Sweet Tarte – Sweet Enough to Eat

“That’s shitty. I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Yes, of course, you’re Dimitri Dolce Cossack. I know all about you. You can be sort of an asshole.”

“How so?”

She’s not wrong, I just want to keep her here, talking, in any way possible—even at my own expense.

She gives this little shrug and it makes the dainty silver hoops in her ears sparkle under the lights. I think about tracing my tongue around them, telling her all the filthy things I want to do to her.

“I just do. I’ve read about you. You own lots of the best restaurants in the world. But everyone knows you’re sort of a jerk.”

I force myself to glare, but honestly I like that cocky, defiant streak. This is going to be fun. And the fact she knows a little about me, and I know absolutely nothing about her, is just a delicious bit of power she’s holding. What she doesn’t know, is my reputation and the reality aren’t quite the same thing. Like I said, she’s not wrong, I can definitely be an asshole. But you don’t open a chain of restaurants known for romance and marriage proposals—particularly around this time of year—without having at least lukewarm blood in your veins.

Valentines Day, which is in three days from now, is our busiest time of the year, and one of my favorite holidays even though I’ve never celebrated it in any meaningful way. I have the Hallmark Channel and I read about ten books a week.

Yes, romances. From start to finish in one sitting usually. But these are things that I keep to myself, because if the outside world found out it would spell the end of the publicity I get for being a hard-assed businessman and lady killer which is far from the truth but the reputation serves me in other ways. Lots of free publicity and that helps the bottom line and I’m always about the bottom line.

“I don’t deny my reputation. But there is another side to me. Please, accept my apology for the disgusting behavior of a member of my staff. Give me a chance to show you I’m not always an ass, and we will call it even. Seems fair to me.”

She twists her lips and I can’t help but think of how they will feel kissing my balls. I’ve been celibate for so long; women offer, but my interest was long ago lost. No one ever felt, right I guess. Maybe too many of the books but they all seems to want something from me, not just me. Fair I suppose, because I never felt I wanted any of them as well.

I still play the part. Take the photos. Go to the events. Invite celebrities for dinner. It’s all part of the show.

She crosses her arms, giving me a defiant glare. “Fine. I eat, I leave. No cops.” She shoves her hand out between us. “Shake on it.” She tosses her dark waves back over her shoulders and I want to feel those silky waves hanging down in my face as she mounts herself on my cock.

The edge to her voice only makes her more perfect. I’m so used to everyone kissing my ass that she’s a breath of the freshest air I’ve enjoyed in far too long. She’s everything I could have wished for and more, all packed into this soft, pint sized bottle of sweet and sassy.

I take her hand, gripping it hard, never wanting to let go, and I nod.

She stares at me with those green eyes and I feel parts of me come alive I’ve never known before. Her tiny hand is so soft, my mind races, thinking of how my fingers will feel in the softest parts of her.

“What is your name? If we are to dine together, I should know what to call you.”

Mine is what I want to call you, but for now, I’ll settle for your name.

“Victoria Hart. H.A.R.T.”

Victoria Hart Dolce Cossack.

It’s got quite a ring to it.

“Very well, Ms. Hart. Shall we?”

I settle my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the dining room to stares and whispers, my balls twitching and my dick throbbing. Watching her magical ass sway in front of me, all I can think about is how I will manage to get through the main course without cumming in my fucking pants.

3

Victoria

I FEEL LIKE I’M IN a fairy tale.

Or a dream.

But that could be the nearly empty bottle of wine. I glance across at it, sitting cloaked in a white linen napkin on a side table that’s apparently specifically there for that purpose.

I don’t know a lot about wine prices, but from the scan of the menu I had downstairs while I waited for Doctor Shithead to return, the one sitting to my left isn’t a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.