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“Sit down,” he tells me, his voice deep. “I set a place for you.”
Yes, he did. And I had watched with hungry eyes as he set that spot for me, placing the silverware. When he did that, I watched with such focused attunement on his backside, the toned muscles of which showed in excruciating detail through that fitted t-shirt of his. His bulging biceps are seriously torturing those sleeves so badly, I’m surprised they haven’t torn yet.
And his ass. Oh my God, his ass. The loose, light blue jeans he’s wearing are already hanging low enough to show the top of his firm, pert cheeks—his shirt mercifully cut just above his waist so that his butt is on perfect display for me. But when he had reached over the table to set down a fork and knife, I got such a generous front row seat to his butt as it moved. I mean, I could see the tops of either cheek like two perfect, sculpted humps of smooth, inviting muscle.
How the hell am I supposed to focus on anything else??
I’m like a preadolescent all over again, hunting jock butts in the locker room after gym class. I feel so out of control and primal, the way I yearn for him.
It’s almost too much to take.
I blink away my dirty thoughts and give a distracted nod at the table. “Who’s the, um … third table setting for?”
“Lance.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Who?”
“You’ve already forgotten? My dog. Lancelot. Trouble is,” he goes on, smirking as he nods toward the stairs, “I don’t think he’s going to be up for coming down to eat. He’s not very trusting or social, I think I warned you. Lance!” he calls out, his strong, sexy voice booming. “Food’s here! Your favorite!”
We both look up at the banister. No dog appears.
“He eats steak?” I ask incredulously.
“No. The chef makes him a special plate. I’ll bring it up to him later,” Ben decides with a shrug, then turns halfway toward me. “Go ahead. Either of the other spots are fine.” He turns back to the counter, slowly filling our plates as his sexy wide back faces me. Naturally, I become quickly hypnotized once again, watching him longingly. Ben must sense it because after a moment, he looks over his shoulder, catches me staring slack-jawed, then teasingly adds, “Nothing to be afraid of. My forks don’t bite.”
It’s not the forks I’m afraid that bite. I keep my thoughts in my head, give him a curt nod, then take a seat at the table. The chair is a ridiculously comfortable improvement from the stiff wooden ones that creak at Elijah’s apartment.
Seconds later, Ben brings two dishes of the most gorgeously plated pasta and steak I have ever seen. The aroma is intoxicating, rich, and eye-rollingly succulent. Like Pavlov’s dog, I salivate the second the plate is set before me.
It’s astonishing, how he’s so instantly forced me to trade one appetite for another.
Of course that appetite is traded right back when he takes his seat and my eyes meet his. There’s nothing decent about his dark, hungry gaze. He undresses me with his eyes, stripping me of everything I have and know. Ben grins crookedly, gripping his fork and knife like he plans to eat me for dinner instead.
Then, in a voice deep and gravelly, he says, “Bon appétit.”
“Th-Thank you,” I choke out.
And we begin to cut into our steaks.
The first bite explodes with flavor in my mouth. It’s so good, I can’t help but close my eyes as I chew, savoring every bit of the juice that coats my tongue. I swallow it in seconds. When I cut and help myself to a second bite, it’s twice as good as the first, and an involuntary moan hops out of my throat. A third makes its way to my fork, then past my lips. Oh my God, this is some kind of heaven.
When I look up, Ben’s eyes are all on me, watching, amused, and his first tiny square of steak remains speared at the end of his fork, uneaten.
I smirk at him. “Well, go on and eat your steak, too,” I tease him. “This isn’t the Trevor show.”
He grins. “I beg to differ, but alright.” He brings the bite to his teeth—yes, his teeth before his tongue—and then I watch that lucky bite disappear past his lips. When he chews, his whole jaw moves slowly and sensually, its muscles flexing and tightening. He closes his eyes too, savoring it. It’s entrancing, the way his lips squirm, showing evidence of his tongue as it wrestles and works the piece of meat in his mouth, devouring it skillfully. He seems like an expert in … working pieces of meat with his mouth.
And now I’m thinking about blowjobs. Perfect.
I pull my attention back to my plate like yanking the leash of a stubborn dog, cutting myself another bite, then another. The meat is tender and falls apart in my mouth. The bed of pasta beneath is coated in the delicious juice from the steak, and when I twist a helping onto my fork and bring it to my tongue, a whole new set of flavors, mouthwatering and savory, crash through my body and fulfill cravings I didn’t know I had.
