by Petrova, Em
Taylor-call-me-Tay towered over me. Granted she was wearing heels with the black wool trousers, and they gave her a three-to-four-inch advantage, but even without them, she was tall enough to be a point guard. Six foot, easy.
If I was scouting, and I was always scouting, Id’ say she had the look and feel of someone who could handle herself.
My eyes had yet to move much past the satiny over-blouse nipped in at the waist. It showed off a gentle rise of hips and a still narrow middle for someone her age. Flat boobs, but then the blouse wasn’t doing much to accentuate her assets.
I wasn’t trying to be a dick but little Robert was interested to see if the nipples might join the party so I gave a good long stare, using my height disadvantage as an excuse.
God knows, I couldn’t possibly be forced to look up. But I did, straight into quizzical dark brown eyes, wide-set with elegant brows naturally arched, not tweezed into submission. Despite a hint of a glower indicating a wee bit of displeasure over my obvious inspection, the package went beyond nicely put together. What really aggravated that annoying tingle was that the whole picture was done artfully, without conscious effort. She had a natural grace, the adornments simple, without pretense.
Girl next door with Big Apple sensibilities. And a cornrow ’do that gave her beautiful head a sculpted, elegant quality, along with a hint of sass.
I couldn’t help being a jock with a splash of Clinton Kelly. My sisters and nieces would understand and never blink an eye, but prudence dictated I should keep my hobbies to myself.
Miz Tay finally gave in and sat down. Being the Neanderthal in the group, I forgot to noodge the chair toward the table, leaving that task to Arturo who wore a mask of polite disdain over my social gaff.
My point spread for flavor-of-the-evening was falling off the charts.
The Fink proved to be an excellent dinner companion, keeping the discussions to light-hearted vignettes about the operating theater—and who knew that mishandling scalpels could be such a hoot—all told tongue-in-cheek, with a self-deprecatory style that had all of us smiling, then laughing out loud.
Cordie nearly melted with adoration. And I couldn’t say I blamed her. She’d waited a hell of a long time for this, for a chance at real love, not a make-do place setting or the theater-of-the-absurd drama that had consumed most of her adult life.
They sipped the rather excellent red while I drained my glass and forced Arturo to abandon his questions about first courses to do an emergency refill. I assumed it was Bordeaux but, really, it could have been anything from grape juice on up the price spectrum. No one would ever accuse me of being a wine snob.
Ales were my passion: dark, robust, stand a spoon upright, with a thick fragrant head kind of thing.
Regarding the menu, the one without the prices listed, the Fink expansively offered the sky’s the limit so dearest Cordie immediately volunteered to chat it up with an obsequious Arturo. The man registered a ten on the smarmy scale as he leaned over my sister’s shoulder as she did a rapid tippity-tap on the plasticized menu with a freshly manicured fingernail.
Nodding with enthusiasm, she and our waiter agreed on breaking tradition and putting together an antipasto robust enough to merit a celebration, selecting combinations not even the award-winning chef had thought of.
Arturo grinned, made a few notes and scurried off.
Taylor-call-me-Tay watched the proceedings, looking a bit like I felt—in over my head and sinking fast. Whether she was ruing the suggested pairings of calamari ala griglia with broccoli rabe in olive oil with roasted garlic and chillies or, like me, she was fairly nimble with numbers that went ka-ching, neither of us felt prepared to deal with the capolavoro di eccellenza culinaria italiana soon to grace our humble table.
As luck would have it, we were seated boy-girl-girl-boy, leaving me next to my not-a-date and tongue-tied. Normally I wasn’t shy, having grown up with a pack of assertive women. I held my own, most days. Even when said dinner companion, by circumstance and not by choice, wore a bright neon not interested sign, I managed to accept it as the challenge it was. Sometimes I scored, sometimes I didn’t.
Looking at Cordie, knowing tonight was her way of spreading the love she’d so recently discovered, I vowed not to be a total dork. I would make an effort, above and beyond eat and run.
