“You put me in the corner!” Even though his tone is affronted, he’s grinning cheekily.
“You earned the punishment, Benjamin.”
“I don’t remember it that way.” The twitch of his lips tells me that’s a bald-faced lie. It makes my stomach flutter. His sass has always been a real turn-on for me.
Carefully setting down my menu, I sit back in my seat and clasp my palms over my lap. “Do you need to be reminded how to behave in public, sweetheart?”
His cheeks flush pink, but he shakes his head, that wry twist of his lips appearing again, even under his attempt to seem completely innocent. “Not yet.”
Oh, he’s going to be the death of me after all.
He’s saved briefly from my reply when a server appears and asks for our drink order. We both order light beers, and then the server tells us they’ll give us a little while longer to decide on our meals while he goes to get our drinks.
I know from the past few months of chatting and texting that Benji doesn’t have any allergies, and that he will generally eat anything, but I don’t feel like testing boundaries with any of the more obscure delicacies (like escargot or frogs legs) tonight. Maybe another time, should tonight continue to go well.
When the server returns, I make the order for our appetizers and mains, smiling back at Benji who nods happily at my choices, and then we’re left alone again to sip our drinks and talk.
Instead of flirting and bratting, Benji asks me about work and conversation flows easily from there, with him telling a story about one of his favorite patients of the week who, despite being anelderly woman, sounds like she could give him a run for his money when it comes to being an absolute menace.
“You should have seen her,” he practically wheezes during his retelling, “she planned a complete escape, including stealing a wheelchair—”
“Stealing a wheelchair?!”
He nods. “She called it ‘commandeering’. Anyway, she stole a wheelchair and an entire tray of jello, and she made it halfway down the block before anyone noticed.”
“All because her family wasn’t allowed to smuggle her in a pizza?”
“She was supposed to be on a liquid diet.” He shrugs. “I would have stolen the jello, too.”
The easy admission makes me chuckle. “That’s because you’re a brat, sweetheart.”
He just shrugs, sitting back with a smug little smile as the server chooses this moment to reappear with our appetizers. The plate is slid onto the table between us, and Benji’s attention shifts to the baked brie and crostini. His eyes widen appreciatively.
“Oh, yum,” he says, reaching for a piece of crostini and the cheese knife, breaking the soft rind swiftly. I find joy in the pleased smile on his face as he spreads a slice of the warm, gooey cheese topped with honey and fruit onto the crisp bread, but it’s the moment where he takes a bite, closing his eyes and letting out a satisfied hum, that really makes me happy. “God, that’s amazing.” He opens his eyes, then frowns at me, gesturing at the plate. “Aren’t you having any?”
Screw the food, I want to eat him all up.
Nevertheless, I help myself to my own crostini smothered in warm, melted brie and I have to withhold an indecent moan when the textures and flavors hit my tongue.
Benji just quirks his lips knowingly. “It’s good, right?”
“Mmm,” I agree, “so good.”
The entrees are even better. Decadent, rich flavors taunt my tastebuds with every bite, and Benji’s running commentary about the food not only keeps me entertained but also validates the choices I made.
Despite his earlier teasing, Benji is on his best behavior during the meal. He’s still a bit cheeky and playful, but he doesn’t push boundaries. At least, not until dessert arrives.
I know I’m in trouble the second his spoon —holding a delicious-looking mouthful of velvety crème brûlée— reaches his lips. His eyes glint as he meets my gaze, crinkling at the corners before his plump, pink lips part and oh-so-slowly take in the dessert. His eyes flutter shut, and where I was able to hold my own back earlier, he does moan damn near indecently as the sweet treat hits his tongue. The spoon slides back out sucked clean.
I refuse to react the way he expects me to. (The way my body desperately wants to.)
With the willpower of a saint, I carefully lift my slice of crêpe to my own mouth and let the delicate sweetness settle on my tongue for a moment before I chew and swallow.
Benji studies me, then bats his lashes and gestures to his dish with his teaspoon after another porntastic mouthful. “Mmm, this is delicious, Daddy,” he says, then looks to my plate, then up at my eyes, “can I taste yours, too?” The question is overly innocent and guileless; a sure sign he’s up to something.
Nevertheless, he’s been a good boy, so I cut him a slice from my perfectly rolled crêpes, complete with strawberries and chocolate sauce inside, and lean forward over the table, holding my hand under the extended fork to prevent any drips down onto the white linen tablecloth.
His eyes sparkle under the warm lighting, and he opens his mouth willingly to wrap those perfect lips around my fork, seemingly taking the offered morsel as slowly as humanly possible. His cheeks hollow as he pulls back, taking every last speck of the treat with him, then his pink tongue darts out to catch the tiny drop of chocolate sauce that sits on the corner of his lips.
