Page 80 of Butcher & Blackbird
“What’s missing?” Rowan tries again.
“Nothing. But…” I shake my head. Rowan’s hand glides down my arm in reassurance, that this place and my words are safe with him. “But it’s not unique.”
“You’re right,” he replies. An indulgent kiss lingers on my neck as his cock twitches within me. I notice every motion he makes, from the way his lips lift from my skin to the rise and fall of his chest against my back. “It’s not unique. It’s like every other crème brûlée in the city. It needs something different. Something new.”
“Thorsten Harris probably would suggest—”
“Blackbird,” Rowan says, punctuating his warning with a bite to my earlobe. “Do not even think about finishing that sentence or there’ll be hell to pay.”
My eyes remain closed as I grin. “I like your version of hell.”
“You say that now. But I could stay in this tight little cunt of yours for hours, and I think you’d feel differently if I spent all that time not letting you come.” Rowan shifts his hips, just a hint of movement that ignites my desperation for more. “Now be my good little bird and name me the most random fruit you can think of. The first thing that springs to mind.”
I don’t even really think about it. I just speak. “Persimmon.”
There’s a beat of silence. Rowan relaxes behind me, as though the pent-up tension in his chest has spirited away.
“Yes. Persimmon. That’s an excellent idea, love.”
And then he slides out of me.
I open my eyes and turn around as he takes a step back, tucking his erection back into his briefs before he tugs his pants up. My breaths come in shallow pants as I take him in. There’s heat and desire in his eyes, but he keeps it banked. Not like me. I know my desperate need for more is written all over my face.
“I thought you said good girls get rewards,” I say, my voice low and husky.
A slow smile tips up the corner of Rowan’s lips where his scar brightens in a straight line through his skin. “You’re right. I did say that. Go out into the restaurant and sit on your table.”
“Which one is mine?”
“You’ll know.”
He tosses me a wink and starts to gather the unused ingredients onto the tray. I watch for a moment before he nods toward the door and tells me he’ll be there as soon as he’s done.
I head out into the dimly-lit space and toward the booths beneath the black wing mounted on the wall. When I glance between the front entrance and the sign for the emergency exit by the bathrooms and the door to the kitchen, it’s obvious which one I’d choose—the booth that sits just beneath the vertex of the spread wing.
When I slide onto the seat, there’s a line of text in a simple cursive script, branded into the surface of the wood. ‘Blackbird’s Booth,’ it says.
My finger traces each letter as I look out at the space and take in every detail from this vantage point. I’m still absorbing the warmth spreading through my veins when I hear the swoosh of the kitchen door.
“I thought I said for you to get ‘on’the table,” Rowan says as he stalks in my direction. I glance from him to the windows lining the front of the restaurant and back again. Anticipation rushes through my veins on a flood of adrenaline.
“But—”
“On, Sloane. Now.”
Fire crawls beneath my skin as I gesture toward the front of the restaurant. Rowan stops next to the booth with a stern expression that states he’s clearly unwilling to entertain any protest I’m about to make, not that it will stop me from arguing. “I just saw a woman walk by with her groceries,” I say. “She does not want to see that. No one does.”
“Of course they do. And even if they didn’t, there’s an important detail that you might be missing: I don’t. Fucking. Care. So are you using your safe word?”
“No.”
Rowan’s hands press flat to the surface as he leans closer, pinning me with an unwavering stare. “Then get on the fucking table, Sloane.”
I climb onto the surface with my back facing the row of windows as heartbeats hum beneath my skin, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. When I’m settled, Rowan slides onto the padded bench until he’s directly in front of me. My gaze is trapped in his, our connection unbroken, neither of us moving. He seems to enjoy that I’m waiting for his instructions as much as I enjoy obeying them.
“Pull your dress up to your waist,” he says, his eyes dark and brimming with lust. I do as he says, but I take my time, dragging the hem across my skin. “Spread your legs wide.”
Rowan’s gaze stays riveted to my damp panties and the outline of my piercings beneath the fabric as I spread my thighs as wide as my hips will allow. He grasps my knees and prompts me back a little closer to the center of the table.
