve told you, I don�t just make dinner. What I do requires intricate steps, precise preparations, and careful plating. I hope you�ll want to do it too.�

He drags out a large cookbook. He opens it to some elaborate recipes, illustrated with shocking and explicit photos of ingredients, raw and cooked, in all kinds of appalling positions. This goes way beyond trussing. I�m simply speechless. Is this what he does�he tortures food?

�You�re a sadist?�

�I�m a Foodie.� His eyes burn with dark craving.

�What does that mean?� I ask.

�It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to my recipes. This is what it means to truly be my Ingredient. I want to manipulate your texture, layer your flavors, Chicken. I see you as a foam, a fricassee, a gel�e� a modern craft cocktail��

I don�t understand any of this. Cock tail? I think I�m in shock.

�I want to finesse you, very much.�

His words from our first meeting come back to me. It�s all about finesse. I look around the kitchen. Suddenly the knife rack and the spice cabinet seem way more sketchy than before.

�Were there others?�

He closes his eyes. �Yes. But not like you. You�ve proven yourself both resilient and versatile. Which is why I think that each part of you can be cooked separately to get the doneness right, to make flavors penetrate deeper. In the end, roasting you whole leaves your breast a little less moist than if I cook it separately. These recipes will show us the way.�

Separately? He means cut apart. It�s not just about taking me whole; now he wants to flavor me limb by limb. Am I ready for more of that? My subconscious picks up the phone to call a taxi.

�I can�t keep up� why are you like this?� I say.

�Ah, that�s a long story. When I was still just a boy someone showed me what cooking could be. Like they do it in Europe. She showed me that cooking wasn�t just warming something up. It�s the discipline of turning raw ingredients into transcendence. She was the turning point for me.�

�She? She who?�

�It doesn�t matter, baby. I had a tough introduction to food. As a child I ate nothing but TV dinners and ramen. I was inexperienced. And that�s when an older woman took me under her wing and introduced me to the lifestyle.�

I am devastated at this image of little Shifty, just a child. And I�m appalled that Mrs. Child-temptress, Mrs. Child-warper, this�this evil old Mrs. Child-whatever figure was allowed to fuck him up so badly. It�s because of Mrs. Child he�s unable to just make dinner like everyone else. A boy who knew only Salisbury steak and Tater Tots, then some herb-crazed tart shows up with a chicken chasseur and has her way with him. The thought depresses me.

�Is that the reason for your shifty moods?� I ask quietly.

�Oh, Chicken, I�m fucked up and shifty as hell. But I�m hungry for you.�

Hungry for me! My Shifty Blades hungers for me.

�How many were there?�

�What?�

�How many Ingredients were there, before me?�

�Do you really want to rehash that conversation again?� He�s becoming ruffled.

�Yes! I think I have a right to know.�

�Fifteen.�

I wasn�t expecting that. Fifteen? Holy shit. He�s really been around. He�s so secretive. I feel anger bubbling up inside me.

I glare at him and he glares back. Despite the anger, I feel it, the attraction�irresistible, drawing us together like kitchen magnets.

My breast arches involuntarily toward his touch. Suddenly he seizes me and lays me out on the counter, claiming me hungrily. His fingers pull me taut, the palms of his hands grinding my soft white meat into the hard granite, trapping me. I feel him. His stomach growls, and my mind spins as I acknowledge his craving for me.

�Why must you always challenge me?� he murmurs breathlessly.

�Because I can.� My pulse throbs painfully.

He grabs a fistful of kosher salt.

�I�m going to season you now.�

�Yes.� My voice is low and heated.

He reaches for a rolling pin, then hesitates, looking at me.

�Yes, please, Chef,� I moan.

The first blow of the rolling pin jolts me but leaves behind a delicious warm feeling.

�I. Will. Make. You. Mine,� he says between blows.

Adrenaline is pounding thunderously through me�and so is he.

Fighting is rough, but making up could be the end of me.

Blades is standing in front of me dressed in nothing but a white apron and a chef�s toque. He has a sticky glob of honey dripping from his long fingers. I lean out to see it better, but invisible chicken wire prevents me. My eyes cross. He moves a little closer and I can smell the glob. There�s something strange and powerful about it.

�Now cluck,� he commands, his voice soft. My beak opens to obey, but my wattle quivers uncontrollably.

�Enough,� he snaps.

I long to taste the honey, to peck at it. I can smell it�s not just honey, it has a hot, citrus aroma. Sharp and sweet at the same time. I crane a little farther and the chicken wire is gone, I�m free. I open my wings and he covers them with the sticky hot mess. The spice penetrates me and I feel the familiar pull deep in my belly.

�You�re marinating just for me,� he says darkly, �all for me.�

Yes, I moan. Let me feed you, only you. Just then I notice that he�s holding something�a radish, I think. The radish starts to pulse like a heart. The image starts to fade, and I start to panic.

�Wake up, baby,� he says, opening the Sub-Zero with a triumphant flourish as I come back to reality. �Time for the broiler.�

Holy hell.

I�m in the Sub-Zero, marinating in soy and sake, when someone calls to me. It�s the aloof radish from the crisper that I noticed on my first day.

�Can I help you?� I ask. What could a radish want from me?

�No. I just wanted to look at you.� Her tone is unnervingly soft. Like me, she�s pale, pink, and skinny. But I can see she�s wilty and faded now.

�What do you have that I don�t?� she asks sadly. And she fades away again into the crowded crisper.

My subconscious rises up before me like a green-eyed ghost. Fifteen, she shrieks. Fifteen previous Ingredients.

I recall Blades�s past. It occurs to me that his other Ingredients have known this marinade, those hands, that burning gaze. I am transfixed by the radish�s piercing question: What do I have that she hasn�t?

He has me spread out in parts on a towel while he whips up a marinade. He likes me arranged like this; it means he can spice me up to his kinky tastes. I wonder how his former flames responded to his overbearing ways, and I feel an unwelcome pang.

�What happened with the fifteen past Ingredients?� I ask hesitantly.

He cocks his head to one side and back, surprised. He turns off the blender and gives a resigned shrug.

�Various things. I suppose it boils down to�� He pauses, searching for precisely the right word. �Unsuitability.�

He helps me into the bowl he�s filled with the aromatic green liquid from the blender and massages it into my skin. It makes my flesh come alive, but I can�t take my mind off the fifteen. The marinade gives me plenty of time to think.

When he pulls me out I realize I�ve turned bright green.

�Who was the last one?� I blurt out.

He draws a sharp breath and stills. �Beware, Miss Hen, of jealousy,� he intones. �It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.�

�Did you quote Shakespeare to her, too?� My voice is shrill.

He runs an anxious hand through his hair.

