Page 6 of Fifth Avenue Flirt
“It’s going to be the best thing you’ve ever eaten. And then you get to be the main course.”
She better be ready. Because I’m hungry.
THREE
Avril
I might be eating the most delicious plate of food I’ve ever tasted. And it’s a cheese omelet. Not from the kitchen of a Michelin-starred chef, but Mr. Loverman himself.
I hate to admit it, but watching him crack eggs and shred cheese was actually hot. I think I might be coming down with a fever or something.
The problem is, I don’t want to be a spectator to a cooking show. I came here to get laid. That’s why I suggested we go back to his place and have sex. The way he responded to my exasperation with him with such good humor was a turn-on. Instead of feeling embarrassed about getting called out for being cheesy, he took it all in his stride and he didn’t skip a beat.
That’s how a real man responds, rather than clapping back with some kind of put-down. Ben didn’t see it as a bruise to his ego. And the idea of sex with a man without a fragile ego is something I couldn’t pass up. But now I’m sitting on a stainless-steel countertop wondering when Ben is going to try to get to first base.
“That was just what I needed,” he says, putting his plate in the dishwasher. He really knows his way around this kitchen. Of course, it’s his kitchen, but most New York men in their thirties couldn’t make an omelet if their next million depended on it. I think I like the fact that Ben can not only turn on the stove, but can actually produce something edible. And best of all—clean up after himself.
He’s slick, but maybe there’s more to him than unctuous charm. Oh yes, I almost forgot, he’s also a linguist.
I laugh to myself. Nothing about going back to Ben’s place has been as I expected. I wanted some hot, mindless, no-strings sex and instead I got an omelet and a college lecture. I suppose it could be worse. We’re in New York City. I could be dead in a dumpster right now after going back to a stranger’s apartment on my own.
“Have you finished?” he asks, holding his hand out for my plate.
“It’s good,” I say, glancing down at my half-eaten omelet. “I just…it was big.”
“I’m not offended.” He takes my plate, dumps the leftovers in the garbage and stacks the plate in the dishwasher next to his.
“I figured.” I sigh. “So am I going to call an Uber or what?” I pull out my phone, and as I bring up the app, he swipes my cell from me.
“I don’t think so.” He tosses it onto the countertop.
He slides my knees apart and stands between my legs. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Said the serial killer to his next victim.” I probably shouldn’t joke about murder. I don’t know Ben. He and my brother, Worth, definitely know each other, and he’s Aurora’s fiancé’s bestie. But still, I’m sure Charles Manson had a network.
He gazes at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“What do you like?” he asks, his voice quiet as he slides his hands up my thighs.
I narrow my eyes. “Like to eat?” Heat from his fingers seeps through the fabric of my dress and I’m a little distracted. What is he asking me? “I like omelets.”
The corners of his mouth twitch like I’ve said something funny.
“What do you like men to do to you? What do you want me to do to you?”
I swallow and feel my cheeks heat. “You want a checklist or something?”
He reaches for the hem of my dress and pushes it up, up, up. There’s so much material, it’s all bunching around us and I can hardly see him. He releases it all and it falls back down. Just when I thought things were starting to get interesting, he’s already given up.
“You need to stay still,” he says, as he produces a glinting, stainless-steel chef’s knife. My heartbeat ramps up for all the wrong reasons. He must see it in my eyes because he just smirks.
He hooks his pointer finger into the V-neck of my dress and slices it open.
I’m too shocked to say anything.
He cuts all the way down until my dress is in two pieces and I’m wearing an expensive, and unusual, cardigan.
“That’s better,” he says on a growl, as he parts the two edges of my dress.
