She was sweeter than any dish…
I arrived at réception too soon for my thudding pulse—the sight of Danny Randolph framed in the doorway almost bringing me to my knees.
Sweet Jesus, the shit she is wearing! Is that supposed to be a fucking dress? All that skin, her pretty ink. Long legs and gorgeous tits…
Two pert, plum-sized mounds, held high in lucky leather cups were taunting me, and I looked away fast, mumbling a brusque welcome to the party in general while grunting to my hostess.
“Merci, Zoé. The menus, s’il vous plaît. Allow me to seat my friends from Nice.”
“Ah, oui, Chef.” The girl eyed me strangely, stepping aside as I snatched the things from her hands. No doubt she was reeling both by the notion that her ogre boss had “friends” (quite the stretch, this fib), and by the unprecedented manner in which I’d burst from my kitchen during primetime to perform social niceties.
“This way… A desirable table, outside on la terrasse.”
I strode forward, my neck hot, painfully aware of my crush swaying close behind on her do-me heels.
Do me? Yes, please.
Elle est si belle… She looks so fucking fine.
“There… the large round table in the corner.”
Gruffing the invitation to five people, my eyes remained greedily locked on the pink-haired bombshell standing at my shoulder, her sexy red lips pierced with a tiny silver hoop on level with my third jacket button.
A soft fragrance of flowers seduced me as Danny—so adept with blooms herself—smiled, irises of blue glinting through silky lashes.
“It’s been a little while, huh?” She licked those insanely fuckable lips, dawdling as her friends made their way to their chairs.
“Congrats on the new venture, Séb; everything looks fabulous. Mmm, smells it, too.”
I replied stiffly in French, my tongue like lead as I struggled not to stare at her face, her mouth, her breasts with their delicate twining roses decorating each upper slope.
I’d fucking kill to touch and taste that inked garden.
Make a meal out of the woman that would put my greedy diners scarfing at their tables to shame.