Page 40 of Eat Slay Love

Because sure, the dish was good—perfectly balanced, rich with flavor, worthy of its Stellar-starred kitchen.

But Fabien?

He was everything.

Every smooth glance.

Every hushed chuckle.

Every deep murmur of"Mmm, delicious"that he sent my way in that velvety accent had me clenching my thighs and barely holding myself together.

And the worst part?

I knew.

Ifuckingknew!

A man who could eat like this, with such unhurried indulgence, with such aching attention to every bite, was a man who couldabsolutelyeat pussy like it was a religion.

Mmmm.

And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to be the next thing he tasted.

My bestie’s voice screamed in my head, “I double dare your ass to take him to bed tonight!”

I blushed, and hoped that he didn’t catch it.

As the last morsel of the previous dish vanished from our plates, the staff glided in with seamless precision, whisking the dishes away.

Next, our waitress returned with the kind of effortless grace that suggested she had mastered the art of fine dining service. In her hands, she cradled an elegant bottle of wine and presented the label—Château Margaux 2000—a vintage so rare and revered that even I, a casual wine drinker, recognized its prestige.

"This," she said with a knowing smile, "is one of the finest Bordeaux wines in existence. A Premier Grand Cru Classé, aged to perfection, with layers of blackcurrant, truffle, and the faintest whisper of violets.”

I could already taste the fine liquid on my tongue.

She continued, “It has a velvety texture, a finish that lingers like a lover’s touch, and was once served at royal banquets."

With that, she poured a measured stream into Fabien’s glass first, then mine.

The deep ruby liquid caught the light. “Take your time with it. Each sip should be an experience.”

“Amazing.” Fabien leaned back in his chair, watching me with that same slow-burning intensity that had been unraveling me since we met. His gaze, heavy with interest, traced the line of my lips before lifting to meet my eyes.

I picked up my glass, tilting it slightly to let the deep ruby liquid swirl and watching as it clung to the sides. "Do you live in New York?"

"God no." He shook his head, looking genuinely horrified. "If I did, I would need to be on suicide watch."

I let out a surprised laugh. "I swear, if you keep dissing America like this, I’m putting in a complaint with the French embassy."

"Ah, but then you would have to deal with French bureaucracy, and that is an entirely different kind of torture."

"Fair point.” I smirked. “So where do you live?"

"Paris," Fabien picked up his glass, lifted it to his nose, and deeply inhaled. Then, he took a quick sip and nodded in enjoyment. "My condo is in the 7th arrondissement, home to the Eiffel Tower. In fact, my terrace has a perfect view. And. . .my neighbors are famous artists, top diplomats, and old-money aristocrats."

I snapped my fingers. "Talk that shit."

He laughed, deep and rich. "Well. . .that is myhumbleway of trying to entice you to visit me."

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