by Hazel Kelly
The Holy Dark Chocolate Trinity, however, is even more fantastic. There’s a dark chocolate Christmas bauble with a trickle of dark syrup melting down it, a miniature dark chocolate mousse snowman, and a slice of nearly black cake that’s cut into the shape of a Christmas tree.
I am more conflicted than I’ve ever been in my life.
“Bon appetite,” Anthony says, picking up his dessert spoon.
“I don’t know if I can eat something this beautiful,” I say, wondering where to even start.
“I’ll probably feel the same way when my face is between your legs later,” he says, spooning a bite of crumble into his mouth.
I lift my eyes to his.
“But I’ll get on with it anyway,” he says, a sly smile the only thing that gives away the fact that he hasn’t just made a comment about the weather.
“Why do you keep saying stuff like that?” I ask, picking up my fork.
“Because I live for the thrill of anticipation.”
My eyes fall to his hands as I consider what it would be like to have them on me.
“Besides,” he says, “You obviously enjoy it.”
I look around to see if anyone can hear him, but no one is even paying attention. And the truth is, I do enjoy it. Or at least, my body does.
I don’t know what to say so I take a big bite of cake, and it’s so chocolatey and moist that I have to close my eyes to cope with the sensory overload.
When I swallow the bite and open them again, he’s watching me, looking equal parts amused and predatory.
And I know down to my butterflies, I’m in way over my head.
F I V E
I eat my dessert slowly, not only because I’m keen to savor every bite but because I don’t want the evening to end. Plus, I don’t know what’s going to happen next and sitting across from Anthony is barely manageable. I fear I’ll melt if he so much as touches my lower back on the way out.
“Would you like anything else?” he asks as I swallow the last bite of crumble, most of which he left for me.
I shake my head. “I honestly can’t think of anything I could possibly want right now. This has been perfection.”
“I’ll get the check then,” he says.
“Can we go halves?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Of course I’m sure,” he says. “It’s my pleasure to treat you, especially when you obviously enjoyed it so much.”
I’m relieved, but I also feel unworthy. Then again, money obviously isn’t an issue for the guy and this whole thing was his idea.
“In that case, do you mind if I use the ladies’ room before we go?”
“Not at all,” he says. “It’s down the hall on the right, I believe.”
I smile and push my chair back, hearing an eruption of gasps around me before I feel the hot splash against my back. I turn around to see a mortified waiter with a steaming pitcher of mulled wine.
I’m grateful that he kept the glass from flying into me, but as the smell of cinnamon and cloves rises around me, I realize at least half of the dark liquid must be dripping down my back.
I practically run to the bathroom to keep the shirt from further burning my skin, disappearing before Anthony or the waiter can even say anything. Much to my relief, it’s a one person bathroom so I lock the door and do a ridiculous dance to free myself from the silk shirt.
It’s perfectly purple, and I know it’ll never be good for anything other than a zombie Halloween costume now. And there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to return it so I tear the tag off the inside and curse myself for not choosing something cheaper.
When I finally catch my breath, I look up at my flushed face and then back down at the shirt in the sink, realizing I haven’t thought this through. I flip the faucet off after I hear a knock on the door. “One second,” I say, realizing I’m going to have to make a toilet paper tunic to keep from flashing the other customers on the way out.
“Holly, it’s Anthony,” he says. “Open up.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m half naked.”
“In that case, stand back, and I’ll break the door down.”
“Wait.” I grab a cloth towel from a shiny gold tray on the wide sink top and tuck it in my bra straps so it hangs down like a bib. Then I unlock the door and open it a few inches. “Hi.”
“May I come in?”
“Why? Because you’re too embarrassed to sit at the table by yourself after the scene I just made?”
“No,” he says. “I want to come in because I have two dry shirts under my jacket and something tells me you could use one.”
“That’s very intuitive,” I say, opening the door and locking it again after he steps inside.
He glances at my shirt floating in the sink full of purple water and then at the cloth hanging down over my torso and smiles. “That’s a good look.”
“I think I wore this same hand towel to a music festival a few years ago.”
He reaches out and pinches the bottom of the towel between two fingers. I don’t know why I don’t stop him before he tears it away and feasts his eyes on my body, his gaze dripping down my chest to where my black pants cut across my hips.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, removing his sport coat and hanging it on the hook on the back of the door.
I shake my head, paralyzed by the adrenaline I feel from having his eyes on my skin.
He walks behind me and sweeps my hair to the side.
I watch him in the mirror as he looks at my back and touches the parts that feel the most tender, the parts that I assume are the most red. “It looks like your shirt got the worst of it,” he says, locking eyes with me in the mirror as he starts unbuttoning his white shirt.
He’s standing so close behind me I can hardly breathe.
“You have two choices,” he says, his hands working their way down. “You can have my collared shirt or you can have my undershirt.”
