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“It’s not terrible,” I admit.
Sweets are not among my vices.
Salt on the other hand …
I zero in on the girl sitting across from me.
“Why are you interested in the business of the Bratva?”
“Only one Bratva.”
“Which one?”
“I used to fuck Ilsa Markov,” Sabrina says mischievously.
She’s trying to make me jealous. She should have picked a less-attractive object. I know Ilsa Markov—while she’s too bullish for my taste, the idea of her in bed with Sabrina sends a rush of blood straight to my cock.
“When was that?” I inquire.
“Oh, up until about … last night,” Sabrina smiles wickedly.
I finish the rest of the wine in one swallow.
“And just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about Ilsa …”
“You didn’t know she’s gay?”
“I didn’t know she had such good taste.”
That gets a laugh from Sabrina, so low and delighted that my cock swells to uncomfortable proportions, no longer fitting within my jeans.
This girl is much more intoxicating than the wine. I can’t remember the last time I got hard from conversation alone.
“Would you like to order?” the waiter asks, reappearing with irritating promptness.
I turn a blazing look on him that makes him take a step backward. I’d like to tell him to fuck off for the next several hours, but Sabrina wants food.
“Bring us the fritule,” I say.
“After that I’ll have the filet,” Sabrina interjects, before I can order her entrée as well.
“I’ll have the same,” I pass him our menus.
“I don’t know if I like fritule,” Sabrina says, with an edge of annoyance.
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re delicious. And much like Ilsa, I trust your taste.”
That mollifies her slightly. The arrival of our appetizer thaws her entirely—the hot, crisp little pastries are stuffed with raisins, fresh-grated orange rind, and a dash of rum. Sabrina devours them in two bites each.
“Fucking fantastic,” she says, willing to admit when I’m right.
Of all the things I like about her, this is one of her best traits.
* * *
