The sensations are so foreign, the numbing effect of the cubes, his searing tongue, sometimes teeth, the sloshing of the alcohol. It is tireless. It is decadent. It turns me boneless with blind need. I am so caught up in the intense sensations I hardly recognize the high-pitched animal sounds coming out of my mouth.
‘We’re going to take it one level higher.’ He lays down beside me. ‘Clench your muscles and come sit on my mouth.’
Very carefully I sit up and clenching hard I move over to his face and position myself over his mouth. Having to clench my muscles while he is slowly drinking the dribble is strangely unnerving, and filthy, but exquisite. As if there are no barriers between us. He wants everything I’ve got. Even my juices. Suddenly he swoops upwards and catching my sex in a hard suction pulls me down on top of him. He grinds my sex over his mouth.
I tense so all the liquid does not gush out, but it is impossible to keep control of my body—it starts contracting and spiraling out of control. I come in a gush. I look down and he is greedily gobbling all the liquids that are pouring out of me. I lift my sex away from his mouth and look at him: smeared with alcohol and all my juices. Then he pulls me back down and licks me clean.
‘My Lana,’ he says, his eyes glowing possessively.
Eight
I return to England inspired by Carbone and decide to cook a feast of senses for Blake. He is given strict instructions to come home early. Two hours ago I fried some rabbit, pancetta, onions, garlic, sage in a pan and tipped a bottle of Sangiovese into it. Once the mixture was simmering I added rosemary, thyme, some sticks of cinnamon, and cloves.
Now the hare has started to collapse into the sauce, which has become as sticky as runny honey and will nicely coat the handmade rigatoni that Francesca brought in today. I plan to serve this rich, pungent dish with a whole artichoke, slathered in warm olive oil and lemon juice and sprinkled with chopped mint.
In the oven I have a fresh peach tart to be served with Italian gelato.
I glance over at Sorab. He is rubbing his eyes. We were down in the park all afternoon and he looks as if he could do with a nap, but I don’t allow him to sleep. This way he will sleep the night through. I hear Blake at the door.
‘Daddy’s home,’ I announce rapturously, and, scooping Sorab off the floor, I run out to the front door to meet him.
‘Hey,’ he says, pulling a large smile into his face.
Sorab begins to wriggle and lifts his arms in his father’s direction. Blake takes him from me and lifting him high into the air blows raspberries on his belly, while Sorab laughs, squirms, and kicks.
He turns his head to look at me and sniffs the air. ‘What’s that?’
‘That,’ I grin, ‘is your dinner.’
‘It smells amazing.’
Holding Sorab to the side of his body he bends and kisses me, bathing my body in a languorous, sensuous glow. There is delicious food waiting in the kitchen, my man is home, my son is in his arms: there is nothing more in this world I could possibly ask for.
Blake reaches for my hand and suddenly stills, his eyes narrowing. ‘What’s this?’ he asks softly, touching the plaster on my finger.
‘It’s nothing. I nicked my finger while I was cutting some vegetables.’
He frowns and envelops my hand in his. ‘I don’t want you cooking anymore. I’ll get Laura to sort a chef out for you tomorrow.’
‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘I don’t want a chef. I enjoyed cooking for us today. I don’t want a nanny either. I just want it to be the three of us.’
He looks at me, his jaw is tight.
‘Just for a while, Blake. Please.’
‘OK. For a while. We are moving to One Hyde Park Place next week anyway.’
‘What?’
‘It’s much better there. You will have access to the Mandarin Oriental’s chef.’
‘Can’t we just stay here for a little while longer? Everything has happened so fast and I’m still so confused about so much. This is like my home now. I feel comfortable here, and Billie’s just around the corner.’
He puts an arm around my waist. ‘If it makes you happy to stay here then we will stay here for a while longer. But we will have to move eventually.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile up at him. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Yeah?’
I give him the box. ‘Give me that child.’
He hands over Sorab to me, opens the box, and looks up at me quizzically. ‘Slippers?’
‘Yeah. It’s comfy. For around the home.’
‘Like a grandfather?’
