Page 40 of Start With A Slap

He laughed, and mercifully closed his mouth. “English publishing house wanted me to write a memoir,” he said, referring to the binder. “My publicist had this drawn up so I’d ‘get inspired’.”

She would like to read that, please. “Did you?”

“I was inspired to sack her.” He slung it into the trash can. “I’m writing fuck-all. Publicists are bloody useless; don’t know why I had one.”

“The burdens of the rich and famous.”

“My cross to bear,” he deadpanned. “Supper’s waiting. Come, see what fame and money taste like.”

She followed him, unable to speak because his turn of phrase invoked a memory of a recurring dream:

She’s in his den, on her knees before him, wrists tied behind her back. His cock is massive in the dream, python-thick, standing rigid against his navel. She can hear his breath catch, smell his intoxicating musk, feel the tightening of his ponytail-grip on her hair. Her tongue glides up the underside of his erection, spirals around his bulbous head and?—

“Ooh, Cava.” Ivy wasn’t planning to drink that night, but the site of bubbly was a relief: it enabled her to steer away from their will-they-won’t-they repartee and instead remark that it was the same brand she and Jason had toasted with at their wedding. Predictably, he ignored her reminiscence, but she went into more detail about that night anyway—until her first bite of Scallop Grenobloise melted in her mouth and she died and went to heaven. Or maybe it was Hell. Which reminded her of his den—and in crashed the alternate-universe fanfic scene from her dreams.

She didn’t realize she’d moaned so loud until he asked, “I take it you like it?”

She really hoped he was talking about the scallops. “Pretty good for airline food.” She realized that his chef had come back into the room, presumably for feedback. “That was a joke,” she told him, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Marco’s the best there is. Stole him from L’Ambroisie.” Marco smiled humbly and left.

“Stole him away from the world to keep him all to yourself,” Ivy said, feeling warm from the bubbly. “This might be a pattern with you.”

“Might be.” He admitted, “Lured everyone I got away from someone else.”

She squinted at him. “Why do you think you do that?”

“Mm-mm.” He shook his head and swallowed his mouthful, wagging his fork at her. “You won’t be analyzing me either, little Miss Psychology Minor. Can’t turn it off even while you’re enjoying a nice meal, well — I won’t stand for it. It’s uncivil’s what it is.”

As Ivy reluctantly giggled at that, she caught him fixating on her mouth.

He looked down at his plate.

“Nous sommes arrivés, ma tigresse,”she heard him say, and she came awake.

“We’re here?” They were in the lounge, on the reclining middle seats. She was draped in a throw blanket. “Did I fall asleep?” With him next to her?

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said, reading her face as per usual. “I sat here, hands to myself, and watched the entire grim third act without you.”

She’d suggestedThe Last Time I Saw Paris. “Depressing, right?”

“Yeah. But I like depressing.”

“Hm,” she said, taking off the throw. “Your inner goth kid is showing.”

“Isn’t he always,” he said, while checking his watch.

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “What time is it here?”

“O-nine hundred hours. Welcome to Friday.”

“Right,” she said with a yawn and a stretch and a sudden worry that she might look hideous. She dragged her fingers under her eyes to check for errant mascara. “How do you deal with all this time warping?”

“Normally I’d sleep through this flight to adjust.”

“And you didn’t because...”

“You were here.” He shrugged. “Anyway, this is your day off. Gonna drop you at the hotel and ring you for dinner at eight.”

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