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“Seven and I’ll supply the decadence.”
If not for an old lady and her husband staring at us as if we were entertainers—oops, okay, I was—I would have kissed Gibson right there in the wine shop. Probably it was for the best that the elderly couple was there. When Gibson and I kissed for the first time, I didn’t want to be in a store with people gawking. It would be somewhere private, tucked back into some stately weather-beaten pines. And that was not an if we kissed, it was a when. This man and I were destined to be lovers.
Chapter Nine
Notwantingtobecaught short if decadence broke out this evening, I took way more time to get ready for dinner than I generally would have. I prepped for intimacy, shaved up the overgrown patch of curls by my dick, moussed my hair, tidied my beard, and then applied a light spritz of cologne that matched my soap and shampoo. Some ridiculously expensive stuff that I’d bought on Rodeo Drive the last time I’d been shopping. Something Dior with a Greek god’s name on it. I even rubbed some of the beard cream into my facial hair. Was that too much? Did I reek of the stuff now?
“Shit.” I sniffed what I could sniff of myself. Hopefully, I wouldn’t bowl the man over with scent first thing in the door. After I was done with the personal things, I padded to the wardrobe, naked as a babe, opened it, and pulled out the middle drawer. There, laid out neatly, were my panties and bralettes. I ran a finger over the silken ones, then the lace, letting the material speak to me. The sound of the sea floated in the patio doors as I let my eyes drift shut. When my fingers settled on one thing, I glanced down to see what the lingerie gods had chosen. Oh my, they had picked well. The set was black see-through lace, a sissy bra with matching panties, and garters that went along with them. I mulled over if it was too much to wear stockings on the first night of possible decadence. While slipping on stockings was one of my favorite things ever, perhaps Gibson would be turned off in some way.
I opted out of the garters and stockings this time. Stepping into the panties sent shivers up my legs, pleasurable tingles that settled not in my groin but in my heart. Any time I wore lingerie, it made me feel whole and pretty and alive in a way that boxers and tighty-whities never could. What a pity the world was so damn hung up on such things. Who cared what a person wore to cover their ass? Fans of action movies, it seemed.
Unwilling to let myself get bummed out before the night even started, I shoved all thoughts of the world that lay across the bridge that Portman guarded away and focused on tonight. On Gibson and our meal. Once I was dressed in a tank top, shorts, and low-cut sneakers, I made my way to the back door of the kitchen.
Usually, there was a light amount of food being served at the bar, but since the island was filling with people, the kitchen was humming. Pub food always went well, and for those who wanted finer dining, they could hit the tip or cross the bridge. They just had to be back by ten or risk rousing Portman from his bed. Amazing what city folk would put up with in the name of quaint Maine charm.
Emelda glanced my way when I snuck in. “We are too busy for you to be taking up all the room,” she said while plating up some deep fried shrimp.
“I’m just here to grab that shrimp platter you said you’d fix for me.” She huffed, muttered, and waved her hand at the large silver walk-in. “You’re the most beautiful woman on the island.”
“Go away now before I paddle you for lying,” she replied with a smile playing on her lips. I kissed her on the cheek, then danced out of the way of her playful slap. The plate sat just inside the fridge, a hearty helping of giant prawns with a monkey dish full of Emelda’s fiery hot cocktail sauce. “Thank you!” I called as I scurried out of the kitchen as servers hustled in and out, all calling out greetings.
Trying to figure out how to balance a dish of shrimp on a bike was a problem. After a quick dash back to the kitchen for a takeout container with a lid, I was off, with the appetizer secured to the rack over the rear tire. I wanted to race to the yellow shack, but I also didn’t want to be sweaty when I arrived. The humidity had spiked the past few days. I was damp under my arms when I wheeled into the overgrown drive. Nothing to do about that. I’d pedaled with ease.
Oregano sounded off as soon as I leaned my bike against the side of the cabin.
“Who is it?” I heard Gibson calling from within his home, his voice pitched high like a woman’s.
“It’s the handsome bike delivery man,” I called back as I loosened the bungee cord holding the shrimp and then walked to the door, making a wide berth of the irate gull trying her best to reach out and peck me.
