Page 31 of The Taste

“Alright! Ice cream time!” A kid’s voice shouted.

He was torn back to reality with a gut wrenching rip. She blinked, her eyes flying to the door. The spell was broken.

He released a regretful sigh through his nose.

Her hands immediately flew to her skirt, smoothing it down. His hands tucked himself back in and did his jeans back up.

She looked up at him then, breathless, and hungry. Just as hungry as he was. “How about you come back tomorrow, huh?”

She wiped her hands down her thighs. Were they sweaty? Had he made her hot and bothered? Thank fuck because he was primed to blow. She wanted to be professional. She smoothed down her T-shirt, trying to clear the desire from her vision. Okay, he got it, she was trying to run a business here. But he was certain she wanted him. At least in that moment, she had. The spell was broken now, but for that time, in that little moment, they had both stared at each other and tasted each other and wanted each other.

She stammered now, caught off guard, trying to clear the desire from her system and failing by the sound of it. “You’ll have to pay for your ice cream from now on, I can’t keep giving you free samples. Though, I must say, giving to you…” She let that linger on her lips. Let his imagination run riot. He wanted her to give him head. Giving him the best, wettest, messiest blowie of his life. Giving him everything.

His hands moved on their own. A part of him was determined to not let this go. The other part of him wanted to run and rage and howl, with delight and regret and sheer elation. The human within him was determined to see this through, to finish this interaction like a normal person. Like a person, like a fucking human being, not an animal.

He could do this, he had to do this.

He got out his phone from his pocket, and held out his hand for hers, his eyes commanding her to give him her phone. She blinked for a second and then understood what he was doing. She hurriedly plucked hers from the countertop, unlocked it and gave it to him. His fingers flew over it, he barely took his gaze from her to put in his number. He used her phone to call himself, his phone vibrating gently in his pocket. Now they both had each other’s number. Possibility stretched out before him. Future. A road ahead. Something he hadn’t ever seen before.

The family clattered into the shop, the kid came running up to the counter, exclaiming excitedly about the flavors. Sophie fixed that smile of hers on her face. Only he could tell it was shakier than usual. Fucking good, that’s what he wanted her to be, shaking with anticipation for what was to come now.

And with that he turned and marched out.

Sophie sighed, felt a sickening, disappointed sinking inside herself. That feeling of knowing you were being dumped. She breathed out a low, “Crap.” As she shook her hair and smoothed her apron a final time in her noisy, busy shop, her phone pinged. A text message. She reached into her back pocket on her jeans and pulled out her phone, glancing at the screen.

It was from him. From Phantom. Her heart stuttered as her face unlocked the screen and took her straight through to the message. It only said three words but it certainly set her on fire.

“I like vanilla.”

She cracked a wide smile on her face and saved his number under the name on his leather cut, Phantom. She put a flame emoji after his name. Because he was hot, and set her on fire. She hoped he wouldn’t see that.

Sophie had caught a glimpse of herself in the window of the shop. She stood stock still and stared at her reflection. She stared specifically at the tiny cut, the barely there line on her throat. Except it was there. A memento, from the knife he had pressed against her jugular. It had stung a little in the shower that morning. She wanted to treasure it. Because it was a souvenir from the most intense and erotic moment of her life.

She wished he’d come inside her the other night. Then she would have more of a memento. Wetness, stickiness. But actually she liked that he didn’t. They hadn’t even thrusted together, the act of sex, was that something they had done officially? It was more of a connection, a commitment. A promise. It could have been weird, it wasn’t normal. He’d entered her before they’d spoken a word, before they’d shared a kiss. No phone calls. No flirting. No texts. No dates. All of that was to come. That’s what the act had said, it was a whisper of the next course. It was a teaser. An amuse bouche that he had chosen to privately disclose to her. It was a beautiful, raw expression of pure intent. His intent to follow through. And her intent to welcome it. It was perfect. She loved what they had done.

The knife had been new to her. She had no desire to cut, to see blood, to feel pain. And yet she had enjoyed turning him on, learning and using what it was he liked. The physical struggling, little screams. He’d put the knife to her throat with no intention of using it. Almost out of habit, automatically. He’d come into the shop to rescue her. He’d been watching, obviously, and he knew the other man was a threat. He came into the shop to save her, to kill him. But he’d kept the knife there because he wanted to, because he liked it. Was it the threat of violence he liked? The potential for it? The possibility, the risk? Who was she to judge? She probably had weird kinks that she didn’t even know about.

She had been determined to get to know him better. Luckily, he seemed to want to get to know her, too. In his own, silent way. He’d already surpassed her fantasies though in terms of his bad boy demeanor. The way he’d tilted his mouth up and opened it for her, inviting her in. The way he’d indicated to her pussy, tapping it like he was choosing an ice cream flavor... It was more than she’d hoped for. But it couldn’t go any further, could it? Would he really be interested in the likes of her? A quiet, little shop owner? A petite good girl from the city? She imagined the kinds of girls he normally went for, she imagined loud, gaudy colors, high heels, bright lipstick, big boobs and bold moves. Girls who had played with bad boys before. Girls who had played with knives. She was not one of those types of girls. She knew her worth, but it was not there. She wasn’t sure she could hold his interest, but she wanted to.

