Dreamveil

“Do you want me to eat something else?” he asked. “A pear, perhaps? Some blueberries?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands. “I’m an idiot.” She lifted her face. “And I’m sorry. My imagination has been in overdrive lately.”

“It served you well tonight,” he reminded her as he came to sit beside her. “Your cooking was very imaginative, and inventive. The patrons loved your duck.”

She grimaced. “It’s just food.”

He took another apple from the bowl. “Food keeps us alive, but cooking, that is like life.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Non. Food comes to us new and untouched, as we are to the world when we are born,” he told her. “Preparing it changes it, makes it a thing like us.”

“So that crate of Italian parsley Lonzo sent me out for,” she said, “that would be like a box full of newborns?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “We take food and shape it and blend it with other things to make it more than it is, better than it is. That is like childhood, when we first discover what will make us what we will be. Then it is tasted and tested and becomes more than it is, something wonderful and beautiful to see and touch and taste and smell. Something that can give comfort and pleasure as well as sustain life.”

“Which makes us the same as cannibals. Yum.”

“It is not the same, and you know,” he chided. “What we create, what we are, is consumed by hunger, but surrendering to it allows us to become a part of another living thing. That is when we truly come alive. As for food, if our passion has transformed it, has made it what it was meant to be, it can never be gone or forgotten. It becomes part of another life. It will live on in them forever. As we do.”

She uttered a shaky laugh. “You make it sound like sex.”

“Love,” he corrected. “That is why it is so important to us, oui? Why it pleases us so much. When it is done correctly, cooking does not feed our pride or lust. It does not make us better or more noble. It is not meant for us at all. It is our gift to the world. A gift made from the purest, deepest love. The love we feel for others. The love we know in our dreams.”

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t get that dream. Some of us are dumped here. Dirty and worthless. Unwanted and unloved. Just like garbage.”

“You are wrong.”

Dansant drew Rowan to her feet. “Close your eyes.” When she tried to step away, he put his arm around her. “Let me show you what I mean. I did eat the apple for you.”

So he had. Reluctantly she closed her eyes. “If you’re going to feed me something to inspire me, it had better not be that tuna that came in yesterday. Lonzo said it smelled off.” She felt something cool and wet against her bottom lip, and smelled warm, ripe peaches. “I’ve seen that movie Nine and a Half Weeks, too, so no jalapeños.” But when she licked her lower lip, she tasted the smooth, decadent taste of heavy cream.

What the hell is he doing?

“If you open your eyes,” he warned, “it will not work.”

“All right.” She waited.

The smell of peach darkened, became more complex. At the same time something brushed her top lip, dusting it with a sandy substance that her tongue discovered was crystals of brown sugar.

“Do not swallow yet,” he whispered against her ear. “Only open your heart, and taste.”

She knew the tiny dot of liquid he put at the corner of her mouth was vanilla extract from the intense smell, but another dot on the other side turned out to be almond. The two blended on her tongue with the sugar and the cream, making her hungrier for the peach slice he had to be waving around under her nose.

But when she opened her mouth to take a bite, he placed a fragment of something thin and crumbling on her tongue that tasted of butter and flour. Then something popped, and the juice of a blackberry dripped over the fragment.

His hands cradled her face. “Now us.”

He put his mouth to hers, opening her to his tongue, which tasted of a peach that had been poached in a dark wine. Her head whirled as he kissed her, and all the flavors came together as their mouths melded.

Rowan wanted to jerk away, but the coolness of his tongue slid against the heat of her own, and kissing him back was suddenly everything, the world without end, all that she was pouring out from her mouth to his, a flood of hunger and satisfaction entwining and melting and becoming something more. She clutched at the softness of his white jacket, afraid she would drop into some dark and mindless place with him, and then terrified that she wouldn’t, that he would end this and leave her alone and cold.

“Shhh.” He lifted his mouth and kissed her temple, holding her, rocking her a little. “Do you see now, ma mûre? It begins with a single thing. A peach. A blackberry. A kiss. And then we make it more. We make it love.”

She couldn’t believe she was crying, but she was, all over his immaculate whites. The tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, dashing the beautiful taste in her mouth with salt.