�No, she was more the earthy type,� he sighs. �She did as she was told, and I soon felt we had exhausted the possibilities. Now, are you going to let this go?�

�If you can have nice, pliable Ingredients, why do you need me?�

�I need an Ingredient that forces me to compromise. A cook who isn�t compromising is not working hard enough.� He grabs the package of foil and tears a sheet off. �You are an exquisitely beautiful bird, Miss Hen. You�re smart, savory, and succulent. You�ve made me change my whole approach to building dishes. Now, do you want to ask more questions, or do you want me to cook you?� His stomach growls, and he smiles that dazzling, predatory smile.

�Cook me, please,� I say quietly.

His marinade has worked its magic. By the time he pulls me from the oven I am glowing and mollified, and my green tint has faded�for now�in the golden afterglow of a good, hard cooking.

Steamy enough?� he asks in a low voice.

I�m unable to answer. Tendrils of vapor rise from my naked, wet breasts. He has cooked me gently but quickly. Kinky as it might be, I find myself wanting more and more from this kitchen Adonis.

He holds a tiny silver spoon above me, letting fall, drop by tantalizing drop, a dark, mysterious dipping sauce. It�s the slowest, most sensuous thing imaginable. In her crushed velvet coop my inner goddess fans herself with both wings.

�I�m going to take a very, very long time to season you, baby. I promise you, the sesame sauce is much better this time.�

This time? I�m confused. He�s never used sesame sauce on me before.

�Better than what?� I manage to say as I catch my breath.

He flushes. �Better than the last time I tested it.� It�s obvious he�s leaving something out. Why would he have tested this sauce without me? Abruptly the specter of the wilty radish fills my mind. I feel the anger rising in my breast. He made it for her.

�You�ve used this same sauce before. With who?� I�m trying not to yell. My inner goddess takes a cold shower and mopes back to her perch to sleep.

�You want an honest answer?�

�Was it her? Was it the radish?�

He inhales sharply, then drops his shoulders with a sigh. �We had experimented with a lot of different permutations. Radish granita, radish tartare, gin radish-tini. Finally, during a radish omakase, I tried her in dipping sauce. I added too much wasabi. It�s something I regret very much.�

�And you�re trying the same thing on me?� I ask coldly.

�No, Chicken. With her it was a yuzu, not rice vinegar, and there was the wasabi. What I�ve prepared for you is quite different.� But he can see he�s digging himself deeper. He puts down the tiny spoon.

If I wasn�t steamed enough before, I sure as hell am now.

�It�s high time I trussed you again, Miss Hen.� He flips on the radio and pulls out the outsize spool of twine.

�Maybe I should play hard to get for once,� I say coyly.

His eyes widen with surprise and a glint of arousal. He looks me up and down on my cutting board.

�I can�t really see how you�re going to pull that off.�

�It could take more than trussing twine to hold me down tonight.�

Katy Perry is belting out �Peacock� from the radio. Not Blades�s taste in music at all, which makes it all the sweeter to hear. �Break me off, if you bad, show me who�s the boss,� Katy chides.

�You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Hen.� He gets a foxy look in his eye that sends a thrill of electricity through my insides. �There�s more than one way to tie a bird, you know.�

�Really, Mr. Blades?� Holy crap, what have I started?

From deep in the Sub-Zero he produces a rasher of bacon. He hasn�t even touched me, but the sight of the long, pink strips makes my tail tremble.

�Is bacon your answer to everything?� I ask, panting a little.

�It does the trick,� he answers, holding a porky lasso a couple of millimeters beyond my reach. He grabs the box of foil and tears off a sheet. I can�t stand how arrogant and smug he is right now, but I also can�t stand not having that bacon on my skin.

I relent, with a strange, pleasurable sensation suffusing my body.

�Oh, twist my arm,� I moan.

maple-glazed wings with bacon

SERVES 4 TO 6

� cup maple syrup

� cup soy sauce

� cup chopped scallions, white and green parts

1� tablespoons rice wine or apple cider vinegar

3 garlic cloves, minced

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

15 chicken wings (about 3�pounds), patted very dry with paper towels

8 strips bacon

1��In a large bowl, combine the maple syrup, soy sauce, scallions, vinegar, garlic, and pepper and mix well. Add the chicken wings and toss them gently so they are bathed in the heady liquid. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the chicken marinate in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours or overnight.

2��Preheat the oven to 450�F. Slice the bacon in half lengthwise to yield long thin ribbons, perfect for restraining your bird.

3��Remove the wings from the marinade and wipe off any clinging garlic or scallion pieces. Tightly tie up each chicken wing in a bacon ribbon and lay the chicken wings, wing tips up and expectant, on a large baking pan. Cover the pan loosely with foil and bake for 30�minutes. Uncover the dish and continue to bake until golden and crisp, another 10 to 15 minutes. Serve hot, using your hands to devour.

The way his apron hangs from his hips already has me all wobbly. But as he coats my thighs with sticky liquid I can hardly contain myself. Is it the wine, or is my aroma starting to drive him crazy, too?

He heats me up fast, and it won�t take much to finish me off now. His lips quirk up into a smile. My own juices are mixing with the coating and running all over the place. I get the strangest, sweetest, most hedonistic feeling up and down. It�s epicureanism run wild!

He spreads my thighs out on a plate. Sticky hands and at least five wet napkins. What will the housekeeper think? Who cares?

I�ve been prevailed upon in ways I never imagined. I�ve agreed to everything so far, but now it�s my turn. I want more. I want to be dinner, I want to taste like me, I want to be craved. He�s obsessed with his kinky implements, his techniques, his condiments. I prefer to think this is messed up, but I can see it�s the right thing for him. My mind wanders to the fifteen previous Ingredients.

�Your whole control-freak foodie thing, it was because of her, that woman�Mrs. Child.� My mood has darkened.

�Julia opened my eyes to many important things,� he explains. �In fact, I�d still be eating frozen dinners if it weren�t for her.�

Frozen dinners? The thought of my poor, fucked-up foodie eating cold Tater Tots as a boy breaks my heart. Not taters, baby, never again!

All right then. I�ll bet she never taught you this.

�Strip my breasts, Blades,� I command softly. �Now.�

His eyes widen. Craving thickens the air around us like a wine reduction. I can tell he�s thinking what he might do with my ample white flesh. Well, he�s just going to have to think a little longer, because I have to marinate.

So what will it be? Cupped in a warm tortilla? Slicked with vinaigrette? Rubbed up hot with spice?

We won�t need a recipe for what we�re about to do.

It�s just around midnight. He�s got me in pieces again, whipping up his latest fancy. Brown sugar and bourbon simmer on the range, smelling juiced up and sloppy. I can�t keep up with his shifting moods�sour this morning, sweet tonight. I blame that harpy, Mrs. Child. A cooking show queen, warping boys of just sixteen. Now poor Shifty can�t even chew gum without some kind of kinky cookery. Finesse: it�s a bitch.

�Is this one of her recipes?� I can�t hide an edge of bitterness in my voice.

