Page 117 of Jonesing for a Spy

He looks at the fork and back to me. “You just Fried Green Tomatoes me and you want to feed me in the next breath?”

“That’s a no then?” I begin to retract my utensil when his palm wraps my wrist pulling me to him.

He holds my gaze as he takes the bite off my fork, his look saying he’ll take my dare—or dares… as many as I’m willing to throw down. It’s obvious his hunger isn’t solely for food.

I’m sure the look on my face betrays the lust I have for the man. This whole scene is too intimate if anyone is watching. I might as well be eye fucking him, and he’s undressing me with his eyes. All the while, his thumb strokes the pulse point on my wrist, stoking the fire boiling under my skin, in my belly, and places further south that only he can.

The sound of a throat being cleared breaks me from my trance. Queenie stands behind Strider not concealing her humor. “Hey, Mirri. I wanted to come say hi. How is everything?” She gestures to the table.

“So good. So, so good. Queenie”—I gesture to Strider—“this is Strider Anderson. He’s been raving about your food. He wondered if you’d teach him how to make your gumbo.”

Strider’s eyes bug out of his head at me, but he turns and extends a hand to the chef whose white coat has not a single stain on it. “Nice to meet you, Queenie. Mirren’s right. Everything’s delicious.” He smiles at her but it’s not the lascivious one he reserves for me. “And I’d love to learn how you make gumbo. On a more reasonable scale.” He looks around the restaurant. “Feeding this many people is too daunting for my blood.”

“No joke. It takes a team back there”—she hitches a thumb over her shoulder—“to make any of this work. I don’t recommend it unless you’re a glutton for punishment or have no other skills.”

“Fair enough. I’ll make you a deal. Show me your gumbo sometime and I’ll help you with electrical stuff when shit goes wonky.”

Queenie’s face lights up, and she takes two steps backward. “You’re on, Anderson. I’m gonna bail before you regret that decision.” Turning to me she adds, “Have a great night, Mirren. We need a girls’ night soon.”

“Absolutely. After the holidays?”

“Yes. I won’t come up for air until mid-January, but you’re on.” She lifts a hand and offers Tom a wave and a smile as she heads back to the kitchen, stopping at another table on her way.

Tom moseys up to us minutes later carrying an appetizer plate. “On the house,” he offers, refilling our wine glasses. Little French bread pistolettes hold fried green tomatoes and pink remoulade sauce. “Queenie said she heard you talking and couldn’t resist.”

Strider’s face is priceless.

My laughter is real.

This whole night feels so perfect… and too good to be true.

50

heaven on steroids

Mirren

We make it just inside my front door when Strider crowds me into the wall, hands planted on either side of my face, taking my mouth as if he’ll die without it. When he breaks away, he’s panting, but manages to find my ear and whisper, “Starving to taste your pussy, baby. Need to eat you. Now.” The last word comes out on a growl.

I turn my face toward his. “Only if I can taste you too.”

Who am I kidding? I won’t hold to that. I want to lick him, suck him, take him down my throat, and make him fall apart from bliss, but I won’t argue if I don’t get first dibs. The man eats like it’s his job. Far be it from me to stop him.

He squats enough to put a shoulder to my belly, throwing me over his shoulder with a bounce and carrying me down the hall until we’re in my small bedroom, where he slides me down his body, ever so slowly, to stand before him.

I reach around my neck to begin undressing when Strider barks, “No.” His cock strains against his pants displaying how turned on he is.

“I thought you wanted⁠—”

His eyes smolder. “Oh, I want, Freckles, very, very much. But I get to unwrap my present.” He takes two steps toward me, so close I can smell him, and reaches a finger up, tracing it over my collarbone. His other palm lands on my neck, warm and firm, as his thumb strokes my erratic pulse point.

With his free hand, he traces from my clavicle to shoulder, down my arm, leaving fire singing in its wake, until he captures my hand and places it on his shoulder. His eyes follow the movement and return to me as he repeats on the other side. Slower than I’d think he can go, he unties the bow at my neck and pulls the ends, revealing my unbound breasts.

“Fuuuck.” His word stretches in that sexy way that makes my core heat and my pussy weep.

He traces my nipples with a barely-there touch as he watches them pebble and strain for more. When he can take no more—and, frankly, neither can I—he splays his hands over my ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, before sliding to my waistband and pushing the pants over my hips and onto the floor.

His eyes dilate, and he bites his full bottom lip when he realizes I’m commando there too.