I laugh happily. ‘You couldn’t look like a grandfather if you tried. Now try them on.’ Sorab takes the box and bites the corner while he takes off his shoes and puts on the slippers.
‘Well?’
‘Like walking on air.’
‘Excellent.’
He gazes into my eyes—his are dark and moist. ‘Do you know I have never worn slippers?
‘Never?’
‘Never. You’ve totally changed my life, Lana.’
‘I’m not finished,’ I say and pass him the next package.
He opens it. ‘Sweats?’
‘Hmmnnnn…’
I stand and watch him strip off his office wear and get into the dark blue sweats.
‘What do you think?’
‘Edible,’ I say, and I really mean it. Low-slung pants on slim sexy hips. A little bit of skin shows and I reach out and touch it.
Instantly, he looks deep into my eyes, his expression changing.
‘I’ve got other plans for you tonight,’ I tell him and retract my hand. ‘Here,’ I say and hand the baby over to him.
He takes Sorab and goes off to the living room. I return to the kitchen. Food will be ready in twenty minutes. By the time I put the stretched bread lightly brushed with tomato sauce into the oven, Sorab is sound asleep on his father’s body. While Blake puts him down for the night, I turn down the lights in the dining room, and stand back to admire the glow of the candles on the white table linen heavy with all kinds of foods.
Tart giardiniera in oil, olives, cured meats from the deli, salads, ribbons of fried dough dusted with powdered sugar and an intricate terrine of fruits layered with alcohol-soaked sponge. And of course, a very special bottle of red that I have opened and allowed to breathe.
The first piece I slip into his mouth. The expression of rapture and astonishment is gratifying.
‘It is how I imagine the food in the paintings of Caravaggio to be—real, hearty, Roman—a bird roasted in a wood oven, ’ he says.
‘Really?’ At that moment I make up my mind to learn about art and music, to become, culturally, his equal. He will never have cause to be ashamed of me in front of his peers.
The rest of the meal becomes a dreamy evening that will forever echo in my heart. Everything was perfect. I watch Blake eat, as a mother watches her child eat. Protectively, proudly.
And he eats without inhibition or his usual control and care—cutting his food into dozens of pieces, which he then carefully picks at as if they are something dangerous. He eats with genuine pleasure, sucking the sauce off his fingers, reveling in every new flavor.
Finally, among the crumbs of our feast, Blake dips a lemon cookie into the dessert wine and brings it, still dripping golden drops, to my lips. I quickly swoop down and bite. The sweet raisin-like taste explodes on my taste buds, as a drop escapes from the side of my mouth. Before I can bring my napkin to my lips he leans in and licks the corner of my mouth. As if he is a wolf or some animal that uses its tongue to wash the body of its mate.
He carries on licking diligently until every last lingering trace is gone and still he licks until he happens upon the two tiny drops on my neck. I stare at him. So close to me, still so foreign and yet, my whole life. This is the man I had not intended to love. And now I cannot imagine my life without him.
He raises his eyes to me. ‘I couldn’t understand the concept of eating food off a naked woman b
efore. Now I can.’ He slips his hand along the inside of my thigh. ‘The grace of the human figure, the delicacy of its form is the perfect plate. I’d love to fill your body with all manner of food and slowly lick it off.’ His fingers reach the apex of my thighs. I part my legs willingly. ‘Soufflé aux fruits de la passion on your nipples, sabayon sauce on your belly, caramel on your pubic bone and bananas en papilote between your legs.’ One long finger enters me.
I blush as if he has not done far more outrageous things to me. Perhaps the thought of lying on a table and being a platter for food that will be consumed off my body is incredibly erotic. And the thought of Blake slowly licking and sucking actually makes me wet.
The finger retreats. I inhale.
He puts the finger in his mouth. I exhale.
I pour out two glasses of sambuca, place three coffee beans on their surfaces and set them alight. Over the blue flames I catch Blake’s eyes. In this light they are so dark they are almost black. The intensity of his gaze makes me catch my breath. I forget about the burning drinks, until he lowers his face without breaking eye contact and blows out the flames.