�No, Miss Hen, it�s my own preparation. And I wish you�d stop obsessing about Julia. You�re flogging a dead horse. She�s my past. You are my future.�

His future! I let this information soak in. I feel my anger subside slightly and my bones grow warm.

My subconscious is squawking, You�ll get burned again. I hear her knock on her perch, but I ignore her. She�s still got the blues about Mrs. Child and she�s got a point, but we�ve got to move on. How can I resist those deft hands? That godlike mouth and tongue? If the brown sugar doesn�t sway me, the bourbon will. Why does it smell so good?

He palms my breast, his fingertips just brushing the sensitive tip. �You fit my hand perfectly, Miss Hen,� he murmurs. �Just like a young bird should.�

No, I won�t let anything come between me and my Shifty Blades. Wild foxes couldn�t drag me away.

�I must have you right now,� he says breathlessly, throwing me down and opening my thighs on the first surface he can find.

�On this?� I ask. �Isn�t this a baking sheet?�

�It�ll have to do.� He practically roasts me with his burning gaze as a low growl issues from his gut.

He looks down at me and slips his fingers between my thighs, spreading them wide. He begins a slow and sensual assault with his hands, scattering capers and lemon everywhere. Because I can�t close my legs, it�s intense, really intense. Oh fucking my�

I lie exhausted on a bed of rice. He leans over me, tasting me and savoring the juices that are still dripping from me. Cab Calloway is shimmying away on the stereo. Blades runs a hand through his hair and flashes a grin at me.

�Satisfied, Miss Hen?�

I mumble my assent. Holy cow, where does he get his energy? This is the third time we�ve cooked today. Doesn�t he have some kind of job?

�Is stir-fry like this for everyone? I�m surprised anyone ever goes back.� I smile, remembering.

�I can�t speak for everyone, but it�s damn good with you.� He sucks on another piece of my warm flesh.

But I can tell he�s already thinking of how to top this. He�s layering flavors in his head, mixing textures. He can�t just stop and enjoy, he�s got to find a way to move it to the next level. He�s already made a delicious dish, can�t he be happy with that?

From the stereo, Cab is crooning, �Chicken ain�t nothing but a bird.� Right now I�m hardly even that. Blades can finesse all he likes, I think as I drowse. I need my beauty sleep.

I begin to wonder whether I�m up to the standard of his singular tastes. Lately, finesse seems to require mayonnaise, fish sauce� and this morning there�s a bottle of ketchup waiting next to the Wolf. I know it will displease him, but I have to ask. Here goes nothing.

�Do we always have to use a condiment?�

He runs his hand through his hair, which still has that amazing just-cooked look from last night. He cocks his head from side to side and frowns.

�Condiments are for your own protection. Some of the other ingredients can be rather strong, and we need to balance the flavors. And it lubricates you.�

�Don�t you ever want to just taste me au naturel?�

He closes his eyes as if searching for strength.

�Your savor is always present, Chicken. I choose flavors to enhance your taste, not cover it.�

�Couldn�t you leave me undressed, just once?� I feel myself gaining the upper hand for once.

�All right, Miss Hen,� he sighs with resignation. �This morning the condiment is optional. You don�t need it anyway.� He adds, �Even if the other Ingredient could use it.�

Other Ingredient? What�s he up to now?

�You�re pairing me?� I ask suspiciously.

�Yeah, baby.� He quirks his lips into a crooked smile. �Taters.�

�What is this?� I ask, horrified. The machine is sleek and silver and rather beautiful. It has a big gift bow on it. I stare at it blankly. How can this possibly be for me?

He smiles proudly. �This, Miss Hen, is your new in-chamber vacuum sealer.�

Sealer? �I like the packaging I came in,� I say weakly.

�That plastic sack,� he says with distaste, �is an amoeba playground. It�s not safe. I�ve disposed of it. This machine has an anaerobic gas flush that will protect you and keep you from spoiling.�

�I�m perfectly fresh as I am.� I had enough trouble with the fancy spices, and now this? Why is he such a control freak?

�You are quite fresh. But you�ve been looking thin, Miss Hen. You look like you�ve lost five ounces, possibly more, in the last two days. I told you, I need you juicy, and to be juicy you must preserve your water and fat content.�

He thinks I�m scrawny. And maybe even spoiled. My inner goddess flips him the bird. Let him watch his own damn fat content. I know there will be hell to pay, but I cluck audibly.

�No, I can�t accept this,� I cluck.

His eyes darken. He looks at me with that intense gaze that makes me feel agonizingly self-conscious. Am I too lean?

�Very well,� he says quietly.

�Don�t be angry with me.�

His expression is hooded, halfway between fury and something else. I long for him to put his hands on me, and I can see him staring hungrily at my breast. My vitals ooze with raw desire.

�You are a most disobedient Ingredient, Miss Hen.� He quirks his mouth into a crooked smile.

He grabs a sheet of foil. Oh yes. I know he won�t let me win that easily, and that what�s coming next will be rough and hot. Longing lubricates my nether�parts.

I�m too lean for you? Nothing a stick of butter won�t cure.

He pulls two small red orbs from his jacket pocket.

Holy shit! What are those for?

�Apples,� he says. �I thought we might play with these tonight.�

�While you cook me?� I�m shocked. They�re awfully big.

My inner goddess looks up from her yoga magazine, google-eyed, and starts kegeling madly.

He nods slowly, his eyes darkening. I�ve learned to be apprehensive when he brings me fruit.

�Will you season me after?�

�No.�

For a second, I register a tiny stab of disappointment. He chuckles.

�You want me to?�

I hesitate. I just don�t know. What used to feel wrong now feels so right.

�Well, tonight you might just have to beg me.�

Oh my.

�Do you want to play this game?� he continues, holding up the apples. �You can always take them out if it�s too much.�

I consider my position. He looks so roguishly tempting�unkempt hair from recent cooking, dark eyes dancing with gastronomic thoughts, his lips raised in an amused smile.

My inner goddess is already on her knees in supplication, still kegeling and ready to beg for forbidden fruit.

�Yes.�

It�s a relief, actually. Finally a pair of red cheeks that aren�t mine.

�It�s Mrs. Child, isn�t it?� I ask, horrified. On the cover of the cookbook is a woman of a certain age, wielding a huge mallet, gleefully about to bring it down on what appears to be a half-eaten chicken. Why can�t that crazy woman leave well enough alone?

He closes his eyes for a moment.

�It�s her,� he says as he opens them again. He�s glowering at me now. Uh-oh. I can�t stop now.

�That culinary cougar warped your palate at such a tender age.� It�s because of her that I feel so imperfect, so dull. She set his standards too high for a mundane fowl. How can I ever measure up?

�You don�t understand. She was an early inspiration, but that was long ago. I create my own preparations now.�

Then why am I staring at her cookbook right now? I keep quiet, nearly shaking with despair. But I have so many questions waiting to burst out.

