My heart flipped over in my chest, and I covered the moment by fumbling with the string holding the box closed. It slipped free with a jerk, and the box, designed to open like a flower, revealed its gift.
A gasp escaped me. Nestled in a white cloud of spun sugar was a perfect little sphere-shaped gâteau covered in chocolate so dark and glossy it shone like midnight. But that wasn’t what had my mouth falling open in awe.
Resting on the very top of the orb was a pink-and-gold butterfly made of sugar glass. The delicate wings were so fine and thin the light shone through them. It looked so real I half expected it to fly away.
“Lucian . . .”
“This is how I see you sometimes,” he said in a low voice, eyes on the gâteau. “Beautiful and rare, something not to be contained but treasured.”
My eyes misted over. He was killing me. I had been called beautiful before, but not quite this way. And yet I feared he saw me as fleeting. I didn’t want to be a brief moment in his life. I couldn’t bring myself to say it, though. Not with his gift in my hand.
“It’s beautiful. Perfect.” I looked up at him, afraid my whole heart was in my eyes. “I can’t eat this!”
His brows snapped together. “Why not?”
“It’s art. I can’t go in like Godzilla and chomp it to smithereens.”
Lucian choked on a laugh. “You really do have the wildest imagination. It’s supposed to be eaten, Snoopy.”
“Don’t Snoopy me. I’m having a moment here.”
Snorting, Lucian reached out and took the small cake from its nest. I would have mussed it or dropped the entire thing in my clumsiness. But his hands were rock steady, fingers deft as he plucked the butterfly off, put it back in the nest, then held the cake out to me. “Take a bite, Em.”
I wanted to so badly my mouth watered, but I held back for a moment. “This is going to be a thing with you, isn’t it? Feeding me, I mean.”
His gaze went to my mouth. “Yes. I’m trying not to break down the reasons why. Only that it pleases me.”
The words stroked between my breasts, sparking something deep within. Before Lucian, I had never tasted food with my whole soul. I’d gone through life observing it, mimicking it for entertainment. With him, every moment was one to be enjoyed, savored.
Eyes locked with his, I opened my mouth for him to feed me. His nostrils flared as he eased the sweet between my lips.
Bittersweet chocolate so dark and deep it was almost too sharp coated my tongue. Then I bit into the soft cake, releasing mellow creamy mousse. It wasn’t chocolate—perhaps coffee or maybe caramel, the flavor elusive. But the combination of all that dark bitter bite with smooth cream made it something new, rich but not cloying.
I made a noise of satisfaction that had Lucian’s gaze turning rapt. “Good?”
“Exquisite.” I licked my lips. “More.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Damn, I didn’t think this through.”
A glance down had me licking my lips again. He was hard. Gloriously so. Thick and pulsing. Raising a brow, I swiped my finger through the cream-filled cake, collecting a dollop. “You better take the last bite,” I advised. “I’m going to be busy.”
“What—”
I swirled the cream over the fat head of his cock and swallowed him down.
“Oh, fuck . . . oh . . .” A tortured groan ripped from his throat as he clenched the sheet with one hand, his head thrown back. “Em . . .”
He was beautiful. And delicious. And I savored him the way he deserved to be, slowly, thoroughly. Until he was whimpering my name, undone and panting.
Only later, when he’d fallen upon me—resting his head upon my upper chest, his arm wrapped around my waist like he needed to hold on in order to settle down—did the full interpretation of his dessert hit me. All that darkness swallowing up the light. A glossy beauty that wasn’t made to last.
“I’m the butterfly. You are the cake.”
Replete and limp, he turned his cheek more fully toward my breast, giving me a featherlight kiss. “Honey, to me, you’re both.”
But I wasn’t convinced. And I didn’t think he was either. But for now, it was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma
One convenience of the bungalow I’d rented was that it had a dining room that easily fit six. Since Tate hadn’t stopped blowing up my