Page 2 of Her Patron
“You’re blunt?” Sette asked, arching a brow.
“Terribly.”
“I’ll brace myself.”
“You should.”
The bouillabaisse arrived steaming, fragrant with saffron and fennel, while mussels and shrimp simmered in the broth. Miquela watched Sette inhale the scent before she realized she was being observed.
“What?” Sette asked.
“Nothing,” Miquela said. “It’s nice being with someone who isn’t… performative?”
Sette dipped bread into the broth. “No point in performing unless someone’s paying.”
June flashed across Miquela’s mind – laughing against her shoulder, issuing that infuriating ultimatum with a smirk that said Miquela should watch herself.
June, calling her right when she got out of the shower…
“Go get laid somewhere else for a weekend. Then tell me you love me.”
Sette had no idea that she was part of that advice.
“I prefer authenticity,” Miquela said. “It makes desire more… efficient.”
Sette’s lips curved around her wineglass. “Efficient desire. That sounds like something a casino heiress would say.”
“Resort developer,” Miquela corrected.
“Even worse.”
As the wine disappeared and was replaced without asking, Sette’s posture changed. Her spine loosened, and her laughter came quicker. She slipped her heels off beneath the table, one foot brushing accidentally – or perhaps not so accidentally – against Miquela’s leg.
Miquela did not move away.
She found herself cataloging Sette in ways that were increasingly physical. The column of her throat when she tipped back wine. The way her fingers curled around the stem of the glass. The subtle strength in her forearms when she tore bread.Her perceptively short nails, unpainted, unlike her visage. Her expert complementing of makeup, accessories, and clothing. How she showed off just enough skin to entice, but covered up enough to go anywhere.
She’s not delicate.Doctor, artist… whatever. Sette was a woman, first and foremost. She may have been femme, but she played the mating game as well as Miquela, who had come dressed in one of her tailored three-piece suits with a silk blouse that accentuated her breasts. A silver necklace dangled in her cleavage. Her nails were as short as Sette’s. The only difference between a date with Sette and one with June was that Miquela wasn’t packing. She kept the fun at home.No sense scaring a poor lady away because she’s not into that.That was something to bring up when they were already in Miquela’s bed with most of their clothes on the floor.
Shit.There was June again, inserting herself between them, refocusing Miquela’s attention and sultrily whispering,“Think of me when you fuck her, would you?”
Because while Sette was essentially Miquela’s type, with her ladylike manners, pretty dresses, and fluffy hair that fell past her shoulders, she wasn’t June. Sette didn’t have the curves of angels or the flirtatious extroversion of a professional courtesan.My ultimate weakness.Sette was the epitome of intellectual discussions during dinner that required a dual BA in philosophy and art history… followed by perfunctory sex or rabid lovemaking. Miquela didn’t know yet.
By the time the lavender-infused crème brûlée arrived, the caramelized sugar cracking beneath Sette’s spoon, there was an ease between them that had not existed at the beginning of the evening. It was almost like being back in the café, only this time, Miquela didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t for the thrill of it.
“You’re different tonight,” Sette said.
“Different from what?”
“From the coffee shop. Or when you were hanging out with my stupid friend Zara.”
Miquela considered that. “Perhaps I’m being myself, so I can say what I want.”
“And what do you want?” Sette dug into the dessert while Miquela refrained. Miquela was too busy studying the way those red lips pursed around bites of food.I bet she’s a good kisser.Then again, so was June. So were a lot of women.
“You,” Miquela answered, not breaking eye contact.
Sette stilled. She slowly swallowed her bite and put the spoon back down on the porcelain plate. Meanwhile, Miquela still did not look away.