�Fine, Miss Hen. Let�s cook without a recipe, shall we?� He shoves the cookbook to the side and lays me out on the butcher block. As always his fingertips find my softest, most delicate parts.

�How do you want to be cooked? Well? You tell me!� His tone is simultaneously challenging and vulnerable.

I take up his challenge.

�Show me how you�d use that,� I say. His eyes widen at my audacious choice. Slowly he picks up the rolling pin at the tip of my outstretched wing.

He drives the heavy pillar into my most sensitive flesh, gently but insistently. The effect is shattering. Jeez, he really is in great shape. My flesh lights up with the pain and secret exhilaration.

My subconscious gives up. She needs a drink.

With the last blow I can contain myself no longer. A plume of raw chicken juice escapes me, hitting the cookbook and spattering Julia in the face. Oops!

My subconscious smirks and smugly dips her beak into her dirty martini.

I marvel at how much I have I�ve endured�and yes, relished�at those godlike hands. The obscure spices, the laborious preparations, the oohing and aahing over flavors built and textures manipulated, even the recipes with their fussy food-porn photos. It�s all so twisted, but it�s so him. Now it feels so me, too.

My inner goddess dresses herself in a rich, verdant velvet, and spreads herself languorously on a California King�size bed of arugula.

And yet, he�s so fucked up. He claims to respect me, says I�m the most beautiful Ingredient he�s ever known, but he acts as if the beauty of the food were not enough. Why does he always have to take it to some other level? Where will it�end?

My subconscious clucks at me, arms crossed over her breast. Why are you grilling yourself like this? You�ve made your bed. I pull a face at her. Yes, I have, willingly. I want him to lay me down on that leafy bed every night of every�week.

That�s the bottom line. I want to belong to his appetite, to answer his cravings. My inner goddess sighs with relief. It occurs to me that she has a rather small brain, but thinks instead with the moister parts of her anatomy.

�He�s my happy ending,� I whisper. I will be his.

My inner goddess, lounging deliciously on her arugula bed, smiles placidly and returns to her romance novel.

The door of the Sub-Zero opens, revealing a kitchen filled with people nibbling on canap�s and sipping wine. Ooh, a party. I�m relieved for once not to be the main course.

Blades appears distracted, chatting with his guests as he reaches for more canap�s. Odd, there aren�t any canap�s in here. Before I know what�s happening, he reaches discreetly inside me and pulls out my giblets. Now?

He deftly slides my liver out of its paper envelope, while appearing to focus on his conversation with a talkative fellow holding a napkin.

�Blades, what are you doing?� I whisper urgently.

He doesn�t answer, but looks around the room smiling benignly. He continues to fondle my liver with his fingertips until I can�t stand it.

He gently places my quivering offal into a skillet where some softened onions are waiting for me. Holy fucking shit� we�re cooking in the middle of a party? Everyone�s mingling and chatting, but I am not paying attention. He stirs my insides with a deft wooden spoon, around and around.�

I squirm and gasp as I feel a hardening in my heated organ.

�Always so ready, Miss Hen,� he whispers. I make a low hiss of longing. How can he do this with all these people here?

He nonchalantly carries my blushing liver to the food processor. Oh� how long will he keep escalating this? It makes me feel so�dirty.

He pulses the machine a few times, whipping me into a soft frenzy. My insides dissolve in ecstasy, my mind a spiral of pure sensation. I can�t hold it together any longer.

B�gawk, I groan as his long finger continues to hit the pulse button. I�m thankful that the room full of people seems completely oblivious.

He appears to be perfectly composed. This isn�t fair. He calmly spoons me onto toast and takes a long, slow bite, from which it takes me several minutes to recover.

�I can�t believe you just did that,� I giggle.

�You�d be surprised what I can do, Miss Hen.�

No, nothing about Shifty Blades surprises me anymore.

He gives me a conflicted look. My poor Shifty Blades�a domineering home cook who at heart is still a teenager struggling to make a decent bowl of Froot Loops, who feels unworthy of the gastronomy he sees in books and on TV� my lost foodie� it�s heartbreaking.

�Sorry about Julia,� he murmurs.

�I know you feel like you need her and all her recipes and advice. But I don�t think you do. I think you can make your own decisions without her.�

�You�re right,� he says quietly.

Whoa! Breakthrough.

�Really? No Mrs. Child?�

�No more.�

He lays me down in parts on a soft layer of berries. I try to collect myself and let this information infuse. The memory of the time he first cooked me on a bed of cherries fills my mind. That was an eternity ago.

�You are the most beautiful, toothsome, versatile, and cookable food I�ve ever had the good fortune to create with. You�ve never failed me, Chicken. I can�t imagine a meal without you.�

What? What is he saying? My skin flushes bright red.

�I want to taste you every day of every week. I want you to be more than my Ingredient. I want you to be the center of everything I do from now on. I crave you, Miss Hen.�

�Are you asking me what I think you are?�

�Chicken, will you be my Specialty?�

He�s holding a long, detailed contract. Holy shit.

�The publisher sent the paperwork this morning. My recipes won them over immediately.�

I think I�m in shock. I try to imagine how readers would react to� what Blades does. To me. Surely the general public would find it too strange, too dark, too twisted.

He smiles his sly smile. �They want my cookbook badly. And they�re going to give me a lot of money for it. Especially since I turned them down the first time.�

Turned them down?

�What changed your mind?�

�You did, Chicken. They wanted me to cover all kinds of dishes and Ingredients. But it�s not about Ingredients for me anymore�it�s about my Specialty. This book isn�t just my cookbook. It�s yours, too. It�s our baby.�

Our baby. Our Little Booklet!

He shows me the email:

Observe Shifty at work? Oh boy.

�And just how do you intend to put your kinky cookery into words? Isn�t it a little advanced for general consumption?�

�Miss Hen, we�ve only scratched the surface. We haven�t yet started on the advanced techniques.� His eyes blaze with that secret�fire.

My tail twitches and desire blossoms in my body.

�Is tying me up an advanced technique?� I ask hopefully. My inner goddess kisses her wing tips for luck.

�Maybe one part,� he says, �But your role as my Specialty will require more elaborate preparation. We�ll be layering entirely new flavor profiles. There will be special equipment. It�s time I show you the toy drawer.�

�You�re going to play with your food?� I cluck sweetly.

�No, Miss Hen,� he says, giving me a menacing look.

He reaches under the counter to pull open a deep drawer containing what looks like a voodoo doctor�s kit. In meticulously ordered slots are assorted mallets and shears, some soft brushy things, a bunch of colored loops that look like rubber bands, a giant spool of twine, a baster with a needle at the end, and an iron bowl from the center of which extends a shockingly long, black prong.

I stare dumbly at its impressive length, hypnotized.

