Page 141 of The Dragon 2
They moved in perfect rhythm. Every tiny plate gleamed, and every scent that curled upward from those trays knocked something loose inside me.
Colors bloomed across the trays. Some sort of sun-gold bread was nestled on a cast iron spoon and drizzled with a dark red liquid.
A jeweled smear of aioli lay next to a pile of odd green pointed vegetables.
I did recognize a deviled egg wearing a shrimp crown.
And last, there was this brown and black sort of cake bathed in an amber glaze.
So many scents floated up. Smoke. Bourbon. Butter. Oil. Spice. A hint of vinegar. A breath of honey.
The waitresses bowed and left in silence.
I moved my gaze to Nyomi and lost some of my ability to breathe.
The light licked her skin like it wanted to fuck her. Her cheekbones gleamed like polished gold. Her curls swayed a little and they were sin caught in moonlight, and that scent, even from here. . .wrapped around my cock and squeezed.
If Aphrodite had ever fucked a war god, she would've worn this same red leather dress and had her hair in a similar way.
My gaze dragged over Nyomi’s mouth, her throat, the soft rise of her breasts under that tight red leather.
The way the corset cinched her waist made my hands ache to undo it—slowly.
No ripping.
No rushing.
Just me, on my knees, peeling her like fruit I’d been starving for.
I imagined her flat on this table.
The trays scattered. Jazz still curling in the air. My hand gripping her ankle, spreading her open.
Her curly hair fanned over the table.
Her lips parted.
I’d fuck her here.
Not hard at first.
I’d start slow—let the head of my cock drag along her soaked pussy’s slit until she arched and begged for more.
Until she was cursing me in languages she didn’t even know she spoke.
Her thighs would tremble. The table might creak. The gold trim might imprint into her spine.
I’d lean in, fuck her with my tongue between each thrust, kiss her like she was my altar.
Then I’d flip her.
Push her chest to the table.
Watch her ass arch and fuck her again.
Deeper.
Dirtier.
