A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series)

by Grace, Sorcha

  “Hey,” I replied, feeling the edges of my mouth turn up. The heaviness from the Jeremy secret that had clung to me all day was immediately replaced by the giddy excitement of being with William. I couldn’t resist him, especially when he was being charming and sweet.

  He still wore his suit from work, though he’d shed the tie, and his hair was perfectly styled. I itched to run my fingers through it and mess it up just a little. As I pulled off my coat and handed it to him, I said, “I didn’t know what the surprise was. I hope this is okay.” I gestured to my outfit. I was back to my favorite color—I’d changed into black, cropped riding pants, a bateau-neck, black sweater with beaded sleeves and the Louboutin black stilettos William had sent me weeks ago. Underneath, I was wearing a really sexy black Bordelle pushup bra with little red bows on it and its matching thong. I found the set in the bag of clothes William had brought back from Napa, so I knew he’d picked it out.

  He strode toward me and pulled me flush against him. I tingled all over as I made contact with his big, hard body. “You look perfect, Catherine,” his voice vibrated through me as his hot, warm breath tickled at my throat. “You smell good too.” He took my hand, then frowned at it. “Except you’re cold. Didn’t you wear your gloves?”

  “I…”

  “Never mind. I already know you forgot them.” He rubbed my hands in his, stepped back from our embrace, and led me into the penthouse. “We’re in for a special treat tonight. A friend from Japan is in town and he just happens to be a renowned sushi master. He’s made dinner for us.”

  I looked up at him. His eyes were shining and he still wore that unapologetic grin. I could tell he was really excited about this and sushi was one of my favorite foods. “Really? That’s fabulous! Is that the surprise?”

  “Part of it.” He paused in the living room and gestured to the wall above the fireplace. I couldn’t remember what had been there before, but what I saw now made me inhale sharply. “This is another part. Look what I found.”

  I stared in stunned silence at the large black and white print hanging on the wall. It was of a lone surfer executing a cutback on a massive wave, a maneuver that meant he was actually riding up the wave. It was one of mine.

  “Wow,” I said quietly. “This is a surprise.”

  I hadn’t seen the print in years, and I thanked God it wasn’t a shot I’d taken of Jace. That would have been beyond awkward. The surfer in the picture was a guy named Ian who had just been an acquaintance. The day I’d shot it, I’d taken a break from classes and headed out on the water with my board and equipment for some practice, as I’d still been getting used to balancing the heavy rigging that held my camera. Ian had happened to be the only other surfer out there and had become my subject by coincidence. He wasn’t a great surfer, but every surfer has a day when each wave breaks perfectly, and that had been Ian’s day. I’d been fortunate to capture it.

  I tried to stay cool, but the collision of my past and present was so jarring, especially with the whole Jeremy issue so fresh in my mind. “This was one of the pieces in my final portfolio my senior year,” I told William. “Then it was in the first show of my work and it sold for twice what I thought it would.”

  “I’m sure I paid several times that,” he answered, smiling with his gaze still on the photo.

  I looked back at the image. Right after I’d graduated, a real gallery in Santa Cruz had picked me up and sold all my prints. Jace and I had used the money to help with travel expenses after our wedding, when I’d joined him on tour. I wondered what William would think if he knew those details.

  A moment later William held out a glass of white wine to me. I hadn’t even realized he’d stepped away to pour it. “Thank you,” I said as I took the glass.

  “With Japanese food, I like the wine to be a background note so the ingredients take center stage.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the dinner to come, and I nodded and sipped. The wine was very good, cool and sweet with hints of pear. I wanted to slam the whole glass and then about three more just to steady my nerves, but I sipped instead.

  “The idea is to cleanse your palate so you can better focus on the complex tastes.”

  I sipped again, focused on palate cleansing, and kept a tight smile on my face. “What is this? Is it one of yours?”

  William was watching me closely, like he was trying to gauge if showing me the print had been a good idea or not. “No, it’s French. A Chenin Blanc. It’s crisp and lean, and I thought it would be a great match for Junzo’s dishes.”