He dips his finger in the sambuca and smears it on my lips, and lifting me off the chair carries me to the bedroom to be ravished.
‘The sambuca…’
‘I’ve had enough.’
‘The dishes,’ I whisper into his neck.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘The candles…’
‘Later.’
When I wake up again, it is because of a cry or a moan. I turn my head and he is not in bed. I roll out of bed and go into Sorab’s room. Blake is holding him and softly crooning him back to sleep. Our eyes meet over our baby’s head. His are soft, softer than I have seen them.
I wish I could capture the moment forever.
He brings one forefinger to his lips. So I don’t say anything. Simply memorize that magical moment. When a man’s beautiful soul is unearthed by his son. When we are all connected. He, Sorab and I.
Nine
‘Tonight you get to meet my brother. We are having dinner together.’
I look at Blake, surprised. ‘Quinn?’
‘No, Marcus actually.’ He watches me carefully.
I bite my lip. The memory of his brother’s cold, blue eyes is seared into my memory forever. ‘I have met him. At the hospital, when you were in a coma.’
‘He told me. But briefly, right?’
‘Yes, incredibly brief.’
‘Didn’t go too well, huh?’
‘Nope. He didn’t want me in the picture.’
His lips tighten. ‘You are in the picture now. He’d better get used to it.’
‘Maybe you should go on your own this time. I’m sure I’ll get to meet him on other occasions.’
He puts his finger under my chin. ‘You are coming tonight.’
I send Sorab over to Billie’s early and I bathe and start getting ready hours before Blake is due to return. I try on a dozen outfits, but nothing looks good to my critical eye. I look at the clock. Blake will be home soon. Black. Black always works. I hunt for something black. I find a simple black dress with a sweetheart neckline and zip myself into it.
I look at myself in the mirror unhappily. I look pale. The solution might lie with red lipstick. I apply some and blot my lips. I still don’t look or feel right. There is a ball of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. It feels as if I am about to enter an exam hall unprepared. I’ll stick like glue to Blake and that way I know I will be safe. My thoughts are interrupted by Blake’s appearance at the bedroom door.
‘Oh!’ I whirl around startled. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
He grins. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
I clutch my chest dramatically. ‘You succeeded. I nearly jumped out of my skin.’
He is carrying a bag that he drops on the bed on his way towards me. When he reaches me he holds me by my elbows. ‘You look very, very…very…very beautiful, but that is not what you are wearing today.’
‘No?’
He shakes his head slowly as his hands turn me around. For a moment I feel his finger on my bare skin, then the zip starts its downward journey. He turns me back around and gently pulls at the sleeves of the dress. It slips down my body. He winks at me.
‘Love the underwear, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply primly.
He goes back to the bed and upends the bag he has brought with him on to the bed. A shoebox and something else drop out. The something else is soft and covered in tissue. He shakes it loose of its wrapping and my mouth parts. The dress is stunningly beautiful. Above the waist it is entirely blue appliqué lace design with a V-neck. Below the waist it is a sleek electric blue taffeta figure-hugging skirt. He holds it up.
‘Fleur?’
‘Of course. What’d you think?’
‘Beautiful.’
He helps me get into it and touches my skin through the lace. Then he walks away and opens the shoebox. He brings it to me and, kneeling at my feet, grasps each in turn and fastens the delicate straps around my ankles. I grip his shoulders. When I am securely fastened in my new shoes he stands, and looking at me smiles with satisfaction.
He takes me to the mirror, turns me around so I can see my own reflection. Then he fastens around my throat a necklace glowing with deeply blue stones.
‘Wow!’
‘Sapphires,’ he says. ‘To match your eyes.’
I touch them wonderingly.
He reaches for a tissue and gently, as if I was made from the most fragile glass wipes off the red lipstick. My lips part to allow him access. He drops the tissue on the vanity top and picks up lip gloss. Nude. Carefully he dabs it on the insides of my lips.
When he turns me back to face the mirror, I understand what he has done. I meet his gaze with grateful eyes.