�Oh, baby, I don�t need this,� I say.

My limbs are bound tight to my body, the trussing twine just tight enough to dig into my flesh without breaking the skin. Just how I�ve come to like it. What�s bothering me is the butter.

It glistens in the bowl he�s holding out to me, wafting the narcotic, deliciously indecent aroma of truffles. My pulse starts racing. Shit�How can he do this with just a smell?

�I need this,� he says with conviction.

Why? Why does he need these extravagant things? Does he feel inadequate? Am I inadequate? Why spend so much?

�No, Shifty,� I say, �you don�t. I�m your Specialty now, you�ve made me yours. You don�t have to keep proving yourself. I�m the luckiest Ingredient in the world.�

�No, Chicken, I�m a lucky cook. You�ve changed the way I do absolutely everything. But now that you�re my Specialty, you�ll just have to get used to some minor luxuries like this. Besides,� he continues, �it counts as an advanced technique.�

As he talks I continue to fall under the exotic spell of the truffles. His heated gaze makes my juices start to run clear. At this point I can think of nothing but my need to be slathered in that butter.

Oh, well then, as long as it�s an advanced technique�

Holy shit, he�s wearing that apron, and he�s reaching into the back of the toy drawer.

I want it, oh yes. And he wants me. I get it now. The hungry look on his face, the growling of his stomach like I was the last amuse bouche on earth. But this�I don�t know if I can do what the recipe demands. Yet, this is what he does�he hurts food to make it taste good. This is what I signed on for. If I want my Shifty Blades, I have to be ready for anything.

�I want it,� I say. I belong to you.

He turns me over so I can�t see what he�s doing.

�I�m going to spread you out. I�m going to open you up. I�m going to take you places you never knew existed.� I can feel his manic anticipation.

His skilled hands have me completely at his mercy. As he opens me up a shock ripples through me, and it�s a sweet, strange, voluptuous feeling. He lays me breast-up on the pan, flatter than poultry should be. This is unnatural, it can�t possibly be as pleasurable as it is. But the warmth of the pan penetrates me so evenly. I feel melty, juicy, exquisitely yummy.

Now I know why they call it spatchcocking.

butterflied roasted chicken with herb and almond pesto

SERVES 2 TO 4

1 (3�- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry

1� teaspoons coarse kosher salt, plus a large, firm pinch

4 scallions, white and green parts roughly chopped

1 cup roughly chopped tender fresh herbs, such as a combination of dill, basil, flat-leaf parsley, and cilantro

� cup sliced almonds

� cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for the roasting pan

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 garlic clove, chopped

� teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Lemon halves, for serving (optional)

1��Using large, strong kitchen shears and a confident hand, forcefully cut the backbone out of the chicken; first cut along one side of the backbone, then cut along the other side until it releases, then pull it out. Gently spread the bird open, pressing down on the breast to flatten it (see Learning the Ropes). Massage the flesh with 1� teaspoons of salt.

2��Whirl the scallions, herbs, almonds, oil, lemon juice, garlic, and pepper together in the blender until quite smooth and luscious. Taste and season with a large pinch of salt. Smear the pesto all over the bird. Cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours and preferably overnight.

3��Preheat the oven to 450�F. Spread the bird flat, breasts up, in an oiled roasting pan. Roast until golden and succulent, 40 to 50 minutes. Let rest for 10 minutes, then have your way with her, squeezing on lemon juice if she needs a tang.

LEARNING THE ROPES

If you�re dealing with a novice bird, have your butcher butterfly your chicken for you. He or she will be happy to oblige.

I�m eyeing the black bowl, with its startling black prong. My inner goddess�s eyes are bugging out of her head. Even she�s unsure. Jeez, I could never�

�How does that work?� I ask, fascinated.

�The vertical roaster? It holds you up while I cook you. Do you want me to show you?�

�Yes. I�d like a home demonstration.�

�Very well, Miss Hen. You are, as ever, highly unpredictable.�

He starts with an unhurried massage across my breast and legs, his hands traveling my body until they reach the apex between my thighs.

�You are a daring and beautiful bird,� he continues. �I�m going to put this inside you now. Are you ready?�

�Yes,� I whisper.

He hoists me up over the bowl and lowers me slowly onto the upright prong. I gasp as its majestic length fills me, holding me tightly in position. The sensation is excruciating and exquisite. Am I really ready for this?

�This will be intense, because you�ll be unable to shift as I cook you.� He reaches down to bind my feet with a length of twine. I am utterly immobilized. Just before he delivers me to the tender mercies of the oven, I feel him scatter some objects at my feet. Stuck as I am, I can�t tell what they are.

�Taters, baby,� he says, with his uncanny way of reading my mind.

I hardly hear him as the oven heat takes possession of my flesh. I stiffen a little and my legs pull almost painfully against the twine, but I hardly notice. This is the most agonizing, exquisite feeling. My juices surge as flavor detonates up and down my body.

He pulls me off of the device, frees my ankles, and lays me gently on the bed of potatoes. My legs unbend a little and my juices flow over my golden, glowing skin.

That was, without a doubt, the most intensely juicy finish we�ve ever achieved together. Hmm, the upright roaster�

Note to self: explore the toy drawer more often.

vertical roasted chicken with spicy tomato potatoes

SERVES 4

1 (3�- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels

2� teaspoons coarse kosher salt

� teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1� pounds Yukon Gold or russet potatoes, cut into 1-inch dice

2 tablespoons tomato paste

1 teaspoon ground cumin

� teaspoon hot chili powder

� teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1��Preheat the oven to 425�F. Massage the chicken all over, including the cavity, with 1� teaspoons of the salt and the pepper. Rub a tablespoon of the oil all over the chicken�s skin.

2��Position the chicken�s nether parts over the vertical roaster�s erect member and thrust the bird down. Tuck her wing tips up behind her wings, behind her body. Tie her legs together with a piece of butcher�s twine or cooking bands (see Learning the Ropes). If the vertical roaster is too small to hold all the potatoes in the bottom, place the roaster and potatoes in a 9 � 13-inch baking pan.

3��In a bowl, toss together the potatoes, tomato paste, cumin, chili powder, nutmeg, the remaining 2 table-spoons oil, and the remaining � teaspoon salt. Scatter the potatoes on the bottom of the pan around the chicken.

4��Roast for 30 minutes, then stir and baste the potatoes with some of the rendered chicken fat at the bottom of the pan. Continue to roast until the skin is golden and the thigh juices run clear when pricked with a knife, 10 to 20 minutes longer. The potatoes should be soft. Let the chicken rest for 10 minutes before serving.

LEARNING THE ROPES

Cooking bands, which look like colorful rubber bands, are reusable and can withstand the heat of your oven. Use them in place of twine to tie up your chicken�s legs if she�s in the mood to flash a little color or if you don�t want to use twine.