“I’ll take your undershirt,” I say. “So I don’t mess up your outfit.”
“That’s thoughtful of you,” he says smiling, as if he knows I’ve only said it because I want to see his chest, too.
I watch him hang his dress shirt on the door and pull his t-shirt off. He’s fit as fuck, and I don’t know where to look. There are so many muscles in his back I feel wet, and when he turns around, I’m even more impressed by his abs.
He steps up to me and my chest rises and falls with my breath as he hooks his fingers on the edge of my pants and pulls me into his personal space.
My eyes bounce back and forth between his until I can’t stand the pressure of his gaze and the pull of his fingers on my waistband anymore. “How about that kiss?” I whisper.
He presses his lips against mine and I melt against him, bracing myself against his chest with my hands as he explores my mouth with his tongue. His kisses are urgent and hungry like he’s been holding this in since I met him, and I feel positively possessed by his energy, his presence, and the masculine taste of him.
His hands move up my curves like he’s carving them in real time and the pads of his thumbs tease my nipples through my bra. I moan when my stomach drops to the floor, and he reaches around to unhook my bra before peeling it off a moment later.
I hook my hands around his strong neck as he finds my zipper, and I’m breathless at the thought of him touching me there.
He shoves my pants down over my hips like he’s through being polite and forces my ass against the sink top.
My head grows heavy as he drops his lips to my neck, sucking the delicate flesh on my throat as his finger sweeps the length of my slit. He growls when he feels how wet I am and the vibration makes my whole body erupt in goose bumps.
My pants fall to the floor, rendering me defenseless as he holds me in his arms.
He raises his head and fixes his eyes on mine as he slides his fingers inside me.
My mouth falls open, and I swallow our mingling breath when he hits me
deeper than I’m expecting on his first plunge.
My lips find his again as he churns my insides, finger fucking me until my eyelids get heavy and all the heat in my body pools in my center.
“Anthony,” I breathe, holding his neck with one hand and bracing myself against the counter with the other. “You’re going to make me come.”
He kisses me again as he brings me to the brink, biting my bottom lip until I taste blood. “Come for me,” he growls.
I can’t feel my legs, can’t catch my breath, can’t do anything but surrender to him as he sends a shock through me that makes me arch my back and gush over his thick fingers.
When I stop shaking, I lift my head and look at him.
He keeps his eyes on me as he twists his wrists twice more, as if he’s juicing me like a lemon.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when he pulls his fingers from me and smears them across my breasts. Then he lowers his head and licks along the silky trail, sucking my aching nipples into his mouth. They’re so sensitive I feel every twirl of his tongue, and I’m so light headed I think I might pass out.
He leans up and kisses me on the mouth, and I can feel his hard-on against my inner thigh. “You are an incredibly sexy woman,” he says, his eyes dropping to my lips.
“And you, my friend, are definitely on the naughty list.”
He laughs and steps back as if he’s oblivious to how distracting the bulge in his pants is, though I’m sure I don’t have the energy to do anything about it now. Suddenly aware of the fact that I’m naked in the bathroom of a Michelin star restaurant, I sink to my feet and reach down to lift my pants from where they’ve pooled around my ankles.
Anthony hands me my bra when I right myself. “I hope we weren’t loud just now,” I say. “I’d feel terrible if you weren’t welcome back at your favorite restaurant.”
“We weren’t,” he says, running a towel under the faucet. “Besides, it would’ve been worth it.” He hands me the cool towel, and I pat my forehead and the sides of my face. It’s so refreshing I can almost feel it slowing my heart rate.
He hands me his t-shirt and I slip it on. I’m absolutely swimming in it, but anything would be better than the stained mess floating in the sink. I ring it out anyway, watching Anthony button his shirt out of the corner of my eye.
It’s hard to know whether to focus on catching the last glimpse of his abs before they disappear or whether to stare at his hands and try to figure out what it is about them that just made me feel so good… in case I might be able to recognize the same qualities in the hands of other men in the future.
But I know I’m kidding myself. This guy is one of a kind.
My only regret is that I didn’t ask Santa for him sooner.
S I X
“I still think everyone knew,” I say, turning down my street. “They were definitely staring at us on the way out.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, moving between me and the curb. It’s the third time he’s done it, and I admit I think it’s kind of sweet. “They weren’t staring at you.”
“What were they looking at then?”
“Me,” he says, his hands in his pockets.
“Because you’re so handsome?”
“No,” he says, lifting his eyes to me. “Because I leave generous tips.”
“Maybe you should swing by the diner sometime.”
He laughs.
“I’m sorry.” I scrunch my face. “I didn’t mean that. God that sounded horrible.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“I just meant that, as a server myself, I’m happy for those people. Good tips are hard to come by.”
“I know they are,” he says. “That’s why I give them. The fact that it tends to get me noticed- and secure good service in the future- is just a bonus.”