‘Thank you, for selling yourself to me,’ he says with a soft smile.
‘Thank you for buying me.’
‘I think we should live happily ever after, don’t you?’
‘Most definitely.’
I look at the blaze of his eyes, the belief shining in them and my heart feels as if it would burst with happiness. And for a moment I even forget the ordeal of sitting down to dinner with Marcus.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask nervously.
‘Your favorite restaurant. The Waterside Inn.’
I smile, remembering the red carpets, the tranquil view of the river, a kindly civilized ambience, unobtrusively attentive waiters, and milk-fed lambs roasted and expertly carved into leaves of flesh at the table. ‘Thank you.’
We arrive before Marcus, which is the way Blake planned it, so I would have time to settle myself. Blake parks and comes around to open my door. He helps me out and we stand a moment looking around us. The autumn wind picks up a few brown leaves swirls them in a dance drops them again a little farther down the road.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I promise I won’t let him eat you.’
‘I’m not really scared of him.’
‘That’s my girl.’
The staff remember us and greet us with genuine warmth, which immediately makes me feel a little more confident. We are shown to a round corner table in the elegant waiting area. I sit back and stare unseeingly at my menu sans prix.
Soon I am accepting the complimentary glass of Michel Roux’s champagne. We clink glasses.
‘To tonight,’ Blake says, and we sip our aperitif. It is perfectly chilled.
‘Do you know what you want to eat?’
I shake my head and look again at the menu, but I cannot concentrate on the words. I will have what I had before, it was glorious—salad of crayfish tails and flaked Devon crab with melon and fresh almonds.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. Canapés appear. I ignore them.
‘The smoked eel tempura is nice,’ says Blake encouragingly.
I bring it to my mouth. Chew and swallow having tasted nothing.
I shouldn’t be so nervous. There
is nothing he can do to me and if he disapproves of me so what?
And then Marcus appears.
Ten
Blake stands. I am not sure if I should stand, and eventually I don’t. Marcus shakes his brother’s hand, but also touches his shoulder in the way that politicians engaging in power games do. Then he turns and nods at me.
‘Marcus, I don’t believe you have been formally introduced to Lana. Lana, this is my brother, Marcus.’
‘Hello,’ I say. My voice comes out cold and distant.
But Marcus bends slightly from the waist, tilts his head as if it is a great honor, and allows his good-looking face to curve into a genuine open smile. He offers his hand to me. ‘I have to admit I am jealous of my brother. How on earth did he pull off getting a girl as beautiful as you?’
The friendly gestures and words throw me. ‘Um…’ I close my mouth and take the proffered hand.
His handshake is the right shade of firm. He sits down opposite us, and starts chatting. He is utterly, utterly charming. I find myself staring at him with bewilderment. Could this be the same man I met in the hospital? Was I in such a state of shock that I misread him? I watch him throw his head back and laugh at something Blake has said to him.
The family resemblance is very strong. They are both tall and broad, but his brother lacks the strong sense of purpose that surrounds Blake like a crackling vibrating energy. I can see now why Blake’s father decided that it should be Blake who should take over the helm of leadership.
The waitress comes by. Our table is ready.
Marcus stands politely and holds his hand out to help me up. Since he is closest to the door, I have no choice but to put my hand in his. Our eyes meet. His betray nothing but a polite desire to help me up. And yet, there is tension in my body. Before I can extricate my fingers from his, I feel the tug of Blake’s hand on my waist.
I look up into his eyes and I realize he was perfectly serious when he said he cannot bear any other man to touch me. Not even his brother, not even in the most innocent social setting. We are shown to our table. I slide into the long seat and Blake slides in after me.
Bread appears to my right. I point to a roll, and it is gently deposited onto my side plate. Our wine glasses are filled with straw-colored wine. Waiters start arriving with our starters. I pick up my fork. Parmesan cream with truffles. There is conversation going on around me, over me. I nod. I smile. I say thank you and I find myself drinking more than normal. Stop, right now, I tell myself.
Besotted (The Billionaire Banker Series) Page 5