“Come in, handsome bike delivery man,” he replied in that singsong voice that had me laughing out loud as I opened the front door. The inside was cooler, the pines shading the cabin nicely, and the open windows allowed the ocean breeze to blow in. The tiny home smelled of garlic, onions, and fried bacon. Gibson stood by his kitchen table in another beautiful kaftan, this one bright green with small gold antelopes. His big feet were bare and his hair flowed freely. My cock plumped up inside my panties, which was a little uncomfortable but also kind of a turn on. Like a lace cock ring of sorts.
“We sound like a cheap porn,” I said as I walked over to hand the takeout container to Gibson. “This needs to be refrigerated. Whatever you’re making smells amazing.”
He cracked the container, oohing at the shrimp, and rushed to get them on a glass dish.
“Sit, sit, we’ll start with some shrimp and wine while the cheese melts on the pasta.” I glanced at the stove and saw a casserole dish in the oven. “It’s brie pasta. The recipe calls for spaghetti, but I wanted to use rigatoni. There’s brie, pancetta, a dash of lemon juice, red peppers, caramelized onions, fresh spinach, some garlic, and salt. I like a casserole so I tossed some sliced brie on top. I have always felt that one can never have too much cheese.”
“I tend to agree,” I said, taking a seat as he placed the shrimp on the table followed by a charcuterie board with pumpernickel bread, apples, more brie, a dish of honey, and nuts. I smiled up at him as he filled our glasses with white wine and then took his seat. “This looks amazing. Do you have some sort of cooking degree?”
“Gods no, although I did always want to be Julia Child in another life,” he replied, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other.
“Ah, so you believe in reincarnation?” I asked, sipping the very dry wine and reaching for a shrimp to eat.
“Well, there are schools of thought on that. Some of the greatest Greek minds believed in life after death. Plato, for example, felt that the soul was eternal and would linger when the body was gone. He felt that death should not be feared but viewed as an achievement.”
“What doyouthink?” I prodded after dipping the shrimp into the sauce and holding it out for him to take. He leaned over the table, pulled the shrimp from my fingers with his teeth, and sat back slightly to chew. His nose flared when the extra hot horseradish hit his tongue. I snickered at the sweat breaking out on his brow. To his credit, he chewed and swallowed. But then downed a glass of wine while I tittered.
“I think that cocktail sauce should come with a Scoville warning,” he gasped, eyes watering, and nose running. I roared, then ate a shrimp with only a mild shudder. “How on earth do you eat that and not pass out?”
“I grew up eating Emelda’s cooking,” I replied and offered him a shrimp dripping with red sauce.
He politely refused. I popped it into my mouth as he nursed his wine for several minutes as we talked about life after death. Once the pasta was ready, we dove into that and some other deep discussions. Soft classic crooners played from a hidden stereo somewhere in the cabin, adding the perfect tone to the meal. I’d never had someone stimulate my mind like Gibson did. He prodded and poked, pushed and pulled, engaging me on topics that rarely came up in my life.Washappiness just chemicals floating in my brain, or was it something deeper? Is having a large ego good or bad? Are we truly inside the Matrix?
We carried the conversation of Neo and Trinity out back after we’d stuffed ourselves on pasta with dark chocolate cupcakes with brandy icing for dessert. I really wanted to stop at the bakery in town but knew I shouldn’t. Someday soon I’d be heading back to L.A. where every inch of fat on an actor’s body was up for discussion. Gain weight and you were gossiped about. Lose weight and you were gossiped about. Maintain your weight and you were gossiped about. It was a no-win situation.
“…personally, I feel that if we were living in a simulation, I would prefer a better one,” he said as he led me to an old glider facing the woods. Oregano was out front, keeping her vigil, so out here it was quiet. Small pots were stacked here and there, herbs flowing out of the different shaped and sized pottery holders. A small garden sat off to the left, holding what looked to be a couple of tomato plants, some carrots, and two tiny heads of cabbage that seemed a bit wilted. A few fireflies under the pines began to blink as the night enveloped the isle.
I sat down next to him, wineglass in hand, holding it out to be refilled again. My stomach was packed tight with so much rich food I was far from tipsy. My belly was so full I would have to jog to Vermont tomorrow morning to work this meal off. Katy would be flogging me with beet greens if she had seen the carbs I’d just ingested. Good thing she wasn’t here.
