The second course arrived seamlessly, a colourful plate of poached hen’s egg perched atop Iberian ham, with bright green watercress puree.
"Bacon and eggs, Paris style," Elron joked in his easy Californian accent.
"Looks delicious," she murmured as she broke the yolk with her fork and watched the vibrant yellow yolk ooze down into the vivid puree. The aroma of the poshest breakfast ever hit her nostrils, and she caught Lucien's eye as she lifted the first taste to her mouth. He raised his glass to her with the merest suggestion of a wink.
And then Sophie dropped her fork from her fingers. The others looked up in mild surprise as it clattered onto her plate.
The egg was vibrating, and not the egg on her plate.
Astounded and flustered, she picked her fork up swiftly and smiled, hoping that there was no watercress in her teeth and – oh God - that they couldn't hear her crotch buzzing. She belatedly realised she’d been too busy appreciating the egg’s prettiness last night to notice the remote control that Lucien must have hidden somewhere about his person right now.
The mellow sounds of a piano underscored the low level of chatter and the clink of silver on porcelain. It was all so very civilised. Except for this.
She couldn't look at Lucien.
"Excuse me. Butterfingers," she said, rolling her eyes. She was fairly sure her cheeks were glowing.
"Is there something wrong with your egg, Sophie?" Lucien asked, his face a mask of polite concern.
She cleared her throat and reached for her wine glass rather than answer him straight away for fear of what she might actually say.
"No, no, it's very nice," she said after a fortifying glug of wine, disconcerted when her voice came out in a helium squeak.
"Nice?" he frowned, clearly displeased with her bland choice of words. The vibrations of the egg intensified.
Christ. She cleared her throat desperately and glanced at Peter Carmichael in the hope that he'd start a conversation about anything in the world except for eggs. Her body throbbed.
"Lucien tells me you're new to the adult entertainment industry, Sophie. I hope you're not finding it too shocking."
Okay, so that didn't help. "Well, it's never dull," she managed, wishing she could say more but finding it hard to engage her brain and her mouth because Lucien had flicked the egg onto pulsate.
She couldn't eat another mouthful, and her cheeks must be redder than ripe tomatoes. Surely the Carmichaels must have realised that there was something amiss? But their conversation continued, flowing around her as if everything was perfectly normal.
How could that be? She was knickerless and being massaged internally by her lover whilst he conducted a conversation about the uptick in sex toy sales following the recent explosion of erotic fiction onto the adult entertainment market. She fought the sensations inside her with every ounce of self-control she possessed, struggling to keep possession of her thoughts and expression. She glanced at Lucien’s poker face. Nothing to see, nothing to plead with.
The plates were cleared, and Sophie could have sagged with relief when Lucien ceased his ministrations as the waiter circled the table topping up their glasses. She even managed a couple of minutes’ worth of impressively lucid conversation with their guests as their main courses arrived. Sophie’s first thought was relief that her plate was egg-free. She glanced across from her divine-looking pink lamb to Lucien's snowy white fish. It sat centrally on a bed of pale green baby leeks, accompanied by not one, not two, but three whole little coddled quail’s eggs.
She swallowed painfully, and looked up at him, panic-stricken, as the wine waiter momentarily distracted the Carmichaels’ attention.
"Lucien, please don't," she hissed through a clenched smile, and in response he speared one of the eggs and raised it to his lips.
"Don't what, princess?" he asked, low enough for only Sophie to catch. "This?" He clicked the love egg back into life and held her gaze. Where was that remote? The Carmichaels would know it instantly if they saw it. They'd probably made the damn thing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Every nerve ending in her body responded, and it took more effort than Sophie had ever dreamed she could muster not to jolt, nor groan, nor allow any flicker of emotion to cross her face.
"Or this?" Lucien glanced at the Carmichaels to ensure they were still distracted, then licked the tip of the egg. "Did you enjoy sliding the egg inside you this morning, Sophie? I enjoyed imagining you doing it." He slid his lips all the way over the egg and devoured it with a satisfied swallow. "Tastes good. I bet you'd taste even better if I dropped to my knees right now under this table." He stabbed a second egg, and then ratcheted up the vibrations in Sophie's body. She couldn't be certain that she didn't whimper.
"I want to eat you."
He turned the love-egg up to full speed just as the waiter drifted away and the Carmichaels turned back to them.
"Where were we?" Elron smiled, picking up his cutlery.
Even in her unprecedented situation, Sophie felt fairly certain that 'I was on the verge of orgasming while my boss lewdly sucks eggs' wasn't an appropriate response.
"We were just about to toss a coin, actually," Lucien said with a smile. "Notre Dame or The Louvre? Sophie can't decide which she'd like to visit this afternoon. As it’s her first time in Paris I feel honour bound to give her a little time off."
Peter Carmichael took the bait, and Sophie nodded her way through the merits of each as she picked unfocusedly at her lamb and tried her best not to react when Lucien changed the egg’s rhythm. It was exquisite torture. Pulse. Vibrate. Wave. Pulse. Vibrate. Wave. She wanted to squirm in her chair. She wanted to gasp out loud. She wanted Lucien.
He stilled the vibrations as their plates were finally cleared again, and Sophie glanced around for a possible escape route to the ladies’ room. Lucien caught her eye and shook his head slowly, a clear warning that he was onto her plan and disapproved of it. He couldn’t disguise the wickedness of his smile.
"Dessert next, Sophie. It's one of my favourites."
"It is?"
"Oh, definitely," Lucien nodded conversationally, as two waiters arrived at their table bearing dessert wine and their final courses to go with it.
How bad could a simple pudding be? Sophie hardly dared look down.
Very bad, as it turned out.
Fresh figs lounged indolently on her plate. Halved, they were eye-wateringly, scandalously feminine displays of glistening pink flesh, damp with beads of honey, dark juices pooling in their centres. Their burst open skins were seemingly unequal to the struggle of containing their rosy nectar, their sweet, seductive scent was a waft of delicate perfume.