While Arturo and a squad of ranch hands busied themselves artfully arranging small boat-like white platters of bits and bobs of undercooked seafood, I put on my Prince Charming face, smiled brightly and said, “So my sister tells me you’re in school.”
Wrinkling her nose at the punte di asparagi, she kept one eye on the grilled octopus and the other on my finger tapping an unconscious SOS on my wine glass.
“Yes.”
Yes, I’ll fight you to the death for a piece of that knubby flesh swimming with capers and cherry tomatoes, or … yes, I’m in school. Or yes to something else.
Hard to tell, and not the best of starts.
One of the helpers graced my vicinity with bloody beef tenderloin covered with parmigiano shavings. Forgiving the gods of culinary science for fouling it with arugula and hearts of palm, I speared it with the outside fork and narrowly missed an opportunity for a quick foray to St. Luke’s emergency room for stab wounds.
Miz Tay was as quick as I suspected and she wanted that bloody bite of meat as much as, maybe more than, I did. The forks squared off in an Italian standoff worthy of the Godfather.
A gentleman would have relinquished all rights to the raw meat. I wasn’t a gentleman.
Being a lefty gave me a slight advantage. I kept the impaled temptation in place and secured my fair share with a swift, deft slice across the grain.
While Her Ladyship demurely slid the dripping bit onto her plate, I did a lift and drizzle across the dazzling white linen tablecloth, leaving a trail of shame.
Cordie blanched and looked up at some point over my shoulder. Arturo was there, he had to be. Fortunately, the kitchen noises ramped up at that point, drowning out whatever the waitstaff was thinking sotto voce.
Satisfied with the easy layup, I shoved the entire wad of tenderloin in my mouth and chewed contently. At least it gave me something to do with my mouth, because conversation wasn’t happening.
One of the minions anticipated my interest in the calamari and smoothly deposited a selection onto the plate. I nodded my thanks and slipped a quick look to my right.
She was still there. Lips pursed, not chewing.
Fink’s words washed over me as I set my fork down and waited for my sister’s next bright idea.
I was looking down the gullet of insalate, more fish, a cappuccino and desert with two forks. Then off to the theater to jam myself into a seat designed for someone five feet tall, and try not to doze off during the overture.
The adage no good deed goes unpunished sprang to mind.
Cordie giggled, reminding me of how easy it was to devil my favorite sister, and how much I loved hearing her laugh.
With nothing in mind other than to force more than a yes or no, I turned to Taylor-the prim during a lull in the general din and asked, “So, how many times have you been divorced?”
I’ve never actually had my balls shrivel from a look, but there was a first time for everything.
Chapter Four
Tay
The salad chef maneuvered the cart between me and Cordie, forcing me to scoot my chair closer to my best friend’s brother and my one-way ticket to purgatory for what looked to be an eternity.
Keeping one eye on the prep work and one eye on the blood oozing down the Neanderthal’s chin was giving me a headache. I preferred overseeing the anchovies smushed into a glorious paste along the bottom of a high wooden bowl than to peripheral vision Rob-not-Robbie flicking his tongue to scoop up the bloody drool. In lieu of the linen napkin, he opted to explore the outer limits with a muscle best kept hidden.
Fortunately for her brother, Cordie was distracted by the Fink’s latest homily and was relieved of t
he indignity of her brother using a thumb to trap the last succulent drizzle, depositing it in his mouth and sucking audibly.
Sucking loud enough to displace Frank’s kind of town…
Meanwhile, back at the salad cart, four cloves of garlic took the flat of a chopping blade, followed by a deft peel and a symphony of moves to mince the fragrant bulbs into impossibly uniform bits. Impressed, I was. The salad chef was young, but he definitely had skills. And he was easy on the eyes.
Pouring extra virgin olive oil from a glass carafe that captured and reflected the greenish hue of the EVOO, young Tony whisked in the minced garlic, releasing a fragrance as subtle as rose petals. Cordie sniffed appreciatively but went back to her adoration. Clean-chinned Rob ignored the ballet to my right in favor of staring off into space. His loss.
