Page 51 of A Dark Fall
“Changing the subject.”
“Hmm, maybe. But talking about how hard you make me is the only subject I’m interested in. Oh, and making you come with my mouth. I’m pretty interested in that too.” He laughs. It’s a quiet little sexy laugh that almost makes me orgasm in a crowded restaurant.
“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” I look at him over my glass, giving him a small shake of my head, cheeks hot. “That mouth of yours ... Completely ... filthy.”
“Maybe I really like the way you pretend you don’t like it, me talking to you like that.” His voice is low and hot, his words hanging in the air for a moment. Finally, he breaks his stare to lift his beer, taking a thirsty gulp of it. I try not to watch the way his throat bobs deliciously as he does. “Tell me though, do you prefer when I’m talking about what I want to do to you, or when I’m doing it?”
At that moment, Leo and a waitress arrive with our food. Leo places the steaming-hot plate delicately in front of me, and I watch the pretty waitress place Jake’s spaghetti and meatballs in front of him. Though she steals more than a few glances in his direction, he ignores her completely, still looking at me with that sexy smirk of his, wondering which I prefer. Him talking about it or doing it.
Leo comes back with the black pepper and parmesan, but I wait until he’s gone and out of earshot before I lower my voice to launch a little conversation stopper of my own. I choose my professional tone—the one I use with my patients. Hopefully, it will have more effect that way.
“Well, granted, Jake, when you’re fucking me with your mouth or your cock, your filthy mouth has a distinctly erotic effect, so I’d say they both have their place. However, I’d much prefer it if you didn’t espouse your learned and graphic sexual vocabulary over dinner. Later though, when we aren’t eating, please tell me just how delightful my cunt tasted.” I keep my eyes on him as I carefully stab a forkful of ravioli before sucking it off the fork into my mouth.
He was right—the chicken ravioli is amazing.
I manage to swallow and take a sip of my wine while he remains speechless, staring at me in shock or awe, I’m not sure. It sends a thrill straight through me all the way to my toes to know I can have that effect on him.
I bite back a smile and swallow another mouthful of the delicious ravioli.
It takes about two whole minutes before he seems able to speak again. When he does, his voice is low and serious.
“Okay. You win, Alex. The dinner table isn’t the place for that kind of language. Mainly ’cause it makes me want to drag you out of here and—” He stops himself.
Oh, he’s trying. How sweet. Except now I’m burning to know exactly what it makes him want to do.
Since I don’t want to be a hypocrite, I bite my tongue and say nothing.
He spoons a large, twisted forkful of meatball into his mouth, and we chew in silence for a couple of minutes, with him shaking his head as if he can’t believe what I just said. Though, to be honest, I can’t believe what I just said either.
“So, where are you from?” he asks, casual, the sexual tug-of-war fading away slowly.
“Um, I grew up in Camberley. You?”
“Bromley. Brothers or sisters?” he redirects immediately, sliding another mouthful between his lips. He’s a really polished eater, I notice. Elegant with his fork, chewing each bite economically, not getting anything anywhere except in his mouth. Admirable given he’s eating spaghetti. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised since everything he’s done so far with that mouth has been some kind of human art form.
“Both,” I say. “An older brother, Nick, and Natasha—she’s older too. What about you?”
A dark cloud rolls over his eyes, and he visibly tenses. “Um, a brother. We don’t talk.”
I only nod at this. Something about his expression tells me he doesn’t want to discuss it. I file it away though for the future.
“What about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“Are you close to them? What do they do?”
“We’re close. And they’re both retired now. My mother was a university lecturer, languages, and my dad was a doctor. I suppose technically still is.” I take another bite as he nods.
He looks thoughtful and a touch distant as he stares at me, then he goes back to his food, then he stares at me again. I don’t know what to make of the long looks, the slight narrowing of his eyes, or the thoughtful bite of his lip. It’s as if he’s processing every single piece of information I give him and digesting it along with his spaghetti and meatballs.
“Is that why you became a doctor? ’Cause of your dad?” he asks.
“Partly. I mean, my dad’s amazing, the best man I know, and there was never any pressure or anything like that. But I look up to him. I suppose I wanted to make him proud.” I get a flush of embarrassment at how saccharine that came out.
Thankfully, Jake doesn’t look as if he’s about to throw up. No, his eyes are just intense and warm. I like the way he looks at me. It makes me feel aware of every nerve ending in my body.
“I’m sure you do,” he says, and it’s so genuine it makes my tummy flip.