�You seem a little on edge.� he says.

On edge? Me? I can�t help but squirm after the stretching he gave me last night with the upright roaster. My inner goddess is stuck in pigeon pose as she attempts a yoga routine.

�Let me relax you,� he continues in a low voice. �Take a deep breath, Chicken. Think of a waterfall.� He positions me on my back on a cutting mat, in a neutral position. He grasps one of his many blades and traces a gentle line, drawing the tip toward the apex of my thighs, down there. I feel vulnerable and eager as my legs loosen. His expert hands do the rest, coaxing my legs wider, wider, until they slacken and drop to the mat. I am indecently splayed, yet so blissed out I scarcely register his fingers sliding into me, until I feel a deep clenching where he�s inserted half a lemon. Oooooh.

�You look beautiful like this, Chicken. I must take a moment to enjoy the view.� The hunger in his voice makes my body hum with endorphins and a dark feeling I�m afraid to name. In my fading consciousness I see my inner goddess arching into something like a slutty upward-facing bow. Inner peace is clearly not what�s on her mind.

�Now�� he says quietly, �let�s kick it up a notch.� He fiddles with the stereo remote and abruptly cranks up some throbbing hip-hop, jolting me awake. With an oven mitt he pulls a hot, heavy skillet from the Wolf. Wow, I can feel its torridness as he brings it closer�it�s not just hot, it�s solar. �Drop It Like It�s Hot� thumps out of the kitchen speakers like a tendering mallet. But I�m still too limp to do anything but moan softly.

�Oh, Chicken, you�re so ready,� he yells over the noise.

He slips me into the oven and cooks me ardently and fast. Somehow, despite the conflagration around me, a tiny, unnoticed drop of calm expands inside me, filling me as relentlessly as the citrus did before. As the heat and thudding bass line crisp every inch of my outside, a juicy serenity swells within. Holy shit� it�s intense� and deep� the music� my juices are building so quickly� It�s as if all the toys and techniques we�ve ever used were only leading me step-by-step to this poultry nirvana. The crispiness and juiciness come together at exactly the same time, and every part of my body finishes in unison. Ahhhhh.

My inner goddess, languid and wet in corpse pose, wears a beatific smile. Om shanti shanti shanti.

�What I�m about to do to you will be very intense. I�m counting on you to guide me. What are the safewords, Chicken?�

�Golden,� I mumble, �if I�m approaching doneness.�

�And?� he prods, making his eyes hard.

�Black, if I�m in danger of drying out.�

�Good.� He flips on the Wolf and starts to rub my breast with salt and pepper. My skin comes alive as his hand travels down my sternum, down there. He slips two deft fingers inside me, tracing circles with tantalizing slowness. I flinch as he pushes something smooth and bulbous into me. Oh my.

�Garlic cloves,� he breathes. �And herbs. They�ll make your finish more powerful.�

He lays me forward on a roasting rack, leaving my most vulnerable part exposed and throbbing, then thrusts me into the wild heat of the Wolf. The heat works me fast and hard, bringing me to the edge. My insides pulse and tense, but just as my juices start to flow freely, he lowers the heat. Holy shit, he�s teasing me.

He pulls me out and I can hear the rip of the foil. He flips me roughly onto my back, jarring and thrilling every part of me. Then he covers me in a sheet of foil and turns his back. How long is he going to make me wait?

Finally he comes back, a little smile quirked up on his lips, his breathing ragged.

�Do you have any idea how delicious you are?� he pants.

�Finish me,� I manage to gasp out in a low, heated voice.

He pushes me onto the rack and throws me back into the oven�s high heat. Deep inside me the cloves pulse and I clench around them involuntarily. My skin crisps as hot juices pound through my body. Gah!

�Golden!� I scream, �Golden! Golden!�

I�m sitting with the formerly enormous ham next to the Wolf. She takes in the stainless surfaces and the thick hobs.

�And to think he can work this thing.�

�Mm-hmm.�

�That�s kinda hot.�

�Yeah, I think so.�

We laugh giddily together.

It�s so long since we really had a chance to catch up. I�d forgotten how much I love to hang out with her. Shifty�s brother has had a slimming effect on her figure, with his constant appetite. But before I can chide her about the profusion of nibble marks on her backside, she zeroes in on my ankles.

They have deep, brown marks left by the trussing twine, where Blades forgot to cover them. I can�t believe he�s left these marks on me. The ham grows suspicious.

�What happened to you? What the hell is that deviant doing to you?�

Man, if she only knew. Oh, he just porked me with a Spanish sausage, bound me up with twine, and roasted me silly. And that�s not to mention the black iron prong he put up my orifice. I could feed her some cock-and-bull story about food handling and safety precautions. But I can�t possibly tell her about the chorizo�she�d freak.

Instead I try the patented Shifty distraction trick.

�I have news. We�re coming out with a cookbook.�

�What?� She�s blown away. �When does it come out? That�s fantastic!�

Whew, it worked.

�Thanksgiving!� My voice wobbles with excitement.

�Oh, Chicken, I couldn�t be happier for you. But seriously, you�d better get rid of those marks before you pose for the pictures.�

Pictures? Holy crap.

Blades comes into the kitchen with a guy in a pale brown shirt, stone chinos, and small hoops in each of his large ears. He�s long and slim, with cavernous dark eyes. His hair is scruffy and looks oddly unkempt, and he has a desperate, hungry look.

It�s our editor, Wiley.

�So this is the bird?� His eyes seem to bulge from their sockets.

Blades tenses. �Yes, this is my chicken.� His voice makes it clear who rules this roost.

Wiley cocks his head to either side in a disturbingly familiar way. �I�d like to take a few photos while I�m here. Purely for reference, of course.�

Blades�s expression darkens momentarily.

�Photos,� he mumbles. �Well, we�ll have to see about that.�

The idea of being photographed makes me incredibly nervous. Illustrations maybe. I had imagined diagrams. But photos? Jeez, I hope this recipe doesn�t make my butt look big.

Blades ushers Wiley out and returns with a sigh of relief.

�Well, Mr. Blades, are we alone?� I coo.

�I believe you are entirely defenseless, Miss Hen.�

I find myself once again stretched out on the cool granite of his sleek countertop.

I�ve never seen anyone move a knife so fast and sure. He passes it so smoothly into me, I hardly know it�s happened until I fall apart in a crisp heap. I groan, reveling in the sensation as he corrals me with a deft nudge of the tip of his knife. He�s earning his nickname tonight.

Wiley is staring hungrily at my legs. He reaches out a tentative hand. Blades sets his mouth in a hard line. �Wiley�� he says menacingly.

Wiley backs off in dismay. �Excuse me. I didn�t mean��

Blades carries me over to the other counter.

�I don�t like you exposing so much flesh on camera,� he hisses under his breath to me. �That�s a hard limit for me.�

Clearly he hasn�t grasped the whole idea of food photography.

