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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly and
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Thanksgiving Seduction. This is episode two Hunger Season.
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I changed my outfit four times before dinner with Adrian,
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four times, like I was twenty two again instead of
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thirty one, with a successful career and the ability to
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taste lies in soup. But every time I close my eyes,
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I could still taste his butternut squash soup on my tongue. Desire, need, hunger,
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and my hands shook as I applied lipstick I'd never
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worn before. Coming home. You look nice, Mum said from
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my doorway, her voice carefully neutral, but I could taste
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the worry in the air around her, bitter as burnt coffee.
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It's just dinner. Professional curiosity, right, She watched me spray
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perfume on my wrists. James asked about you at breakfast. James,
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I'd been avoiding him all day, unable to face the
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hurt I knew i'd taste in his presence This morning,
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I'd snuck out early for a run, grabbed coffee from
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the gas station instead of the inn's kitchen. Cowardly but necessary,
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he made cinnamon rolls. Mum continued from scratch said, he
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remembered you mentioning you loved them in some article. He'd
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read my articles of corse. He had sweet Ernest James,
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who cooked emotions I could trust, who looked at me
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like I was something precious instead of something to be consumed.
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I should go, I said, don't wait up. The walk
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to Harvest took five minutes that felt like fifty. Main
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Street was quiet, most shops closed for the evening, but
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Adrian's restaurant glowed like a jewel box. Through the windows.
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I could see empty tables with pristine white tablecloths, candles flickering.
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He really had closed the entire restaurant just for me.
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Adrian opened the door before I could knock. He wore
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all black tonight, black chef's jacket, black pants, making his
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blue eyes look impossibly bright. The smile he gave me
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made my knees weak, which should have been my first warning.
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I'm not the kind of woman whose knees go weak. Norah,
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you look absolutely edible. The way he said edible made
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heat pool in my belly. Or maybe that was just
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residual effect from yesterday's soup. I couldn't tell anymore. Thank
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you for closing the restaurant, I said, trying to sound professional.
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That wasn't necessary, of course, it was. What I'm going
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to feed you tonight requires complete attention, no distractions. He
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led me through the empty dining room to a table
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by the kitchen, passed through. I want you to watch
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me cook. I want you to see everything that goes
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into what you're about to experience. Experience, not eat. Eating
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is just the physical act. What we're doing tonight is
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far more intimate. He poured wine, something burgundy and complex
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that tasted like autumn nights and secrets. I shouldn't have
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been able to taste emotions in wine, but Adrian's touch
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contaminated everything. Apparently before we begin, he said, settling across
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from me with his own glass. Tell me, what did
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you think of James's warning about me? I nearly choked
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on my wine? How did you This is a small
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town Norah. Plus, James isn't subtle about his dislike. He
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leaned forward, candlelight playing across his features. Did he tell
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you his theory that I'm adding something unnatural to my food?
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Something like that? And what do you think? I think
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you're doing something I've never encountered before whether it's wrong.
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I took another sip of wine. I haven't decided yet,
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honest I like that. He stood, fingers brushing my shoulder
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as he passed. First course from the kitchen. He produced
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two perfect oysters on a bed of ice. Tell me
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what you taste. The first oyster was normal, briny, sweet, clean,
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but the second anticipation flooded my system, not mine his.
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I could taste Adrian's anticipation for tonight, for me, for
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what was about to happen. It was like standing at
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the edge of a cliff, that moment before jumping. You're
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looking forward to this, I said, more than you know.
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He was already back in the kitchen, visible through the
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pass through. Second course seared foi gras with cherry reduction.
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The fat melted on my tongue, coating it with richness
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and something else, power, confidence, the feeling you get when
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you know you're the best at something and you know
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you can't fail. I straightened in my chair, chin lifting.
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I can taste your arrogance, I said, He laughed, delighted.
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Is it arrogance? If it's justified always, then I'm guilty.
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Third course, lobster with brown butter and microgreens. Try this.
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The lobster was perfect, sweet and tender, but the emotion
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it carried made my breath catch. Fascination, deep scholarly interest,
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like a scientist studying something rare, but underneath that possession,
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the kind of fascination that wants to own, to keep,
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to consume. You're studying me, I said, I've been studying
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you since you walked into James's restaurant yesterday. He didn't
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deny the possessiveness, your extraordinary Norah, do you know how
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rare it is? What we can do? James can do
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it too. Adrian's expression flickered with something I couldn't read.
