Frisky Business: Chick Flick Club #3

by Monroe, Lila

  “Another dessert?” Noah offers. “I think there are three we haven’t tried yet.”

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  He looks at me for a long moment. “How about some air?” he suggests. “It’s getting kind of loud in here.”

  That’s an understatement. Everybody’s on their way to drunk, yelling to be heard over the silverware and music.

  I give a pale smile. “Thanks. Air sounds great.”

  We slip out. Noah leads me out the back, into a courtyard that opens up to the rolling vineyards beyond. It’s a beautiful moonlit night and I feel my entire body unclench as we stroll in the cool breeze, listening to the noise of the party recede.

  “How are you holding up?” Noah asks.

  I look over at him. God, he’s handsome, especially in a suit. “I’m OK,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Better, actually, now that I’m out of there. Thanks. And . . .” I continue. “Thanks for making my jobs sound so legit before. You really are great at spin.”

  He smiles at me. “Your jobs are legit. I spun it a little because some pretentious assholes get hung up on titles, but what you do is no less worth respect than whatever they do.”

  “Not everyone thinks that way,” I say, glancing away. “Some people look down on me for what I do.”

  “Anyone who does can go fuck themselves,” he says fervently. So fervently, that I look up at him.

  His face is lit by the light of the moon and I can tell he means it. If he wasn’t really fucking attractive before (and he was!), now that he’s standing here in a suit, bathed in moonlight, and defending me so goddamn fiercely, he’s now panty-droppingly attractive.

  The whole thing is so romantic that I can barely stand it. If we were in a movie right now, he’d be reaching for my hands to tell me what I mean to him and that he can’t wait one second longer to kiss me, and then I’d fall into his arms.

  I so very wish I was in a rom-com.

  To hell with it. I am the star of my own movie. Before I can wimp out, I go up on my tiptoes and press my lips against his.

  Oh crap. What am I doing?!

  Noah makes a noise of surprise and I’m afraid he’s going to pull away, but then—yes!—he’s kissing me back. His lips part as his hands come to my hips and he tugs me up against his hard, delicious body.

  Hello, lover.

  My arms wrap around his neck, and the kiss deepens: hot, and passionate, and absolutely perfect. But just as I’m about to slide my hands over those rugged shoulders, Noah pulls away. “Wait a minute,” he says, breathing heavily.

  Dammit! “What’s wrong?” I ask, biting back a pang of insecurity.

  Noah pauses, looking at me with sexy, dark eyes. “How drunk are you?”

  Relief hits hard. Chivalry! As if he wasn’t already sexy as hell. “Not at all,” I assure him quickly. “I would totally pass a road sobriety test right now.”

  His right eyebrow lifts.

  “Want to see?” I offer, joking.

  He gives a cocky smirk. “Very much.”

  “Fine, then.” I walk a straight line, heel to toe, and turn back with a flourish. “See? Totally—ARGH.”

  I trip over an uneven piece of ground. But Noah catches me before I go down, pulling me close again.

  “You were saying?” he says, grinning.

  I laugh. “I was saying that if I’m sober enough to walk in three inch heels, you have no excuse for not kissing me again. Unless, you don’t want to—”

  Noah cuts me off with another sizzling kiss.

  He does.

  Does he ever.

  I sink against him happily, loving what he’s doing with his mouth right now. I can’t get enough of him as his hands come to my cheeks and he ravishes my mouth with his. Our tongues tangle until my head is spinning, and my blood runs hot, and I’m not so sure I would pass that road sobriety test anymore.

  Because Noah is way more intoxicating than a bottle of wine. I’m talking five tequila slammers and a chaser kind of head-spinning. And as for the desire spiraling low between my thighs. . .

  I grab Noah’s hand before I do something that the hotel probably does not want listed on the “coming attractions” page. I tug him back to our room, and we’re barely inside before we’re kissing again. The backs of my legs hit the bed and I sit, looking up at him. His lips are red and swollen from kissing, his hair messed up from my fingers, and he looks too good for words.

  My stomach does a slow flip.

  Is this really happening?

