Page 30 of Plum

I take a bite, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his. He follows the spoon. He’s so focused on it, that I can’t help myself. I take my time, lick the back and then the front, real slow.

It’s like I cranked a knob all the way. The hungry look on his face intensifies by a hundred, his blue eyes casting off sparks behind his glasses, his throat bobbing. There’s a weird fluttering in my belly. Why isn’t he grabbing me?

“Do that again,” he growls. It’s an order, not a request.

I do. I watch him while I swallow. He doesn’t seem to know what to look at: my mouth, my tits, my legs. He keeps coming back to my eyes, like he’s checking for something. My skin heats, tingles dancing along my exposed skin.

I don’t hate this.

I experiment. I scoop up a big, heaping bite, and I shove it all into my mouth, slipping the spoon out with a pop.

He moans. It’s almost a growl.

“Please do that again.” He’s leaning forward now, bracing his forearms on his knees.

I take an even bigger spoonful, and for the first time, I notice the taste. It’s creamy. Sweet and light and foamy. Not as dense as pudding.

“Do you like it?”

I blink. Huh. I’d closed my eyes. Hadn’t even realized it.

“Yeah. It’s good.”

He smiles, really pleased.

“Is this your kink? You like to watch women eat?”

His smile disappears real quick. Shit. I don’t know why I said that. I ain’t an amateur. I got no business shaming the client.

This one irritates me, though. He ain’t even touching me, but he’s bossing me all the same. And my stupid body seems to be forgetting we’re on the clock.

“I like to watchyoueat.”

“Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I like to watch you walk. I like to watch your face when you see something that blows your mind. I like to watch you when you try to read me.”

I don’t know what to say. “You ain’t blown my mind yet, my friend.” I clutch my knees tighter.

“I will. When you let me.”

“You don’t gotta ask. You paid.” I kick myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth. You sell the fantasy; you don’t fucking poke holes in it.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but he don’t seem phased.

“Plum?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to take my shirt off.”

“Suit yourself.” Fuck! I am off my game. “I’d like that,” I try again, using my sultry voice. It comes out as a squeak, though. I shove another spoonful of mousse in my mouth just to cover up my awkwardness.

He’s already hung his shirt onto the arm of the sofa. He’s back to sitting knees bent, but he’s leaning back on his hands so I can see everything. And the man isjacked. A six-pack. That V dipping down into the waistband of his really fancy black pants. A sprinkling of black hair trailing down his belly, disappearing at his belt buckle.

He’s got the popped veins in his arms like Wall, and Wall goes to one of those gyms where you pay them to throw tractor tires.

I suck my gut in, even though he can’t see it the way I’m sitting.

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