She thought back to the moment she had managed to lure him into the shop, and given him a taste of her ice cream. His eyes had blacked out with pleasure as soon as the creamy goodness had hit his tongue. She had giggled at his sudden, innocent enthusiasm. This giant, terrifying man, this bad boy biker, who hadn’t hesitated to draw a knife on her with one breath, stuff his dick into her the next, then casually knock a man unconscious a few seconds later. There he was, reduced to a little boy, spooning ice cream on a tiny wooden spoon into his mouth. That mouth that no doubt was familiar with the taste of alcohol, cigarettes, all the vices known to man. Other untold things she had no knowledge of. And yet, here he was, undone by the taste of her ice cream.

She wished she’d forgotten the wooden spoon and he’d have to lick his ice cream with his own tongue. She wanted to lick that swipe of ice cream off him with her tongue and then bite down on his beautiful, full lips. She shouldn’t. She knew she really shouldn’t. He was obviously trouble. A bad boy biker. Who couldn’t speak. Or wouldn’t speak. Somehow connected to this Mexican gang, somehow involved with someone who had tried to come and kill her. But she wanted him still.

She had dreamed about him every night since that first encounter. His cheek, his chin. The stubble covering it that had felt rough against her skin. Warm, but scratchy. Felt the pull of his physicality. When she had touched his lip with her thumb, lord, she had wanted to kiss him. The other night had really happened. She wasn’t going mad, there was chemistry, it was a goddamn atomic bomb, brewing between them.

She wanted to play more with him. She’d been desperate for any form of interaction with him. And he clearly wanted her, too. She felt her panties flood with want for him. She dreamed of him as soon as she closed the door of her apartment, she was near bursting by the time she slipped into her sheets and allowed her fingers to relieve herself of the want for him. But it never lasted, it came right back, that burning, the pulsing, throbbing want she felt between her legs. She wanted him to take her roughly, she wondered if he would be confident or hesitant in bed. She imagined confident. His touch so far had been self-assured. No trembling, sweaty pawing, but warm, strong, calm. She wanted him.

She was beginning to get into the rhythm of his gentler form of communication now, too. She had to pay attention, she had to think. She had to pose questions to him with a yes or no answer, so that he could signal to her. She liked it. He was like a tiger, or a baby, some sort of animal, working on a different level than what she was used to. She had to think carefully, be more open, more responsive. More active. But she could do that, that wasn’t a problem. It was a fascinating, interesting thing that she wanted to master.

And after he’d suddenly devoured the ice cream, it was like he had come alive at last. The sugar and the cold creaminess had loosened whatever it was that coiled up so tightly within him ever so slightly. And then he had the self assurance to look her straight in the eyes with his dark chocolate ones and open his mouth and beckon her closer with a chin lift that was all confidence. She wanted to ask him what he wanted her to wipe the smear off with? She wanted to hear him answer with something erotic, her fingers, her tongue? She felt arousal in her stomach, lower. And when she got into bed at the end of each evening, she reveled in that heat. Like sinking into a warm bath, she laid back and let her body work on it, let her hands roam, closed her eyes and imagined him on top of her, his long hair coming into her face as he moved above her. She wasn’t ashamed, he was beautiful and she wanted him. She thought he wanted her, too.

He’d looked terrified by the mother and kid incident the other week. When Sophie had first tried to speak to him, he’d literally turned and walked away. He made no sound. He obviously had a history. Some back story filled with trauma and pain. But he still stood, having survived whatever it was. He obviously was up to no good, waiting outside the pharmacy next door, watching. Taking photographs, sending messages on his phone. She wasn’t stupid, she’d put two and two together. She watched as his gaze always pivoted back to her shop. She knew he wanted to be looking at her, but he had a sense of duty that pulled his gaze to check on the pharmacy. And now it wasn’t just Phantom watching her. Other men came, too. Other bikers. Like they were guarding her, watching over her. She liked it. She wished it was Phantom all the time, but she felt his presence even when he wasn’t there, with those other bikers outside all the time.

She wanted to text him, have a conversation over the phone. She wanted to go out with him, get to know him, take things further. But what was the next step from here? Though she had his number, she hadn’t called it, she hadn’t messaged him. And he hadn’t messaged her. She wanted more, already. More communication, for starters, and a clear view of his intentions.

She was a ball of nerves about it though. Her heart was pounding. She had the feeling no one pushed him for anything. And she wanted to do just that. This funny little relationship of stolen glances over ice cream needed to either progress to the next level, or else she needed to move on from it. She was beginning to get obsessed. To care.

She was walking past the park now, just a block from her apartment. The air was cooler, it was darker. There were streetlights, sure, but somehow the expanse of the trees and the grass softened and absorbed everything.

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