  Yes! This is really happening!

  I reach for him but Noah shakes his head, smiling a wicked smile. He slowly drops to his knees on the carpet in front of me.

  Oh!

  Noah’s palms come to my calves and slide up my legs, dragging the dress up with them. He kisses me as he goes, trailing his tongue up the inside of my thigh until I’m basically melted in a puddle of hormones on the bed.

  “Oh God,” he says as he notices the scrap of a thong between my legs. “Please tell me you wore this for me.”

  I give a shy nod, and he groans as he tugs the fabric aside and slides his fingers over me, making me gasp. I’m sure I’m blushing bright red by now, but I can’t look away. I could come just from the look on his face as he spreads my knees wider. He feathers kisses up my inner thighs and then presses his face there.

  I hum in pleasure at the warmth, the wetness, the pressure. It’s perfect. And hot as hell. Because Noah? Knows exactly what he’s doing down there, and I can’t get enough.

  I moan out loud, and then bury my face in the pillows, embarrassed. But Noah just chuckles against me, and keeps on licking—driving me wild as the pressure builds and coils, and—

  He backs off to press more lazy kisses to my thighs. I could scream in frustration.

  “Don’t stop . . . Noah!” I pant and squirm, making him chuckle, his thumbs slowly teasing, just enough to keep me on the edge. “Please!”

  Then he’s back again, his mouth hot and hard against me. And this time, he doesn’t stop. He drives me right back to the edge—and keeps on going, until I come apart, crying out his name.

  As I fall back onto the bed, pleasure rushing through me, all I can think is that I’d been right about him.

  His orgasm canvas? Is pretty fucking amazing.

  14

  Eve

  It feels weird to say, but it was the best of my mom’s weddings—aside from the first one that obviously I wasn’t at. The food was great, the wine was exceptional, and Rex seems to really care about my mother.

  And, as advertised, Noah really did turn out to be the best date ever. Not just because of that screaming orgasm he delivered after the rehearsal dinner, either. We’ll call that an added bonus.

  We ate, laughed, and danced well after my mother and Rex got into their luxury RV with the kitschy “Just Married” sign, tin cans trailing, and drove off for their cross-country honeymoon trip—stopping, of course, at every luxury spa between here and Miami. I wish her well. Who knows if this one will stick? But at least she seems happy enough, for now.

  And as for me, I’m definitely happy . . . and nervous . . . and full of butterflies. Because I have no idea what last night’s hookup means for Noah and me.

  Was it a one-time thing?

  Or will I get another go-around at that delicious body—and a chance to drive him crazy this time?

  We check out and load up the car, and I sneak a glance at Noah, wondering if he’s going to say anything. Or should I bite the bullet and bring up the orgasm in the room, instead?

  “We haven’t seen much of the area,” Noah says casually. “And we don’t need to be back in the city until later. Are you up for some exploring? Since I’m such a . . . commendable driver.”

  I laugh. His list of skills is growing by the day, that’s for sure. “Sounds good to me.”

  He puts the top down as we hit the road again, and I enjoy the feel of wind whipping through my hair. We drive for a while, chatting about nothing
as we take in the scenery and just enjoy the ride. Until my stomach grumbles.

  Noah looks over, quirking an eyebrow. “Did you say something?”

  I blush. “My stomach did,” I admit.

  He laughs. “Then we better find you food before Miss Crankypants makes an appearance.”

  “And you don’t want to see me when I’m hungry,” I add, mis-quoting the Hulk.

  A few miles down the road, he pulls into a tiny winery neither of us have heard of. It’s some chichi French-sounding name neither of us can pronounce, but they have a restaurant, so it works for me.

  We approach the maître d’ at the podium. “Hi,” I start. “Do you have a table for two for lunch?”

  The woman is about eight feet tall, wearing a blue shift dress and pearls. She looks us up and down, and I swear, her lip curls in disdain.

  “We’re fully booked.”

  “Umm.” I look around. At least half the tables are empty. “Are you sure?”

  “We can eat at the bar,” Noah suggests, but she just gives him an identically icy look.