  “Yes,” I answered absently. I couldn’t stop looking at the image on the wall. I shuddered a little when I remembered that I’d shot it at Pleasure Point, the spot in Santa Cruz Jace and I had surfed all the time. It was also the locale of the bad dream that had woke me up in a cold sweat in Napa. I hadn’t told William about the dream yet.

  “You have an amazing eye, Catherine,” he said, bringing me back to the present. “I wanted the print because it was yours, but I also wanted it because it’s really good. Exceptional. You know that, don’t you? You’re very talented.”

  That snapped me back to the moment. I felt my cheeks heat as a blush bloomed in them. I really did need to learn to take a compliment. And I did know I was a good photographer. I would have known it even if two extremely hot men hadn’t told me so today. First Hutch Morrison and now William Lambourne.

  “Where did you find it?” I asked, trying to draw his attention away from my pink cheeks.

  “My art consultant found it actually, in a gallery in Santa Rosa. I’ve been looking to build my contemporary photography holdings, and she’s helping with that.” He took another drink of his wine. “When I saw it, I asked about it, and when I realized you were the photographer, I had to have it.”

  I was flattered. How could I not be when my work was taking center stage on the living-room wall of a billionaire who had pieces from his personal collection on loan to The Art Institute? But I was still uneasy seeing it here. No matter how firmly I put my life in Santa Cruz in the past, it continued to creep into my present. I was in my new boyfriend’s penthouse, and here was a photograph connected directly to the life I’d left behind. Was I supposed to thank William for buying it? Should I tell him how weird it made me feel? I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I really wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “My aunt has invited us to dinner on Sunday. Would you like to go?”

  “Yes!” I said with honest enthusiasm. I forgot the print for a moment and smiled. “I’d love to.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

  Why wouldn’t I? I’d been waiting for an opportunity to see William with his family, in a setting where he was more than just the business mogul. I’d met his aunt and uncle and two of his cousins briefly that night at The Peninsula, but I really wanted the opportunity to get to know them a little better. This was also one way I could get to know William better. I wanted to see how he was around the family who’d taken him in, loved him, and raised him to adulthood.

  Just then a small Japanese woman entered the living room and bowed formally. She wore a dark red, embroidered kimono and her long black hair pulled into a bun. Despite her traditional dress and slow, deliberate movements, she was young, maybe just a few years older than me. “Dinner is served,” she said in heavily accented English. I guessed she was part of the chef’s entourage.

  “Thank you, Midori.” William gestured for me to follow Midori down the hallway to the dining room. No more talk about the print, thank God. Before I could move, he said, “Did you bring your camera?”

  “Yes.” I pointed to my bag sitting on a chair.

  “Good. Grab it. You’ll need it.”

  I had never been in William’s dining room before, and it was very much in the style of the rest of the penthouse—stark, modern, minimalist, and imposing. It almost made me miss the accessible warm luxury of Casa di Rosabela. The ceilings soared, and several large and ama
zing pieces of art hung on the tall walls. The lights were low, keeping the room from resembling a gallery, and I might have moved closer to study the paintings and the large black sculpture that sat on a pedestal in a corner if I hadn’t been riveted by the dining room table.

  The enormous stone table could have easily sat twelve, but only two chairs, placed next to each other, were present. On the table were two women. Initially I thought the food had been arranged so as to give the impression of a woman’s body, but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized two live women lay side-by-side, head to foot. One lay on her back and the other on her stomach. Both were totally nude except for the sushi, sashimi, and other delicacies that decorated their bodies.

  In all the time I’d been photographing food, I’d never seen anything like this, a display that paired the beauty of food so unabashedly with the raw carnality of sex. The women were stunningly beautiful and the symmetry of their perfect bodies was adroitly complemented by the placement of the colorful food. There was so much to take in—the rolls, the fat salmon- and tuna-draped fingers of rice drizzled and adorned with pops of brightness from avocado and shaved ginger and fish eggs—the whole scene was both visually stunning and beautifully balanced. And sensual. The food had not been displayed to hide the beauty of the women’s bodies. Everything—everything—was on full display.