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James tastes that's all. He's a receptor passive. You and
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I we're more. What does that mean? Fourth course duck breast,
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sliced thin with pomegranate glaze. The first bite made me moan.
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I couldn't help it. It tasted like being wanted, like
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being the only person in someone's universe, like mattering more
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than air or water or food itself. That's how you
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make me feel, Adrian said, quietly, watching me from the kitchen,
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like I've been starving my whole life and didn't know
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it until yesterday. Fifth course risotto with black truffle, comfort
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and luxury combined. But the emotion, God, the emotion, it
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was desire, concentrated down to its sense. Not just sexual,
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though that was there, making my thighs clench under the table.
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This was desire for connection, for understanding, for someone who
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could finally comprehend what it was like to taste the
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world's feelings. We're the same, he said, coming around the counter,
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now standing close enough that I could feel his heat.
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You've been alone with this gift your whole life. Haven't
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you lying about it, hiding it, pretending food just speaks
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to you metaphorically? Yes, my voice came out, breathy. I
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can teach you to do more than taste. His fingers
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traced the back of my chair, not touching me, but
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close enough that my skin prickled. I can show you
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how to inject emotion, how to craft it, how to
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make people feel what you want them to feel. That's wrong,
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I wanted to say, manipulation, violation, but the words wouldn't
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come because I was drowning in the emotions. He'd fed me.
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Sixth course chocolate souffle with cardamom ice, cream. I knew
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what would happen before I tasted it, knew he'd saved
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the strongest for near the end. But I opened my
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mouth anyway, let him feed me a spoonful like I
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was helpless. Love not real love. I knew that even
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as it flooded my system. This was love like a drug,
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like a chemical reaction, like addiction masquerading as affection. But
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my body didn't care about the distinction. Every cell lit
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up with it oriented toward him, like he was gravity itself. Please,
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I whispered, not sure if I was begging him to
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stop or continue. Last course, he said, and his voice
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was rough now but not here. He held out his hand.
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I stared at it, knowing this was my last chance
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to leave, to go back to the Inn, to James's
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honest food and genuine concern to safety. I took Adrian's hand.
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He led me upstairs to an apartment above the restaurant.
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Everything was perfect, exposed brick, industrial fixtures, a kitchen that
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belonged in a magazine. But I barely saw any of
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it because he was kissing me, and his mouth tasted
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like everything he'd fed me tonight concentrated into a single
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point of contact. Can you taste it? He murmured against
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my lips, how much I want you. I could, but
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it was wrong, like looking at a photograph of an
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emotion instead of the emotion itself. His desire exists, but
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it was crafted, intentional, created for effect, rather than born
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from genuine feeling. Something's not right, I managed to say,
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even as my hands were pulling at his chef's jacket.
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Sh He walked me backward toward the bedroom. The last
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course will make everything clear. On his nightstand was a
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single piece of chocolate on a silver plate, dark, glossy, perfect,
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Eat it, he said, his hands framing my face. Trust me,
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I did, God help me. I put that chocolate on
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my tongue and let it melt. Surrender. That's what it
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tasted like, complete and total surrender, the death of questions,
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of doubt, of resistance. It tasted like letting go, like falling,
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like grateful submission to something greater than myself. My knees buckled.
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Adrian caught me, lowered me to his bed, and I
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let him because the chocolate told me to. I let
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him undress me because resistance had been melted out of
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my system. I let him touch me. Taste me, take me,
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because that's what surrender means. The sex was technically perfect.
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Adrian knew exactly where to touch, how to move, what
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would make me gasp, an arch and beg. But it
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was like he was following a recipe. Add pressure here,
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increased speed there, season with whispered endearments to taste. I
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came because my body had no choice, because he'd fed
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me the emotion of climax, along with everything else. But afterward,
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lying in his bed with his arm draped possessively over
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my waist, I felt empty, hollowed out, like I'd been
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squeezed for juice and pulp and everything useful, leaving only
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the rind. You're thinking too loud, Adrian said, against my shoulder,
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What did you put in that food? Nothing but emotion,
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pure concentrated emotion. Whose emotion? He was quiet for a moment.
