Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
And just like that, he was gone, leaving us with a plate of food and nothing but our fingers.
Fabien exhaled, slow and amused.
"This should be fun." And with that, he lifted a single ball from the plate. Something warm, drippy, and decadent.
“I have no idea what this is, but I am absolutely amused.” He turned it slowly in his fingers, letting the sauce glide over his skin.
Then, he looked at me and slowly brought it toward my lips. “Chef’s rule.”
I leaned forward, let my lips just barely brush his fingertips as I took the bite.
The way his fingers glistened with sauce.
The way his emerald eyes locked on my mouth, waiting.
It all made me wet.
Slowly, I opened my lips wider and he tenderly fed me.
The entire moment was pure foreplay.
Mmmm.
I swallowed.
The bite was warm, savory, rich, and sinful, but the food was the last thing on my mind.
Because Fabien hadn’t moved those fingers from my lips and his gaze remained on my mouth too.
Oh my.
Then, with excruciatingly sexy deliberation and his piercing gaze fully on me, he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the sauce off his fingers.
Mmmm.
I couldn’t have coordinated a better intimate moment.
I clenched my thighs, suddenly realizing how big of a mistake my saying yes to enjoying the evening with him was because. . .I was in deep trouble with this man.
And the night had only just begun.
Chapter six
Fingers, Lips, and Everything In Between
Rae
As the minutes passed, we indulged in a sensuous dance of feeding. Our exchange of bites and sips felt more like a seduction than a mere meal.
Every time I reached for a bite to place near his full lips, the act shifted to a divine ritual, like offering something precious to an intoxicating man who knew exactly how to savor.
His lips—plush, sensual, the kind of mouth that was made for slow kisses and filthy promises—would part just enough, accepting the food with a kind of quiet indulgence.
And then, just as I would compose myself from him being so sexy, he would tilt his head and passionately swipe along my fingertips with his tongue in the most tantalizing ways, sending heat straight to my core.
Mmmm. He’s doing that on purpose.
That much was clear.
And every time it happened, my breath hitched just a little more.
And my pussy kept on jumping, trying to get his attention.
She was already so wet.
So ready for him.
And trust me, I desperately wanted to act unaffected.
To keep the game light, to pretend that this was just playful teasing.
But every decadent slide of his tongue against my fingers, every flicker of his endearing gaze locking onto my mouth afterward, chipped away at my composure.
I was unraveling, and he fucking knew it.
Because Fabien—this too-damn-smooth Frenchman with a voice like silk and tongue that could probably ruin me—wasn’t just eating.
No.
He was devouring me in ways that had nothing to do with food.
Oh fuck.
The way he held my gaze, the way he exhaled just slightly after each taste, the way his fingers lingered against my mouth for a second too long—it was all a promise.
A sensual preview.
A slow, torturous build toward something inevitable.
And God, I wanted it.
Wanted him.
Desperately.
Because sure, the dish was good—perfectly balanced, rich with flavor, worthy of its Stellar-starred kitchen.
But Fabien?
He was everything.
Every smooth glance.
Every hushed chuckle.
Every deep murmur of "Mmm, delicious" that he sent my way in that velvety accent had me clenching my thighs and barely holding myself together.
And the worst part?
I knew.
I fucking knew!
A man who could eat like this, with such unhurried indulgence, with such aching attention to every bite, was a man who could absolutely eat pussy like it was a religion.
Mmmm.
And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to be the next thing he tasted.
My bestie’s voice screamed in my head, “I double dare your ass to take him to bed tonight!”
I blushed, and hoped that he didn’t catch it.
As the last morsel of the previous dish vanished from our plates, the staff glided in with seamless precision, whisking the dishes away.
Next, our waitress returned with the kind of effortless grace that suggested she had mastered the art of fine dining service. In her hands, she cradled an elegant bottle of wine and presented the label—Château Margaux 2000—a vintage so rare and revered that even I, a casual wine drinker, recognized its prestige.
"This," she said with a knowing smile, "is one of the finest Bordeaux wines in existence. A Premier Grand Cru Classé, aged to perfection, with layers of blackcurrant, truffle, and the faintest whisper of violets.”
I could already taste the fine liquid on my tongue.
She continued, “It has a velvety texture, a finish that lingers like a lover’s touch, and was once served at royal banquets."
With that, she poured a measured stream into Fabien’s glass first, then mine.
The deep ruby liquid caught the light. “Take your time with it. Each sip should be an experience.”