  I couldn’t look at William. I stood stock still, took a deep breath, and kept my eyes glued to the table. After the handcuffs and the blindfolding and the dominance he was showing of late, I didn’t quite know what to expect here. I detected the lure of a darker sexuality and my heart quickened in response, but I prayed he didn’t have some kind of kinky group thing in mind. I wasn’t ready to go there. And why had he asked me to bring my camera?

  He must have sensed my uncertainty because I felt his large strong hand on the small of my back. Gently, he guided me forward, leaning down and whispering, “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, and my head felt as though it was attached to marionette strings. He kept his warm hand on my back and moved it in small circles. “It’s an art form, Catherine.” His breath was hot on my ear, his lips almost brushing my skin. “It’s called nyotaimori.”

  I repeated the word in my mind, liking the sound of it. As I was propelled into the room, I noticed an older Japanese man in a black chef uniform standing at the far end of the table. Midori was standing by his side, and William stepped away from me and approached the couple. The chef bowed and William bowed back. They exchanged a few words I didn’t quite understand and then both men broke into wide smiles. I realized William had spoken to the chef in Japanese—I could add that to the growing list of his accomplishments.

  William beckoned me to come closer and then he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him. It felt so weird to be standing here normally, as if two naked women weren’t lying on the table right in front of us, but his touch was reassuring. I needed to follow his lead.

  The chef, whose name was Junzo, and Midori bowed and smiled, and I bowed in return. Then Junzo began to speak. He gestured to Midori to translate, and she started to speak in a soft voice.

  “Chef Junzo says that nyotaimori is about beauty. The beauty of woman and the beauty of food, together in perfect harmony.”

  I kept my gaze on her as she gestured and spoke of the women as though they weren’t there.

  “In traditional nyotaimori, the model trains many hours. She learns how to remain absolutely still and to tolerate the coldness of the food. Before performing, her body is specially prepared so she may serve as a plate for this feast.”

  I turned to study the table again. The women had not moved since we entered the room. Both were lean and small breasted and completely shaved. Their eyes were open, but their faces were expressionless. The closer I looked, the more my artist’s eye saw the careful artistry in the presentation. The woman on her back had a line of alternating orange and green rolls from her navel to her smooth mound. The woman on her stomach had several pieces of nigiri-sushi nestled in the small of her back and then trailing up the curve of her buttocks. “Nyotaimori is meant to be the highest compliment to woman. Only nature’s most beautiful creature can breathe life into the dishes created to honor her. The warmth of her body perfectly warms the cold fish, allowing its ideal taste and texture to be revealed. This state cannot exist without woman. Woman makes perfection.”

  I began to understand and, as I kept looking at the beauty of the women with the colorful sushi, the eroticism of William’s surprise dinner started to affect me. My fingers ached to grab my camera and capture the way the exquisitely prepared food caressed the curve of the woman’s hip, the slope of her breast, and the taut point of her nipple, but I ached to grab William too. I was starting to get turned on. Very turned on.

  I realized no one had spoken for several minutes, and I glanced at William. His gaze was on me, his eyes twinkling. Obviously, he was enjoying watching me appreciate his surprise and seeing what it was doing to me. He knew. By some unspoken signal, Midori and Junzo exited. I felt William’s arm come around my waist, and he pulled me close into the warmth of his body. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I knew you would appreciate the visual presentation, which is why I asked you to bring your camera.” He bent down and kissed me softly, urging my lips apart with his tongue while his hand began to gently knead my breast. I moaned quietly into his mouth as I kissed him back, arching into his hand.

  “It’s stunning,” I said as I pulled back from his lips. I was excited now for so many reasons. “Do you mind if take some—”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like you to do,” he answered before I could finish.

  I set my bag down and withdrew my camera. I needed to photograph this. William continued to talk as I prepped my digital to accommodate the dim light.