“Seriously, though, don’t come to the diner,” I say, stopping outside my building. “You’ll only be disappointed.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. Trust me. I can say that because I don’t make the food, but I have tried it. And as a friend who cares about you, I insist you don’t put yourself through a meal there.”
He raises his palms. “Okay. If you feel that strongly.”
“I do.”
I rock back and forth on my heels and breathe into my hands. “So...”
“So,” he says, clearly amused by how awkward I am.
“I had a really lovely evening.”
He laughs and his warm breath comes out like small clouds in the crisp evening air.
“What’s so funny?”
“For a second there I thought you were going to pretend you weren’t going to invite me up.”
I swallow. “I wasn’t.”
He raises his brows.
“Mostly because after the perfect evening we just had, I think you’ll be really disappointed by my sad apartment.”
He squints. “Why is it sad?”
“And I was hoping you’d interpret my rudeness as a sign that I’m a lady who doesn’t invite strangers up to her apartment after the first date.”
“First of all, I’m delighted that you called it a first date. Saves me the trouble of having to ask if you’re up for a second.”
My heart flutters in my chest.
“Second of all,” he says, adjusting the collar of his coat. “You just referred to me a moment ago as a friend you care about.”
“I suppose I did.”
“And finally,” he says. “If I didn’t think you were a lady, I wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place, but considering all the exceptions you’ve already made for me, I don’t see what the harm is in making one more.”
“I don’t want my apartment to spoil the flawless illusion I’ve created that I have everything under control.”
“And if I’m not interested in your flawless illusion?”
“Did I detect sarcasm there?”
“Are we having a glass of Chillable Red or not?” he asks, checking his watch. “Because I’m running out of time if I have to pick up my own Franzia tonight.”
I groan and key my code into the pad beside the front door. “For the record, I don’t believe you drink Franzia on your own for one second.”
“And I don’t believe you have a sad apartment,” he says. “After all, apartments are like food. And wine. They’re only as nice as the company you share them with.”
“In that case, I’m afraid you’ll find my apartment extremely hostile, not because of my design choices but because of the beast I share it with.”
He raises his eyebrows as we head up the stairs. “What beast?”
“Rudolph.”
“Wow,” he says. “You really do love Christmas.”
“I told you.”
“I assume Rudolph isn’t a deer?”
I shake my head. “Not in either sense of the word.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“He’s a cat,” I say. “And he’s very possessive of me. It was sort of a problem for my ex-boyfriend. Rudolph used to destroy a lot of his stuff, piss on his side of the bed. That kind of thing.”
“A jealous cat isn’t a problem for me, Holly,” he says. “But hearing about your ex is.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward.”
“It’s okay.”
“Especially when I’m sure Rudolph will take care of that for me.”
I unlock the door and don’t even flick the main lights on as I attempt to determine what kind of condition the place is in. Fortunately, it’s not too bad since I’m barely home enough to make a mess these days.
After flicking on all the dimmest corner lamps in the sitting room of my one bedroom apartment, I head to the kitchen making kissing noises.
“Looking for me?” Anthony asks, smiling as Rudolph walks back and forth between his legs.
My eyes grow wide. “What are you? Some kind of cat whisperer?”
“Actual
ly I just submitted to him. It was that easy. You just missed it. I laid right down on my back, showed him my belly, and then let him win a staring contest.”
I roll my eyes.
“Worked a charm.”
I step around the two of them and open the fridge. “He might just be luring you into a false sense of security so he can shred your leather shoes when you’re not looking.”
“I like his red nose,” he says. “Is that why you named him Rudolph?”
“Yep.” I remember I have a nice bottle of wine that my parents gave me last time they stopped by and close the depressingly empty fridge. “Where do you live?” I ask, grabbing two glasses before taking off my coat.
“Midtown,” he says. “I thought we were having Franzia?”
“I forgot I had this.”
“Don’t open that on my account,” he says. “I can’t stay that long anyway.”
My heart sinks a bit in my chest. “Has my apartment already made you sad?”
“There’s nothing sad about your apartment,” he says. “It would only be sad for someone who didn’t like blankets.”
I smile. “I do kind of have a thing for blankets.”
“I can see that,” he says.
My eyes imagine the path his must be following. There are two blankets draped over the couch and a stack of folded blankets in one windowsill. There’s even a blanket on the wall. Well, technically it’s a quilt, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s art.
“Anyway, it’s not your apartment,” he says. “I just have an early morning meeting, and I don’t like to let people down when I’m expecting them to show up rested and prepared.”
“Of course,” I say. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m still going to open this bottle because it’s the least I can do after you treated me to that fancy meal.”
“You’re very welcome,” he says. “To be honest, my favorite thing about it was how much you enjoyed it.”
“That’s a lie,” I say, twisting the opener into the cork and feeling pleased it isn’t even a screw top. “You liked the eggnog best.”