�How do you expect to get pictures for our cookbook?� I ask. �I�ll have to show myself. Legs. Breast. The whole enchilada.�

�Perhaps, Miss Hen,� he says dryly. He turns around and stalks off to the pantry. That�s it? My Shifty doesn�t usually give up so easily. Wiley waits quietly.

A few minutes later Blades comes back carrying a ball of dough�and a rolling pin. Oh my, what�s he going to do with that?

He uses it to roll out the dough. Oh. I�m a little disappointed.

He places me in a deep, round baking dish. So far so good. He takes strips of dough and lays one gently across me. Then another, and another.

Holy fuck. He�s hooding me with crust. I see him smirk just before he covers me over completely. The bastard.

�Now you may shoot the bird,� he says. I hear Wiley start to click away.

Inside the solid crust I�m steaming up.

�Black, Black!� I whimper. �Please.�

The door of the Wolf flies open and he pulls me out, the roasting pan cradled in his oven mitts.

�No,� he gasps. �You can�t be overcooked. What have I done?� He scrambles for a meat thermometer.

I begin to sob uncontrollably. No, I�m not overdone, but I was beginning to fall apart. I had to use the safeword.

It started in the usual way, with me facedown on a rack. He slipped a lemon inside of me, and another, then some garlic and herbs, filling me over and over. Then he cooked me, low and slow. At first it was sweet and warm and I built slowly. My flesh softened and practically separated from my bones. But he wouldn�t bring me to doneness. Hour after hour, for how long? How many hours would he keep this up? Was he angry because of the photos? This wasn�t cooking, it was revenge. Finally I broke.

�Why are you taking so long?� I ask plaintively.

�Chicken, slow roasting is a standard technique in� I just had to�� He stills and hangs his head. �I�m sorry,� he whispers.

I begin to recover myself. In fact I�m still quite tender and moist.

�You just had to what?� I ask.

�I just had to cool you down for another round,� he says finally. He quirks his lips into a foxy smile. Hell�s bells.

�You�ve already made a meal of me. Have you come back for more?� I ask, quickening.

He drizzles me with oil and then cranks up the heat. I feel my legs start shaking. The stove is quaking. My heart is aching.

Oh, Blades, roast me all night long.

�I might have been killed,� Blades says darkly.

Oh no no no. Not my Shifty. Control-freak foodie obsessive, master of the kitchen, my boy with his toys. I can�t imagine a world without him.

�The igniter on the oven misfired. I was preheating it, but it never lit. The gas knob jammed. Fortunately I always keep a toolbox in the kitchen. It was sheer luck I wasn�t suffocated or blown up.�

Wiley looks sidelong at Blades.

�Hmm, yes. Very fortunate.� He fidgets anxiously.

�All right, disaster was averted. We�ll grill outside. Wiley, if you�ll excuse me, I�ll get things prepped.�

He carries me out to the grill, where I finally break down.

�Oh, Shifty,� I sob.

�Hush,� he says. He smiles and holds up a beer can.

�Yes, baby, have a drink. I�m sure you need it.�

�Oh, no, this is not for me, Chicken.� He quirks his mouth into a wicked smile.

Holy fuck� Will it? How?

I gasp as he fills me with its astonishing girth. The feeling of fullness is overpowering.

He rests me on the grill and I can feel the entire world start to engorge. Desire explodes in my cavity like a hand grenade.

I perceive Wiley hanging back, seemingly texting, his hungry eyes fixed on me in this compromising position. I can just make out the title of the book sticking out of his jacket pocket�How to Cook a Wolf. Hmm.

Just before awareness evaporates, I recall my mom�s warning�never hire a coyote to guard the henhouse.

I�m marinating deeply. Turmeric, garam masala, and ginger penetrate into my dreams. I�m not even sure I�m awake when the door of the Sub-Zero opens on to a dark kitchen. Awareness floats just out of reach like a dancing firefly.

I seem to see predatory eyes glowing dimly in the darkness, staring at my yogurt-smeared flesh. Recognition creeps up my spine. Wiley?

He gets out a camera and starts snapping pictures of me in my marinade.

�That perverted prep-cook hasn�t outfoxed me,� he grumbles to himself. �He thinks this is all about him and his little recipes. But I think big. Fast food is where the big bucks are. The foodie�s ideas just need to be scaled up. Tray of sticky fingers, bucket o� dripping thighs. And I�m just the guy to do it. I�m going to make that bird mine. And if he tries to pick a bone with me about that, I�ve got these compromising pictures!

�Not bad for a kid from the hardscrabble highways of Monument Valley,� he continues. �It�s been the same all my life. People constantly underestimating me. Just a guy who reads books. Hah! A guy who reads books, who happens to be an inventor and a super-genius. I was out there chasing birds before that kid could even make ramen. Sure I never got one, but I never give up. They always laughed at me. But now this little cook-tease is my ticket to Fat City.

�That maniac and his bird will both get what�s coming to them. And I�ll get what�s mine.�

He finishes shooting and places me back in the fridge.

The marinade-induced delirium fades. It was just so vivid. What if it wasn�t a dream? Our Little Booklet! I feel a tingling of danger. But the powerful Indian spices are stronger than danger, and they penetrate deeper than panic.

I stare blankly at the laptop screen, stunned. It�s filled with the image of my breast, half-covered in melted mozzarella, up close and in living color.

Holy shit! Was the dream real? I suspected Wiley was sneaking photos but I thought they were cookbook photos. Not this shocking, lurid food porn.

�Um, I seem to be on Google,� I manage to croak. Blades is slicing a tomato on the counter behind me.

�Everyone�s on Google, babe,� he says, distracted. �That�s the point of Google.�

�But� in a fast-food ad?�

He whips around to the laptop and stares, transfixed by the images of my white meat laid out on a bun and spattered with cheese. I recall Wiley�s hungry eyes and his last words�I�ll get what�s mine.

�Seems someone else wants to specialize in chicken,� he mutters as he rushes to the phone. Oh boy, is he angry.

He barks terse instructions into the phone. �I want his ass fired� Blackmail? Yes, he stole the recipes, my recipes� I want the photos removed too. Inform the fast-food chain I took the precaution of secretly copyrighting everything. They�ll grasp the situation at once.� He looks up at me and I see his face change from agitation to something else�a look of carnal craving.

�Keep me posted,� he snaps and puts away the phone, still staring at me. I sit frozen on the platter as he shrugs on his apron, ties it around his hips in that way, and struts over to me.

His eyes are scorching as he unsheathes a considerable length of baguette. Oh my.

�Those photos were obscene,� he breathes. �But on the other hand��

I melt with a mixture of relief to have escaped the clutches of that blackmailing coyote and anticipation of that long baguette. Maybe food porn isn�t such a bad thing after all.

Beep beep! My inner goddess zooms down an endless highway into the sunset, ecstatic and alive.