  “That won’t be possible.”

  I blush. I mean, sure, we’re dressed pretty casually for the drive back to the city, but still, that doesn’t give her the right to act like we’re not good enough to lick the plates here! We could be rich, for all she knows. Just, you know, traveling incognito in Target jeans and a baseball cap!

  “And when do you have an opening?” Noah asks, his jaw getting tense. “Just out of curiosity.”

  The woman glances down at her reservation book. “Hmmm . . . sometime next month, perhaps?”

  “Come on.” I tug Noah’s arm. “We can find someplace else.”

  But I’m interrupted by a voice coming from behind me. “I’m so sorry!”

  I turn. There’s a man in a fancy suit approaching. He’s smiling but looks frazzled as he hurries up to the podium. “Ms. Peters and Mr. Tepperman . . . ? It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person!”

  “We’re not—” I start to say, but he talks over me.

  “I’m Salvatore, we spoke on the phone. I’m so happy you’re considering us for hosting your upcoming nuptials!”

  Our what?

  Before I can correct his mistake, the icy bitch behind the podium flashes a massive smile. “Why didn’t you say so?” she coos. Yes, coos! “We have your table all ready.”

  “Really?” Noah smirks. “I thought you were booked solid until next month.”

  “Oh, no,” she fawns. “We try to keep things exclusive. You know, to give you a better experience.”

  “Uh huh, sure,” he snorts.

  Smiling, she goes on. “You’re going to love the cake-tasting options the chef has put together for you. They, of course, complement our wines that we hope you’ll serve at your wedding brunch. After I spoke with him about your very specific needs, he created a custom selection just for you!”

  “Fantastic,” Noah replies. “We can’t wait.”

  Ice Bitch beams at us. “Please, right this way.”

  Noah takes a quick look at the list on the podium, then gives me a wink.

  “Come now, Fiona,” he says, placing his hand on my lower back to usher me after him.

  “Noah!” I whisper, feeling guilty. “We can’t!”

  “Can’t we?” he counters. “You heard the woman, they’ve prepared a special tasting menu, just for us.”

  “No, for the Teppermans!” I correct him. “It would be wrong.”

  “Or, it would be delicious.” Noah gives me a rakish grin. “And serve her right for being such a bitch. Come on. It’s another twenty miles to the next café. And don’t you want to taste that cake?”

  Well, when he puts it like that . . .

  “I’m Trixie, by the way,” Ice Bitch trills, getting us seated at a gorgeous table on the terrace overlooking the back lawn. “Let me go get those wine selections brought out!”

  She waltzes away, leaving me to devour the most amazing breadsticks I’ve ever tasted. “Wait, if I’m Fiona, who are you?” I ask.

  “Richard,” Noah replies, smiling.

  “See, I always knew you looked like a dick.” I grin.

  He laughs. “Hush now, sweetheart. Or should I call you FiFi?”

  “Only on pain of death.”

  A few moments later, Trixie returns with our wine—and the chef. He’s in his fifties, wearing full chef’s whites and a tall hat. Behind him is a server with a platter of sandwiches and snacks, plus another bearing a tray of perfectly decorated mini-cakes. Some are white, some are teal, one is pink, and there are even two that are mustard-color. Weird, but OK. Maybe Fiona and Richard have odd tastes.

  “I am Chef Antony, welcome. As you can see, I have created a sample of cakes according to your requirements.”

  The way he says “your requirements” makes me think Chef Antony is none too pleased with Fiona and Richard. Still: cake.

  I try not to drool all over the table as he points at the cakes, describing each: Almond flavor, but with no nuts; vanilla bean, but only with certified fair-trade vanilla, as per Fiona’s very specific instructions. Sugar-free rhubarb, and a groom’s cake with candied fruit, except for the green pieces. Because apparently my fussy fiancé won’t eat anything green. Oh, and the mustard-colored “cakes”? Keto meatloaves made of beef, cheese, and an “icing” that is made of pureed cauliflower and—yup, you guessed it—mustard.

