Page 112 of Only Mine
Saint watches me with a fire that liquefies my insides. I want to say something clever, but my brain’s been replaced with a tangle of hormones and the wordyes. I can’t help it. Another soft moan escapes.
“There it is.” His eyes eat me alive. “That’s what two million people want to see. Not me. You.”
“That’s not?—”
“True?” He takes the fork, loads it again, and holds it just out of reach. “Tell me you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
I reach for the fork, but he pulls it back.
“Say please.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being filmed.” He nods at my phone, still recording. “So what’s it going to be, Wrenley? You going to be good for me?”
The question shoots straight into my underwear. “Please.”
He feeds me slowly, deliberately, making me work for every bite while his other hand rests on my hip, thumb stroking bare skin where my shirt’s ridden up.
“Ivy’s at Noa and Stone’s tonight,” he says against my ear. “Sleepover.”
I swallow hard. “And?”
“And nothing.” He sets the fork down and reaches around me to stop the recording. “Just information.”
But his hand is still on my hip, and I can feel how hard he is pressed against my back.
The kitchen door slams open. “Chef, we need?—”
“Out.” Saint doesn’t move, doesn’t even look. “Now.”
The door swings shut immediately.
“You’re terrorizing your staff,” I say.
“They’ll survive.” He spins me on the stool to face him. “Nine o’clock. My place.”
It’s not a question.
“I don’t know. I have to edit your very talented hands and post this by tonight.”
“Nine. O’clock.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. When he pulls back, it’s slick with olive oil. “Don’t make me come get you.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me sitting there with sore thighs, wet underwear, and my phone now containing food sex footage I’ll never post, already counting the hours until nine.
TWENTY-FIVE
SAINT
“Cover the pass,” I tell Eddie, untying my apron at 8:45. On a Friday night. During the dinner rush.
He nearly drops his tongs. “Chef?”
“You heard me.”
“But we’ve got three eight-tops coming in fifteen minutes.”
“Did I fucking stutter?”