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Does it matter, Yes, mine, others emotions I've collected over
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the years. He traced patterns on my bare skin. Think
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of it as a library of feelings. I can check
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out whichever ones I need. You're stealing people's emotions, borrowing, refining, improving.
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His hand stilled. Are you angry? I should have been.
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I knew I should have been, but the surrender chocolate
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was still in my system, making everything feel distant and unimportant.
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I don't know what I am anymore. You're mine, he said, simply.
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That's all that matters. I dozed fitfully, dreams full of
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kitchens and emotions that weren't my own. When I woke
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at dawn, Adrian was already up, dressed perfect. I have
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to prep for tonight's service, he said, barely looking at me.
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You can see yourself out. The dismissal stung even through
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the lingering surrender. I dressed in last night's clothes, shame
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and confusion, fighting the artificial emotions still in my system. Adrian,
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what am I to you? He finally looked at me,
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and his expression was almost pitying. You're an experiment, norah
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a successful one. I needed to know if someone with
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your gift could be influenced as easily as normal people,
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and more easily. Actually, you're so hungry for connection for
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someone who understands it makes you vulnerable. He adjusted his cuffs,
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casual as discussing the weather. We'll do this again soon.
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Your body is already craving what I can give you,
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he wasn't wrong. Even hurt and humiliated, I wanted him
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to feed me more emotions, any emotions. The emptiness where
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his manufactured feelings had been was unbearable. I left without
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another word, walking through early morning Westbrook with sex hair
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and the taste of false love still on my tongue.
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The inn was just waking up when I arrived, and
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the smell of fresh bread led me to the kitchen.
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James was there alone, kneading dough with controlled violence. He
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looked up when I entered, and his face went carefully blank. Coffee,
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he offered, please. He poured me a cup, and I
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could taste everything in it. His hurt deep and genuine,
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his anger not at me, but at Adrian, his disappointment,
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weary and unsurprised, and underneath it all concerned for me
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that he was trying to suppress. I'm sorry, I said,
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for what You're an adult. You can sleep with whoever
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you want. James, he fed you emotion, didn't he James
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wouldn't look at me. Made you feel things that weren't real.
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How did you know? Because three months ago I ate
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at Harvest one meal, and I was obsessed with him
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for a week, thought I was in love and I'm
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not even attracted to men. His hands stilled on the dough.
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It wore off eventually, but the violation knowing someone made
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me feel something that wasn't mine. I've been trying to
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warn people, but no one listens. I'm listening now, are
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you or are you already planning when you can go back?
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I didn't answer, because we both knew the truth. I
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was already craving another fix. James finally looked at me,
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and the sadness in his eyes was devastating. He's preparing
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you for something, Norah. I don't know what, but the
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way he's feeding you specific emotions in a specific order,
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it's like he's marinating you. That's ridiculous, is it? Think
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about what you ate last night? Anticipation, confidence, fascination, want, desire, love, surrender.
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He's building something in you, layer by layer, building what.
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I don't know. But Thanksgiving is in two weeks and
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everyone who's been eating regularly at Harvest has been invited
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to a special dinner that night, a gratitude feast. He's
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calling it. My blood chilled. How many people, forty maybe fifty,
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All people who eat there obsessively now, all people whose
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emotional signatures have been altered by his food. James's jaw tightened,
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and now you I won't go I won't eat there again.
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But even as I said it, I knew I was lying.
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The craving was already building, the emptiness demanding to be filled.
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Adrian had made me an addict in one night, and
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we both knew it. I'll help you, James said, quietly,
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you want, I'll cook for you, real food, with real emotions,
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try to counteract whatever he's done. Why would you do
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that after I because I know what it's like to
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have your feelings hijacked, and because he turned back to
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his dough kneeding steadier now because I care about you,
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the real you, not the version he's creating. I wanted
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to cry at his kindness, but I couldn't tell if
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the urge was mine or left over from Adrian's emotional
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cocktail Breakfast James offered nothing fancy, just eggs and toast,
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real food, yes please. He cooked in silence while I
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sat at the counter, shaking like an addict in withdrawal.
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When he set the plate in front of me, I
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nearly sobbed at the simplicity of it. Eggs that tasted