Page 51 of The Wrong Promise

I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I carefully sit on a stool, reaching for the edge of the marble counter and grip hard. Tilting my head, I listen as he handles the cutlery and pans. “Open your mouth, Zara,” he commands, and I do.

The aroma of basil and parsley hit my senses as he places the fork on my tongue. I close my lips as he slides it out, leaving something warm and soft in texture. It’s a little chewy, and I’m not sure if I swallow or continue chewing as it’s definitely seafood. Not oysters, clams, maybe. The notable flavors include tomatoes, basil, seafood, and…

“Are you ready for some more?”

I nod. “Please.”

My mouth is open, waiting. It feels odd, yet I like it. A lot.

The fork touches my tongue, and I close my lips as he slides it out. I sense his eyes on me, watching every little detail. How do I look to him? Imagining how his eyes are on my mouth, my hormones send the wrong messages to my brain.

Calm the hell down. Now.

Mmm…potatoes and rice soaked in the seafood broth and combined with the tomatoes and herbs.

It’s a sensory overload.

“Do you like it?” His voice is a soft hum as though he’s enjoying it as much as I am.

“I do.”

“Do you want some more?”

“Of course I bloody do.” More food, more of Jobe’s seduction skills. I’m here for all of it. I can’t see him, but somehow, I know he’s smiling at me.

“Bloody hell, ay. She’s already talking like a Brit.” He gives me another taste.

I cover my mouth with a hand as I smile and swallow the delicacy melting on my tongue. “I’m ready to guess.”

“Go ahead.”

I tell him, and then he spoons more into my mouth. “What else?”

“A touch of cream.”

“Round one to you.”

I grin like a kid after an Easter egg hunt. “Next.” I turn in the stool so it’s easier for him, and his thigh bumps my knee. He is so close. Too close.

I open my mouth and wait, but then I feel like an idiot and shut it again. What is he doing? He’s right there, yet nothing is happening, our heavy breathing echoing around us. The suspense is killing me, and I want to tug at the blindfold.

Finally, his fingers touch my chin, and I open my mouth, no verbal prompt necessary. A nutty, creamy texture jolts my taste buds. The food is again of soft texture… mushrooms. And truffle. Is it truffle butter? “Wow.” It’s all I can say.

Fingertips brush my lips, and I open again. This time, I taste pasta, soft and smooth. “I’m picturing myself in Italy. The Amalfi Coast.” I lick my lips, savoring the salt residue. “A type of pasta, mushrooms, truffle, parsley, a broth, maybe chicken or vegetable, and some sort of cheese.”

“You’re cheating somehow.”

I giggle. “I’m not. I should have been a food critic.”

His fingers graze over my lips, but I keep still, fighting the urge to shift. My mouth slowly opens, his fingerslingering on my lips, and I allow him to touch me in a way that sends messages south.

“A flake of parsley,” he whispers.

He doesn’t need to explain because, damn, I like this game. We’re not doing anything sexual, yet it’s as intense as foreplay. I imagine him leaning in and kissing my lips, a gentle brush, a delicate kiss.

A groan escapes, and I stiffen.

“Are you okay?” he whispers in my ear.

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