Slap! Smack! Whack!

He has me in his twitchy palms, kneading me vigorously and slapping me into patties. Each smack of his hand pushes me closer to the edge of my limits.

�Ow!�

�Stamina, Chicken,� he says in a low voice.

It�s not the whacking. I�ve come to crave the safe, warm feeling I get after a good licking. It�s the aromatics that are heating me up.

After all we�ve been through, after all the hot and saucy things he�s done to me, at heart I still long to look like myself, to feel like myself, taste like myself. Despite his talk of ingredient expression, he still seems to be hung up on expressing spices through me.

�Ow! We need to talk.�

He stills his hands, and his expression clouds. I�m no longer afraid of Shifty�s moods, but it still makes me pause.

�I can�t take this, night after night,� I explain. �These strong flavors are wearing me out.�

His face looks pained. �You�re leaving me?�

He still doesn�t get it? I feel exasperation welling. �No, you big paranoid fussbudget. I want the chance to express myself. I want the freedom to be me.� I wonder how he feels about losing the cookbook deal. Oh, Little Booklet.

�These flavors are part of what makes us work so well.� He says this with conviction, but his eyes look vulnerable and slightly scared. Is he really afraid I won�t stick around? Poor, messed-up foodie. No, stand your ground, Chicken.

�I want more. I want you to want me for my tasty dark meat and succulent white meat. I want you to crisp my skin.�

�I know, hearts and flowers, a big china platter and a carving knife. And then what? Taters, baby?�

I give up. �Stop kidding around and cook me already.�

�Chicken, do you know you�re delicious when you�re angry?�

I�m at rest under a big sheet of foil. My legs and breast are warm and relaxed. My skin is perfectly crisped, my insides are still tingling where his fingers seasoned me. Jeez, does he know how to roast a girl.

I�m slightly suspicious, though. He hasn�t spiced or flavored me, just a quick bath in citrus. This isn�t the Shifty Blades I�ve come to expect.

�Ready?� he asks. There�s something different in his voice.

He whisks the sheet off me with a flourish, and I�m struck completely speechless.

There, in front of me, awaits a china platter garlanded with the most beautiful flowers I�ve ever seen. The table is set with exquisite china and silver flatware. Sweet music is playing on the stereo, the Dixie Chicks, I think. A flute of Cristal glistens in the candlelight. On another plate is a heap of garnishes topped with hearts of palm.

�You wanted hearts and flowers,� he says shyly.

I can�t believe he�s done this.

�Here are the hearts�� He pulls over the plate of hearts of palm.

�And these are the flowers,� I whisper, finishing his sentence. �Oh, Blades, it looks delicious.�

�I think it will be wonderful in our cookbook,� he murmurs. There are tears in his eyes.

Little Booklet? �I thought the contract was canceled after your editor stole your recipes, blackmailed you, and tried to blow you up.�

�I had another publisher up my sleeve. You don�t think I�d put all my eggs in one basket, do you?�

My Shifty, my Chef. I know deep down I will always be his and he will always be mine.

I could get used to this china platter. And Shifty seems to enjoy the Cristal. We can afford it now that our cookbook is out. It�s become bigger than we ever dreamed, and ebook sales are skyrocketing. We still visit the toy drawer, but Blades has found ways to satisfy himself without it.

Tonight it�s a little French number. He massages butter under my skin, mixed with herbs that smell of the South of France. Then he ties me up and roasts me gently and completely. The butter is so silky and wet. It brings out the essential me, without the fancy dressings and luxurious sauces.

He sighs. �I just love chicken.�

�I love you too, Chef. Always.�

Sometimes a girl just likes to be treated like a chicken.

What the fuck was I thinking? The world isn�t ready for full-on radish cuisine. The radish granita was a hit, but the radish-tini is just too far ahead of its time. Well, one day it will be recognized as a classic. Until then, I�d better get my shit together for the cookbook proposal I�m supposed to write.

As I open the fridge I�m nearly bowled over as a pink cannonball plunges from the top shelf and hits the floor with a dull splat. I roll my eyes and suppress my irritation at this needless disruption in my kitchen.

What�s a chicken doing in my refrigerator anyway? Mrs. Smith is getting careless in her housekeeping. I�ll have to talk to her about following my ingredients lists more precisely. Must I write everything out in capital letters?

I pick up the fallen bird, and push the giblets bag back into her cavity. What a mess. But fuck, look at that skin. It�s perfect. Nearly as pink as the radish. Yes, I must confess, she is an alluring little piece. There might be something I could do with this bird. I imagine what the bite of my new oven would do to that skin�crisp it up beautifully, I suspect. Oh man. Get a grip, Chef. You�ve got work to do.

I start prepping out some herbs, but the blush on that chicken keeps drawing my eye, almost as if it were pulsing. Nobody�s making great art with chicken, but it might be fun to play around. Which knife, I wonder? The santoku would certainly bring her to heel. But the vintage carbon-steel French chef�s knife would be more pleasurable. Or the steely discipline of the W�sthof? That rack truly holds a knife for my every mood.

�Yes, quite a collection,� I say aloud. It suddenly occurs to me that this beautiful chicken is like a virgin block of marble, just waiting for a sculptor�s tools to elevate it above the everyday. This bird�s delicious, glowing shade of pink seems to want to prove to me that a real artist, one with finesse, technique, and a good knife, could make a transcendent chicken.

�I couldn�t agree more,� I mumble to myself, impressed by my own idea. I count my knives to calm myself. �Fifty blades, to be precise. This kitchen is my domain. I need to have complete control when I prep.�

I realize I�ve been talking to myself, so I may as well talk to the chicken. I remember Julia used to do that on her show. My television babysitter as a child. I remember the constant smell of Tater Tots. Fucking hell.

I don�t want to repeat the whole radish experience. Am I ready to take on a new Ingredient, something as humdrum as chicken? How do you finesse chicken? I groan inwardly at all the possibilities this presents. Well, getting there is going to be half the fun.

�It�s all about finesse, Miss Hen.� Christ, I�m lecturing a fucking chicken. �I have enormous respect for food. To derive deep satisfaction from the mundane: tourn�ing a radish, cutting a potato, portioning a syllabub. These form the foundation of what I do.�

A syllabub? I might be losing my marbles. But the chicken draws me onward with her ravishing skin. Everything about this humble, exquisite bird points to how the ordinary can be raised to the extraordinary. Through the disheveled plastic I can make out the curve of her perfect breast.

And there you have it. I have to come up with fifty recipes by next month, I�m talking to a chicken, and I have a hard-on.

crispy roasted potatoes with garlic and thyme

SERVES 4

radish salad with cucumbers, sesame, and ginger

SERVES 4

bittersweet chocolate sabayon

SERVES 2 TO 4

bourbon with rosemary syrup and lemon

SERVES 1