“You can’t do this to me. Not now. Not when I don’t know . . .” She would not mention her feelings for Sean. And there was no way in hell she would ever tell him that she’d suspected him of being a vampire—or that she felt just as strongly for him as she did Meriden. She ground her forehead into his shoulder. “I can’t do this now.”

“I know.” His hand stroked over her curls. “But the time will come when you can. I hope it is with me, Rowan. I would very much like to be there.” He kissed her forehead. “I must go now. I will see you tomorrow, oui?”

“Yeah.” She managed a wan smile. “Have a good night.”

After Dansant left in his cab, Rowan went upstairs to shower and get ready for bed. Although watching her boss eat normal human food had gone a long way toward reassuring her, she had a whole new set of problems. He was definitely interested in her; he would never have kissed her like that if he were gay.

She would not think about the kiss. If she did, she’d be up all night remembering it and savoring it and dissecting it, moment by moment. After all, it had been the best kiss of her life.

Hearing Meriden coming up the stairs helped clear her head. She pulled on her clothes before she stepped out to catch him on the landing.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” He turned to unlock his door.

“Got a minute?”

He turned on her. “Are you going to cry all over me again?”

She winced. She had been going heavy on the water-works lately, something Dansant seemed to have no problem with but she suspected Sean hated. “No. I just wanted to explain—”

“No explanation required, Cupcake.” He went into his apartment and slammed the door in her face.

If that didn’t decide things for her, nothing would. Meriden wasn’t interested, and Dansant was. She could have the prince instead of the frog. And why was her hand reaching for his doorknob? She didn’t give a damn what Sean thought of her, or why he’d shut her out—again—or whatever new bug had crawled up his ass. She’d just go in and make that clear to him, once and for all, so there were no future misunderstandings.

He was standing over his desk, flipping through a file. He didn’t even bother to glance at her. “I told you, not tonight, honey. I’ve got a headache.”

“You’ve got something.” She leaned back against the door and folded her arms. “I’m going to say this, so you might as well listen.”

He stopped flipping, and under his shirt his back muscles went rigid. “What?”

“You were decent to me last night, and I’m grateful. But I can’t have you wandering in and out of my place whenever you like.” As he looked at her, she held out her hand. “Give me the key.”

“It’s sitting on top of the frame over your door,” he told her. “Go get it yourself.”

She dropped her hand. “How did you know it was there?”

“I’m psychic,” he snarled. “You done?”

“With you?” She showed him some teeth. “Absolutely.”

He crossed the floor with a few strides. “Then why are you still here, Cupcake?”

She frowned at the third button on his shirt. “I don’t know.”

He took hold of the front of her shirt with his fist, tugging her up. “I do.”

Somehow she went from standing to dangling, until he plastered her against him, pulled her head back by her hair, and took her mouth with his. His arm pulled her ass in so tight she could feel the hard edges of his belt buckle against her mons, and the way it rubbed against her as he carried her to the desk sent heat slamming through her.

She made the mistake of straining and wriggling, and then he was sweeping his arm across his desk to clear it and laying her out on her back. Before she could sit up he was on her, spinning her around as he buried his mouth against her throat, his teeth dragging over her skin and sending her right out of her skull.

“Fuck.” He lifted off her, dropping into his big chair, and sliding her off onto his lap. “Come here.”

Rowan got a grip on his shoulders as he situated her legs and then ran his broad hand over her left breast. The rough caress knocked the wind out of her, along with his name. “Sean.”

“Shut up.” He wound his fingers through her curls and held her, looking all over her face as he put his other hand to her breast again, his palm hard and rhythmic, a beast’s paw kneading. “So fucking hot.”

Yes, she was. He had her right where he wanted her, straddling his crotch, only her panties and his jeans keeping them apart, and from the length and stiffness of his erection she could think of nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes closing a little as he rocked his hips into hers. “Like that. Right there.” He used a handful of her shirt like a shop rag, dragging it up the damp line of her torso to expose her bra. Then he went at it with his teeth, jerking one edge out of the way so he could get at her, his mouth open and wet and sucking, teeth grazing, making stars burst inside her skull and sending a gush of wetness between her legs. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">