Arturo chattered with Tony in Italian as he removed the remains of the antipasto and dabbed without much success at the bloody trail on the tablecloth. Half expecting the man to deposit miniature cones, like the cops do at a crime scene, it didn’t surprise me when he covered the offending blot on his sense of decorum with a pure white bread plate. He followed up with a lovely selection of breads, all steaming fresh, succulent enough to make my mouth water.
The Caesar salad proceeded apace. I’ve always admired how someone could crack an egg, then deftly manipulate the shell so that the white ends up in one half, the yolk in the other. He did that twice, with a certain panache, managing to catch Cordie and the Fink’s attention with his flexibility. The yolks and the smushed anchovies went in next.
Tony’s wrists were uncommonly elegant, lean and supple, with corded veins roping into long fingers that grasped the metal handle of the whisk like a lover. As the creamy, buttery glow thickened, bits of the mixture kicked up toward the lip of the bowl. He took a napkin and tipped it gently, lovingly along the rim, licking full lips as he glanced sideways at me.
He had my undivided.
Rob squirmed next to me, carelessly bumping my thigh. The urge to reach down and pinch his balls hard enough to make him squeal was strong. While my brain had punishment in mind, the lady parts were suggesting curious upgrades and other entertainment options.
Where the hell is that coming from?
Tony, it had to be Tony, with the deft hand and a whisk.
The clever young man pinched salt, grated pepper and squeezed a lemon into the smooth mixture, topped it with a few swipes on the grater with rock hard Parmesan, then looked at me with a glint in his eye.
Did I?
Oh yes, I most assuredly did.
With a forefinger, I swiped an errant spray of the oil mixture off the uppermost ridge on the bowl and rimmed my finger with my tongue before total immersion and a sigh of raw contentment.
Tony looked pleased in an orgasmic kind of way, eyelids at half mast, one corner of his gorgeous mouth upticked in a way that said do me, do me now.
I did my finger instead.
Rob squirmed again, but not in the preferred direction: away from my overheated flesh and dripping panties. Arturo poured something red across the way, his eyes bulging at the raw display of foodie lust.
There’s something oddly … sinful, sucking on a finger in mixed company, deep-throating, then withdrawing it so slowly that every nerve gets individual attention, setting up a tingle wave of pleasure and flooding the mouth with the endorphins of complete surrender.
It needed more lemon. Tony accepted my nod and gave another squeeze, a drip, then another and one more. Lifting an eyebrow to indicate ‘enough’ I sensed rather than heard Rob hiss next to me.
Fondling the washed heads of romaine, Tony peeled away the wilted leaves and carefully tore the lettuce into bite-sized chunks to fall in a random pattern atop the thick dressing. After carefully tossing lettuce and dressing, he added the final coup de grace: toasted croutons brushed with garlic-infused EVOO and coarsely chopped.
Arturo moved to Tony’s right and handed him deep ceramic bowls, filled with loving care by the boy toy I was ready to take home for my own particular use.
With reluctance, the young man removed his sexy self and his cart from our table, leaving Arturo with the parmesan and a small grater. I murmured, ‘Gracie,” with regret as I’d rather have had Tony do me, though Arturo did a credible job of dispensing the cheese, never once taking his eyes off Rob.
Rob looked uncomfortable, acutely so, and I wondered if maybe he was homophobic. Arturo was making no small bones about his interest … and that thought got me giggling, but I salvaged the moment with the napkin, dabbing delicately so as not to displace the lipstick I’d reluctantly donned for this event.
Cordie chirped, “Did you know that Caesar salad has nothing to do with Caesar…” Rob cringed. “…but some guy in Mexico came up with the idea.”
The Fink suggested it happened one night in Tijuana, and he would be correct, but he got the date wrong.
“It was actually in the twenties, and the chef’s name was Caesar Cardini. He started the tradition of having the prep done at the table to add drama to the meal.” When I wasn’t memorizing playlists, I read recipe books. My hovel was full of them, despite my penurious situation.
