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When she got back almost two hours later, I warmed up our plates while she took a quick shower, and we sat down to eat the burgers I’d made, with sweet potato fries and a bit of salad on the side.
“You didn’t have to order takeaway,” she protested as she swirled her fry in some ketchup.
“I didn’t. I cooked this,” I said.
Celine froze in the act of shoving the fry into her mouth.
“You can really cook? Like real food, not just ramen and eggs?”
She seemed amazed, and I couldn’t understand why.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“You’re a billionaire, Marcus. Don’t you have staff to do everything for you?”
“Yes, but I like to cook for my family and friends,” I explained.
“Huh,” was all she said as she bit into the burger.
Then her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she let out a low moan.
“Ohmigod! This is the best burger I’ve ever eaten,” she said, taking another big bite.
She moaned again and I shifted in my chair because her moans went straight to my dick. The juice ran down her hand, and Celine’s tongue flicked out to lick it before she smiled at me sheepishly. I handed her a napkin and she set her burger down before she wiped her hand.
“I’m sorry, but that was really good,” she said, munching on another fry. “Why do these fries taste different?”
“Those are sweet potato fries.”
“Ooh, yum!”
She went back to devouring her burger, and it was astounding how the simple act of a woman enjoying her food could be such a turn-on. I’d feed her burgers every day if she promised to moan like that every single time. And then I wondered how she’d moan while I made her come.
I dragged my mind away from that inviting prospect and focused on eating my meal.
“I have to be at the club by three pm, so I have time for a quick nap. And after this meal, I’m definitely going to need one,” she said, rising to clear the plates after we were done.
“I can do that,” I offered.
“No way! You cooked today, so I’m going to clean.”
She made quick work of it and went to her room for a nap.
When she came out at half past two, I was ready and waiting to leave.
“Let’s take my car,” she said. “Your Harley will ruin my hair.”
She had blow-dried her hair straight and I missed the thick waves that invited you to dig your fingers into them.
The Red Room was one of the fancier clubs in Greenwich Village, more like a gentlemen’s club than a nudie bar. There was security at the door, with a velvet rope and four big bouncers hanging around. Celine led me in through the side entrance and up two flights of stairs to her boss’s office.
“What’s his full name?” I asked.
“Bo Speakeasy. And I swear I don’t know if that’s a fake name because I don’t have the balls to ask him that,” she said meaningfully.
“Point taken,” I murmured as she knocked on his door
She introduced us and Bo looked me up and down with an unreadable expression.
