Page 111 of Just for the Plot

“So, are you going to make a move?”

“I am.” I nod, causing her eyes to widen in surprise.

“Oh my God, really? When? Who is she? Can I be there when you do it?”

“Bower, Bennett, dinner is about to be served,” Adalade says with a knowing smile, the kind of smile she only shares with me.

Bower turns to me and says, “This isn’t over.”

I finish off my wine, and she does the same before I take her hand and lead her to the table. We’re sitting on the end, so I pull out her chairfor her and help her down before taking the seat right next to her. I then capitalize on the moment and drape my arm over her chair, tugging her in closer.

Our host, Anita, introduces the chef she hired for the night, and he spouts off the theme of the dinner, his inspiration for each platter, and where he found the ingredients so they’re as fresh as they can be.

Once he’s done, our glasses are refilled and I’m feeling buzzed as I lean into Bower and whisper, “Never had steak tartare. Have you?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

I chuckle. “Looks like we’re about to find out.”

Waiters place a petite-sized plate in front of us with what looks like one bite of red meat and a quail’s egg over easy resting on top.

“That is the smallest piece of meat I’ve ever seen,” Bower whispers, making my chest rumble with laughter.

“Thank fuck you’re saying that about the food on your plate and not the dick in my pants.”

Her eyes widen even more before she snorts, covering her nose and attempting not to draw attention to us as the rest of the dinner party all engage in mature conversation. Something about an art gallery they went to.

“Grateful I didn’t take a bite when you said that, or else tartare would have flown out of my nostrils.”

“Shame, would have loved to see that.” I stab the meat with my fork and wolf it down in one bite.

The texture is off for me, but the flavors are decent. When I swallow, I press my lips to her ear and say, “That was fucking slimy.”

“If you don’t like slimy things, how are you going to impress your crush?” she asks, tucking into the tartare herself.

I’ve turned toward her, completely blocking off the rest of the group, which doesn’t seem to bother anyone as we separate from the pack and form our own dinner party of two.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…”—she sips her wine and then wiggles her brows—“going down…”

“Why the hell would you call that slimy?”

“Well, if the juices are really flowing, it could be a mess.”

“The best kind of mess,” I say. “And the juices would be flowing, so much that she’s practically fucking my face as I go down.”

I watch her carefully. There’s a small hitch in her chest, a pause in her breathing before she takes another sip of her wine.

“That’s, uh, that’s great for her, then. We appreciate a king who will go down. Do you, uh, do you do that often?”

“When I’m with a girl, yes.”

“Good for you.” She gulps some more wine. “Really, really great. Pleasuring your partner is the way to go. Some might say the best way to go; others might say the only way to go—”

“You’re rambling,” I say as I let my finger twist a piece of her hair.

“Because I wasn’t expecting you to…to, I don’t know, say you like eating women out.”