Truly (New York 1)

“What is it?”

“A soft pecorino, hardly aged at all.” He spread some of the tar-paste-stuff on it with a tiny spoon. “Really mild. Try it with the fig jam.”

May wanted to tell him she couldn’t eat another bite, but then she lifted her eyes to his face and saw that this was his way of helping.

Their fingers brushed when she took the small slab of cheese. She placed it on her tongue.

The bite was sweet and tart, rich and granular. It was fourteen flavors at once, none of them quite distinct. The sound she made was like a moan crossed with a growl.

“What is that?” she said after she swallowed.

“Sam’s rosemary fig jam.”

“It’s obscene.”

His mouth hitched into a smirk. “I talked her into naming the restaurant after it.”

“They should seriously consider naming the State of New York after it.”

That made him grin, which made May feel like she’d managed to accomplish something after all.

He picked out another kind of cheese and a thin slice of sausage. “This one’s smoky. Try it with the honey on top.”

She let him put it directly into her mouth, and then she had to concentrate all her attention on not making any more noises. It was quite a feat, with the taste of smoky meat and rich cheese in her mouth, sharing space with herb-flavored sweetness and Ben’s salty fingertip.

Just the tiniest bit of fingertip, and just the tiniest flick of her tongue over it. Surely an accident on both their parts.

“Hey, May?” His voice was lower than it had been earlier, rumbly and almost as delicious as what he was feeding her.

“Yeah?”

“Come home with me.”

She chewed. Because the food was delicious. Not because Sensible May was rolling around the floor of her brain, tussling with Hedonistic May, who wanted more food and more low-Ben-voice and more fingertips in her mouth.

“I couldn’t impose,” she managed, after Sensible May stunned Hedonistic May with a punch to the face. “It wouldn’t be—”

“You’re not imposing,” he said. “I’m inviting you.”

He’d perched one hip on the desk, and his head blocked out most of the light. Like talking to a god—distant and difficult to interpret. Did he want to help her, or did he intend to stake her to Mount Olympus?

And if the latter, what happened after the staking?

You wear a gauzy white dress, but it’s all ripped up because the staking has been so vigorous. And he kneels over you, chest heaving from how hard he had to fight you to get you pinned down. He stares at your breasts, naked underneath the thin fabric, and then with no warning, he reaches out and rips the dress open. Those big, scarred hands close over your breasts, his thumbs finding your nipples, and he lowers his head—

“I won’t try anything,” Ben said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh.” The word came out so disappointed, she tried again. “That’s good.”

Ben frowned, a chevron of irritation between his eyebrows. “I just don’t think you should spend a ton of money on some sterile hotel room where you won’t have a computer or a phone or anybody to talk to. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll take the couch. In the morning, you can hang around until you figure out what to do next. I’ll cook you breakfast.”

She should turn him down. It seemed likely that a dishwasher’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen would involve a scattering of pizza boxes and a bare mattress pushed into a closet.

Also, roaches.

But if she said no, she’d never see him again, and it felt too soon for that. He was her ally, the only friend she had tonight in this gigantic, alien city.

It’s not safe, Sensible May warned. It’s not smart.