  “Junzo is a shokunin, a traditional master sushi chef, and perhaps the most famous one in Japan. He’s in his seventies now, and Midori is his daughter.”

  I glanced up at him. I hadn’t realized Midori was the chef’s daughter. Was this a tradition he was passing on to her?

  “Sushi chefs are heirs to the samurai tradition.”

  Maybe I should have read Shogun before coming. I didn’t know much about samurai other than they were warriors. William continued to talk, his voice warm and velvety.

  “They value scholarship and have unshakable self-discipline. A sushi chef's knives are as important to him as a sword was to a samurai. Junzo’s knives are legendary. I’ve heard it said that they’re sharp enough to literally split a hair.”

  I glanced at the table again, wondering at the skill of a man who could wield such a dangerous knife to create such beauty. A warrior who carved art from shrimp and yellowtail and soft shelled crab, and then draped it so sensually over women’s privates.

  “I wanted you to experience this, Catherine. As an artist and food photographer, you’d appreciate it, I knew. Plus, it’s undeniably sexy and that’s something we can both appreciate.” His eyes were a hot and hungry grey as he looked at me, the unmistakable color of arousal that I’d come to know so well. The heady sensuality of this private dinner was getting to him too. I gave him a knowing smile.

  I took a few test photos to gauge the light, and then I began to shoot. I wanted to focus on the curves and angles—the way a long, lean thigh was accented by Junzo’s culinary mastery; the way a feminine back dipped into a valley before rising to a plump buttocks, four perfect sushi rolls nestled neatly in that arc. For some time I was completely absorbed. It may have been minutes or even a quarter of an hour. Then I became aware of William watching me, studying me like I was studying the models and the food. His eyes were dark and stormy, his lips slightly parted.

  He rose and stood by my side, his hand on my hip. He was warm in the cool room, and I welcomed his heat. “You can get closer,” he murmured. “No need to stand apart like an observer. You can touch.” His hand slid up my back. “And taste.”

  I shivered at t
he promise in his tone. He lifted a pair of chopsticks from the table and, with perfect form, picked up a sushi roll from the small of the woman’s back. “I think this is crab with daikon radish.” I watched as he opened his mouth wide and slid the round roll inside, closing his lips and his eyes, obviously savoring the taste. He swallowed. “I’ve ruined your symmetry now,” he said, his mouth back at my ear. And he had, as he’d taken the roll from the center, which left a gap in what had been a perfect line. “But I want you to notice something else.”

  I lifted my camera and angled it on the woman’s back.

  “She hasn’t moved, but she can’t control every response. Do you see how her skin pebbles where the cold roll has been removed?” His hand caressed my arm, encouraging me to move closer. “Warmth floods her skin and makes the chill of the other rolls that much more noticeable.”

  I shivered from the caress of his breath on my neck. I snapped several shots, pausing when I felt his hand, light and teasing, on the small of my back—on the same spot where he had removed the sushi roll on the model.

  “I don’t enjoy eating alone,” he said, approaching the table again. I watched, almost breathless, to see which of the delectable choices he would pick for me. His hand hovered over the thigh of the model who lay on her back and then he moved up and up to her taut abdomen, adorned with perfectly round rolls of bright orange surrounding a bed of white flecked with green. He didn’t touch her and his hand wasn’t even close to her skin, but through the lens of my camera, I saw the way she tensed almost imperceptibly. My own body tensed as well. I knew what it would feel like if William touched me there. I could imagine it, and I felt heat flooding between my legs in anticipation.

  Finally, he lifted a roll from her belly, and I snapped a shot that captured the subtle surge of pink that flooded her skin as the roll was removed.

  “It’s a salmon roll, with unagi and tamago. Taste,” William said, his hand cupping the nape of my neck. I lowered my camera, opened my mouth, and allowed him to feed me. It all but fell apart in my mouth as the sweet flavors of the salmon and eel, balanced by the tang of the rice, exploded across my tongue.