Follow Me Darkly (Follow Me #1) - Helen Hardt Page 0,12
almost wish we could just go to bed and get it over with, spare us the strain of a dinner together.
“Wine?” he asks. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” He pulls a bottle from an ornate wrought-iron rack.
I was right. We’re having Italian. “What’s for dinner?”
“Penne arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” He opens the bottle, pours two glasses, and hands me one.
I take a sip. “Yes. Love it.”
“Good.”
He hasn’t smiled since he picked me up at the office. Last night, he smiled a few times. He seems darker tonight, and though his demeanor should frighten me, it doesn’t.
I’m all in now.
His kisses invade my mind, negating all other thoughts and keeping my brain fuzzy. I’m hyperaware of him next to me, and an invisible energy pulses between us. If I touch his arm, I fully expect a shock to spark through me.
“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”
He leads me to the kitchen. All marble and hardwood, of course, with a giant island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.
“Please.” Braden waves his hand over the platter. “After you.”
“No, go ahead,” I say. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”
“Of course.” He takes a skewer, loads it up with the antipasti, and then drizzles olive oil over it. He holds a napkin to catch the drips. He pulls the green olive off with his teeth.
And I imagine those teeth around my nipple.
Oh my God.
At least now I know how to eat the antipasti. Of course if I eat…
“Please,” he says again after swallowing.
I nod. I’ll choke it down somehow. I grab a skewer and push a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. I move it toward my mouth.
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
I lift my brows.
“The olive oil.”
Actually, I left the olive oil out on purpose. The “preparing for an interview” workshop pops into my head again. I don’t want olive oil dripping on my blouse.
“I’m watching my fat intake,” I lie.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” He takes the skewer from me and drizzles the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
I pull the chunk of cantaloupe off with my teeth.
He inhales sharply.
The olive oil is peppery and slightly bitter against the sweet melon, and the effect is delicious. Braden was right. I pull the next piece, the prosciutto, off my skewer.
He inhales again. “Your mouth. Watching you eat is better than porn.”
I widen my eyes and meet his gaze. His eyes are like blue lightning.
This is turning him on. I’m eating, and he’s getting turned on.
It’s not completely out of the blue. I thought about my nipple when he bit into his olive. But he’s Braden Black. I’m just…me.
I set the skewer down on a napkin and take another sip of wine, wishing it were bourbon. I don’t know a lot about wine, but Wild Turkey, I get. I grew up with the woodsy scent and the notes of caramel and cinnamon. It burns a little going down, part of its charm.
“You don’t like the wine?” he says.
“No, it’s fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I did? I didn’t mean to.”
“You winced a little.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking?”
I hesitate, unsure if I should tell him the truth. “Just thinking I’d rather be drinking Wild Turkey.”
Finally his lips turn upward and he laughs like he’s happy. “Why didn’t you ask for it, then?”
“I don’t know. You offered wine.”
“Ask for what you want here, Skye. Trust me, I plan on asking for what I want and then taking it.”
He picks up my wineglass and leaves the kitchen while his words spark embers in my body. In a few minutes, he returns with a lowball glass of the distinctive amber liquid.
“I’m a Wild Turkey fan myself,” he says.
“I know. You ordered it last night.”
“But you didn’t. Why?”
“I like a vodka martini with oysters.” Definitely not a half-truth, though I always prefer Wild Turkey.
“Good call, but this goes with everything.” He hands me the glass. “I added one ice cube. Hope you like it that way.”
“Yeah, I do. I think watering it down just a touch brings out the flavor.”
“A Wild Turkey connoisseur, huh?”
“I’m from Kansas, so—”
“You’re not from here?”
I take a sip of bourbon and smile. “You didn’t notice my lack of accent?”