There wasn’t much more to add to that tidbit, so I hunkered down with a most excellent insalata and went to my happy place, the one where taste and texture and aroma fucked with abandon in my hungry mouth…
The snort next to me was of the ‘oops, I can’t believe she said that out loud’vintage, confirmed when I did the eyeroll left only to find Rob’s head nearly buried in the colorful ceramic bowl.
That’s the trouble with living alone. You lose the filters that keep conversation on an even keel.
Fortunately for me, the Fink and my sorority sister assumed the giggles were for whatever the good doctor had just said. When the guy I remembered as a pimply-faced pain-in-the-patoot lifted his head, he had a mouthful of romaine and eyes-on-stalks, close to gagging but not quite there.
Maybe Tony and I misjudged the lemon portion of the evening’s festivities. Or it was the anchovies; not everyone appreciated the exquisite combination of saltiness and fulsome omega three oil. A little went a long way, though Tony had erred on what I’d consider the conservative side with just two filets for an insalata serving for four.
With his jaw working double time to masticate and dispose of the affront to his taste buds, Rob decided to multitask with passing the bread tray, handing it to the Fink and exposing a wide swath of his earlier transgression.
Cordie, Arturo and I winced, but the Fink and Robbie found the rolls and warm sourdough more compelling, exchanging the butter urn back and forth while Cordie and I continued our love affair with Tony’s near masterpiece.
In an effort to make an effort, I offered, “I’ve had my fair share of Caesars,” directing this pronouncement in Rob’s general direction, “and I’m willing to put it on my top ten list,” with a slight emphasis on my, thus relieving him of making a commitment one way or another.
I’d caught him with a gullet full of sourdough and another round of errant drizzle on his chin, this time creamery Italian butter, so thick and rich it made me horny with desire to lick it off his face, five o’clock shadow notwithstanding.
I hated to admit it, but sometimes my tongue liked it rough.
He gave me an ‘um’, making what was clearly a conscious effort to chew with his mouth closed. In profile he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, and not nearly as boyish as I first thought. There were some fine lines radiating out from sable brown eyes, the lashes normal length and the brows arched, giving him a devilish cast to his features when crinkled with laughter.
The mouth was nice too, wide-set but not too full. I’d hazard kissable might be an apt description, and given my state of enforced celibacy, forgiving myself for that wayward thought wasn’t too hard.
Hard…
Crap. You are so not attracted to him, girl.
Arturo did an end run on Rob’s left, reaching for plates and wine glasses and setting u
p a domino effect…
Napkin jarred lose to drift with linen elegance onto the floor next to my chair, Rob ducking to grab it and missing, his cheek brushing my thigh—I could almost feel the stubble like grit on a wheel, lancing through fabric to chitter with the gooseflesh his cologne and maleness forced awake.
Me: a mirror image, shrugging left, torso half turned to meet his cheekbones grazing my breast, the one with the skimpy lace and no support, and the hint, barely there, of hot breath and a sigh of pleasure.
I might have imagined the sigh. The drag of coarse dark hair across my most sensitive flesh … that was not my imagination. And whether deliberate or not, nipples long out of practice said ‘hello stranger’ and went for the easy two.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…
Then time, sound and motion ceased for a heartbeat and we stared at each other, blinked and turned away, a careful choreography of it never happened.
Keeping his eyes averted, he asked into the dead air space, “You want bread?” and handed me the last roll—a mini-baguette, caressed with strong, blunt fingers, the thumb tracing a path along the crusty length, held just beyond my reach. With his free hand he slathered the soft butter over the entire surface with the butter knife until the coated length sweat glistened with droplets from the heat of his hand.
Licking my lips, I tendered an offer, a brief tweak with thumb and forefinger on the tip, acknowledging his resistance but persisting until he released the loaf.
After contemplating the offering, I placed the phallic length of erotic suggestion into my mouth, bedding it to my fingertips and withdrawing it slowly through puckered lips, the buttery sweetness oozing and coating my lips like gloss. A gloss with weight and substance and carrying all the flavors of sin in its salty, lipid goodness.
I thought he wasn’t looking.
I was wrong.
He mouthed ‘fuck me’ and Arturo nearly passed out.
Chapter Five
Rob