Sweet Tarte – Sweet Enough to Eat

Now, I’m almost twenty years old, I’ve thought I’ve found guys or men attractive before in a sort of distant, sure that’s hot but who cares sort of way. But this? A simple brush of a foot under a table and I’m ready to crawl underneath, lick my lips and find my own dessert—where I saw a fairly nice-sized bulge behind the black fabric of those trousers Dimitri is sporting.

“Are you alright?” He moves his hands from his mouth and from the look in his eyes, I swear there’s a bubble above my head betraying all my less than pure thoughts. Here’s Victoria, currently so aroused she’s about to leave some of her DNA on the fabric of the chair when she leaves.

I clear my throat. “Yep. I’m good.”

I manage to get a few bites of food to my mouth without utter humiliation. But after barely a few minutes of eating in comfortable silence, Dimitri’s eyes are on me, his fork down, hands folded in front of his chin.

“And what do you think of the beef dish?” He is genuinely interested in my opinion, and I wonder if this really is a dream. Dimitri Cossack is asking what I think of his restaurant’s food.

“Well.” I try to keep my voice low, disinterested. “The beef is cooked to perfection. The potatoes are seasoned well, the beets are surprisingly well balanced with the flavors.”

“But? Come on, there’s obviously something you want to say.”

I draw a deep breath, but what the hell, right? He’s asked. “But I think it needs something else to tie it together. A sauce, perhaps.”

“You think?”

I shake my head. “No, it does need something. But overall I’d give this dish my seal of approval.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but what I see in his eyes has the temperature in the private dining room climbing. His eyes are like blue flames as he reaches out and takes a slow drink from the wine glass and I swear it’s sexual. The food, the wine, the way his foot is deliberately pressing against mine.

I think I’m having some kind of fine dining intercourse, and for it being my first time, I gotta say it didn’t even hurt.

My heart jumps in my chest when he sets the wine glass down and his hand reaches out for mine. I pull my shoulder to my ear, a habit I have when I’m nervous, and look down at where our fingers are now entwined, wondering if this is somehow a joke because shit like this doesn’t happen to girls like me.

“You’re right. It does need something else. And I need—” Just as he is about to say something else, the glass door opens and our waiter for the evening, Michael, enters, carrying a tray with our dessert.

We sit in silence as he clears our dishes, then sets the last of our meal in front of us. A delicate strand of white chocolate arched over a thin pastry, layered with salted caramel yogurt, candied capers and a green apple brandy reduction.

“Anything else I can bring?” Michael looks from me to Dimitri.

“Not for now. If we require anything further, I will call for you.” Michael nods without another word, his services on hold until otherwise notified.

The dessert smells amazing, but my mouth is watering for other reasons. I’m intoxicated. From the food, the wine, sure, but most of all from the scent, sight and presence of this man that feels as though he’s tugging at a strand of invisible cord, connected not just to the throbbing between my legs, but also to the thumping of my heart.

His hand doesn’t leave mine as he brings his other to take the chilled fork that accompanied my dessert plate and gracefully slice off a bite before bringing it to my lips.

“Open.” His voice is deep and calm, and without a moment of hesitation my mouth is wide as he places the decadent bite between my lips and onto my tongue. I choke back a moan, both from the explosion of flavors as well as the erotic nature of being fed.

The cool dessert contrasts with the warmth of his hand on mine, and the tension that is pooling in my nether regions has me on the edge of a full-on Scarlett O’Hara fainting spell.

My breath catches as he feeds me another bite, and I want to scream out things that would make a porn star blush.

Instead, I nod on a soft moan, trying to pretend there is some blood left flowing to my brain.

“Wonderfully complex. The candied capers with the savory ricotta and caramel mix intimately with the green apple and yogurt. It’s impossibly brilliant.”

“You could be writing for Bon Appetit with a review like that.”

Sure, it’s just…I can’t write. Or, write anything anyone could read.

“Thanks.” I manage, my breath catching in my throat as thoughts cascade through my mind, thoughts so dark and yet so wonderful they feel as though they are illuminating the darkest and most wondrous corners of parts of me yet unknown.