  Somehow Noah manages to keep a straight face through all of this, feigning great interest and even asking questions, though I can tell from the twinkle in his eye that he’s thinking the same thing I am: that Fiona and Richard—or Fifi and Dick, as I’m starting to think of them—are a couple of pretentious douches who probably very much deserve each other.

  “I shall leave you to enjoy the sensory journey!” Chef declares.

  “Oh, Trixie?” I call, before they depart. “More wine, please. And maybe a cheese plate, too? To pair with the cake.”

  “Of course!” she promises right away. Because apparently, we’re worthy of her favor now.

  “Which one of these is the meat cake?” Noah asks when we’re alone.

  “Eww! You’re not going to try it, are you?” I laugh, sticking with the sweet stuff. Which is, I have to admit, delicious.

  “Come on, you’re not curious?” Noah digs his fork into the meat cake and shoves it into his mouth. I want to gag, it looks so wrong. I guess it’s just meatloaf, but seriously, who has this kind of thing at their wedding?

  “Mmm. Beefy,” he says with a grin, and I have to laugh.

  Soon, Trixie is back with our cheese plate. “How did you propose?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at Noah. “I bet it’s something really romantic.”

  Noah reaches for my hand. “It is,” he says, giving me heart-eyes. “We met at the dog shelter where she volunteers, so I thought it was fitting that I propose there. I attached a ring to the collar of her favorite shelter dog—an old one-eyed mutt named Fred—and when she went to walk him, she discovered the ring and a note.”

  “Oh, that it so sweet,” Trixie squeals.

  But I barely register it because I’m staring at Noah. Not only would that be the perfect proposal, but it tells me how well he knows me, right down to the detail about Fred. It’s all I can do not to sweep everything off the table right here and throw him down on it.

  Instead, I swallow hard and stare at him. He grins back. I have to clear my throat and look away, not wanting him to see me all googly-eyed at his fake story that basically just melted my heart.

  And my panties.

  I remind myself that this guy is a player with a marketing background. It’s his job to know what will affect his audience and to pull at heartstrings to build trust and influence. Still. He’s been paying attention. He knows about Fred. He knows me.

  Just then, a shrill voice breaks through the moment. “What do you mean, we’re already here?”

  I look up to see the woman who continues to shriek about wanting to see the
manager. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW.

  Uh-oh.

  She’s standing at the podium, hands on hips, wearing a fuchsia suit and white stilettos. She’s done up and has bleached blonde Real Housewives hair, while the Wall Street-looking man bedside her looks amused.

  “Oh shit,” I whisper, darting my eyes at Noah. “Looks like the real Fifi and Dick are here.”

  “Yup,” he says, pushing his chair back from the table. “It’s go time. You get the cakes.”

  “You take the cheese!” I whisper-yell, trying not to crack up as we shovel food into our pockets and purse.

  As Salvatore approaches the couple, confused, Noah grabs me. We make a run for it, racing to the back of the restaurant and through the kitchens. We burst out the back door, where we surprise a couple of kitchen workers who are out there smoking. “Excuse us!” I call behind us as we sprint away.

  By the time we’re at the car, I’m laughing so hard, I’m doubled over, gasping.

  We throw ourselves in the car. Noah revs the engine. We’re already in hysterics, but thankfully, Noah can multitask, being the commendable driver he is.

  “Go! Go!” I cry, checking behind us. I half-expect to see security chasing us down, but instead, we got away clean.

  We peel out of the lot so fast, I almost spill the wine I managed to grab at the last minute. My heart is pounding, and I feel like Bonnie and Clyde . . .

  Just without the grizzly end.

  I hope.

  * * *

  By the time we make it back to the city, it’s late, and I’m worn out after our day of touring, wine-tasting, and stuffing our faces with contraband cheese. But I can’t wipe the smile from my face. I’ve had a blast. In fact, it’s one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. I’ve been too busy with Noah enjoying myself to worry about making rent and broken chickens. And I’ve laughed my ass off, so there’s that.

  We pick up the dogs from boarding—who are thrilled to see us—and head back from the house. But as we step through the doors, I’m stuck with a sudden sense of awkwardness.