Page 20 of Shattered Stars
I take a seat, lying the crisp napkin over my knees and wait for him to return. When he does, he’s carrying a tray laden with dishes – no plastic takeout tubs in sight. He places each dish onto the table telling me as he does what it contains and encouraging me to ladle a bit of everything onto my plate. There’s food from across the republic – stews from the north, fried chicken from the south, as well as spiced buns from across the ocean and tight little meat bundles wrapped in pastry from the islands.
He takes the seat next to mine, pouring golden wine into both our glasses. He takes a sip of his as I sink my teeth into one of the parcels and moan, my eyes rolling in their sockets.
“You like it?” he asks, watching me, his own plate empty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good. You have to try it.”
“I will. In a minute.” I eye him.
“What?” he says.
“You’re just going to sit and watch me eat?”
“I like watching you eat – especially when you make those delicious little moans of pleasure,” he growls by my ear.
“Hmmm,” I say, finishing my mouthful and swallowing. “Are you a feeder?”
“A feeder?”
“Someone who gains, you know, sexual pleasure from feeding another person. Only, you fed me all that food on our way to Los Magicos and now this.” I sweep my hand over the table.
“You’re turning me into a pervert, little mate, because I gain sexual pleasure from watching you do just about anything.”
My bond spins with pleasure. I like that I turn him on. It feels powerful. I take another of the parcels from the plate and offer it up to his mouth. He meets my eyes, then takes a bite, capturing my fingers between his lips and sucking at them.
“Definitely a pervert.” I giggle.
“You have no idea,” he mumbles.
I’m half tempted to push the food aside, lie out on the table and encourage the man in black to feast on me, but this food is delicious and I haven’t eaten all day.
I try some of the stew next, encouraging him to do the same.
“My aunt used to make something like this in the winter,” I tell him. “But it wasn’t as good.”
“It’s my favorite thing to eat,” he says, lifting a forkful to his mouth, then pausing, “well, until I met you.”
“Yep, you’re a pervert.” I grin at him. “But really, it’s your favorite? Not the parcels? Or, you know, something chocolate and creamy?”
“No, my mother used to make us this. It reminds me of her.” He stares down at his plate, before taking another mouthful.
“She’s …” I hesitate. He’s never really mentioned her before.
“Dead, yes,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a swig of wine.
I rest my hand on his thigh and he covers it with his own much bigger palm.
“How long ago?”
“I was 15. My sister was 8. She was killed in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and he squeezes my hand. “You miss her?”
“Of course,” he says, twisting his head to meet my gaze. “She was a good woman. A kind and funny one. Our home was never the same after she died. It felt colder, darker. There wasn’t as much laughter or sunshine.”
I think of what it was like after my aunt passed. How the nights felt longer, the days duller, the clouds heavier, the wind colder.
“She would have liked you,” he continues.
