learned about the man named Dominique “Nick” Rollins and ate the best food she’d ever tasted in her life. In between the perfectly cooked scallop appetizer, raw oysters on the half shell (which Tiffany loved, to her surprise), smoked mozzarella salad, and the palate-cleansing chilled celery soup, Tiffany learned about Nick’s latest venture, a boutique hotel, and their shared dream of owning a five-star eatery with a three-star Michelin rating—the highest rating awarded by this industry bible, and a difficult score to achieve. During the fifth and sixth courses, braised monk-fish followed by the medium-rare veal that tasted like ambrosia and melted in their mouths, Nick learned that Tiffany was an only child with an independent streak, a college graduate with a near four-point average, and a delicious mix of contradictions—a feisty woman with a childlike need for the security of a twenty-three-year-old teddy bear. While not spending much time talking about her parents, Tiffany showed open admiration for her grandmother, who’d encouraged her love of cooking. The food Nick and Tiffany ate was accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, and later a mellow Cabernet Sauvignon. Though she’d only had one glass of each, Tiffany was feeling as warm and fuzzy as Tuffy by the time dessert arrived. The gelato-based treat was a Chef Riatoli original, and the alcohol Tiffany had consumed was the only logical explanation for how Nick’s caramel-covered finger, which he’d dipped in the sweet masterpiece, ended up in her mouth.
6
“Um, it’s delicious.” Tiffany moaned as the mix of cool Italian ice cream danced with the warmth of the melted caramel sliding down Nick’s long, thick index finger.
Nick had initiated the playful moment, almost daring Tiffany to loosen up by tasting Emilio’s creation from this digit. But once again, Tiffany surprised him, this time with an unexpected show of boldness. The tables turned unexpectedly, and it now seemed as if Tiffany might beat him at his own game. He covered his growing ardor, and discomfort, with humor. “Yes, but how’s the dessert?”
Tiffany finished licking the caramel off Nick’s finger, laughing as she did so. “It’s so good,” she whispered, dipping her finger into the saucer in front of her and presenting it to Nick. “Here, taste it.”
Nick’s eyes turned almost black with desire as he fixed Tiffany with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he leaned forward and with all due deliberation sucked her finger into his mouth. He took his tongue and swirled it around, even as he licked and then swallowed the gooey treat. “Um, you taste like brown sugar.”
Tiffany sat mesmerized, like prey that belatedly discovered it had been captured. A warm heat started in her core, then spread in all directions—up her spine, down her throat, bursting into warmth like sun on her face; and down, lower, becoming wetness. Her breath caught and her nipples hardened. The caramel was long gone, but Nick continued to suck, as if her finger was a lifeline and he was a drowning man. Slowly he dipped each finger of her right hand into the dessert and methodically licked its dripping treasure. When he deigned to initiate her pinkie into this ritual, some of the caramel dripped from it to her chest and oozed down into her cleavage.
“Oops,” Tiffany whispered, wishing Nick would do the obvious and come lick the sauce off her. And Nick would have probably obliged her, had not Chef Riatoli appeared at their table, breaking the magic and bringing both Nick and Tiffany out of their passion-induced fantasy and back to the private area of the restaurant where they sat.
“Oops,” Tiffany said again, this time self-conscious of what had taken place. She hastily grabbed her napkin and wiped away what she could of the caramel down her cleavage. Her face burned with embarrassment, both at what she’d done and what Chef might have seen. What has gotten into me? For all intents and purposes, this was her place of employment, and here she was acting like a love-struck teenager out on her first date. Even as she tried to berate herself, her cootchie cooed at the very idea.
Nick and Tiffany would never know whether or not Chef Riatoli had observed their intimate playfulness. When he arrived at their table, he was his usual self—jovial and professional. “Was dessert to your liking, sir?”
“Perfection as always, Emilio. You’ve outdone yourself with this one.” Nick sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “What is it called?”
“There’s no name, sir. I created it just now, just for you, Dominique.”
“Perhaps you should name it after your student,” Nick said, nodding at Tiffany. “She found it…simply delicious.”
Chef Riatoli simply smiled and bowed humbly. “Will there be coffee, an aperitif perhaps?”
Nick did have a particular chocolate liqueur in mind, one he’d like to drink from the valley of Tiffany’s breasts. “Not tonight, Emilio. Just the check.”
“Please, sir, consider this dinner my treat for your belated return. You always bring us luck when you come. A week after your last visit, our president dined here!”
Nick rose and walked around to help Tiffany from her chair. “You’re a good man, Emilio Riatoli. The offer still stands for your relocation to Los Angeles. It would be an honor to have you head up the restaurant in Le Sol.”
Moments later, Nick and Tiffany were on their way back to the hotel. The air between them was charged, full of unspoken desire and restrained expectation. The spell in the restaurant had been broken, or at the very least temporarily interrupted, and reality now accompanied the cool night breeze that caressed their faces. Nick tried to forget about the drops of caramel that even now he believed clung to Tiffany’s skin. Tiffany tried to block the images of sucking and licking. They both had very good reasons, solid, practical reasons why the flirtation that began in the restaurant could go no further. Except for the barest of small talk, they traveled to the hotel in silence, a quiet that continued as they entered the elevator and rode to their floor. I’ll just say good night and go to my room, Tiffany determined. I’ll suggest coffee for a nightcap and then go straight to bed, Nick decided. These thoughts lasted until they walked into the penthouse and closed the door behind them. And then they were in each other’s arms.
The first kiss was turbulent, mirroring their emotions, their tongues dueling, swirling, as hands explored and caressed. The heat was palpable, undeniable, pushing them both toward the inevitable conclusion. Except it can’t be, the logical side of Tiffany’s brain prodded. But something else was prodding her, something long, thick and hard—burning like a branding iron against her stomach. Tiffany moaned, deep and low, pressing herself deeper into Nick’s arms.
“Are you all right?” Nick whispered against her ear, his breath hot and moist.
“No,” Tiffany whispered back.
“What’s the matter?” Nick said as he ground himself into her, sure he knew the answer and had the cure.
But once again, Tiffany surprised him. “My feet hurt.”
7
Nick’s deep, throaty laughter spilled into Tiffany’s mouth. It was Tiffany’s turn to use humor to try and defuse the intoxicating mood. The effect was at least partly as she’d expected. Nick stopped kissing her. But he didn’t let her go. Instead, after a deep hug, he picked up Tiffany as if she were weightless.
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m sweeping you off your feet, brown sugar…”
“Really, Nick, I can walk—”
“Not on aching feet.”
Tiffany
