Page 25 of A Murderous Crow
I picked up one of the steamed mussels and the tiny fork that came with the dish to dig them out of their shell. She watched me as I forked the tender morsel and held it out to her. She reached for the fork, eyes fixed on me. At the subtle rise of my eyebrows, she blushed a light pink and dropped her hand back into her lap, leaning forward like I wanted her to, and parting those lips.
I passed the tidbit between them, and she took the little bite between her teeth, her lips grazing the oyster fork as she drew back and carefully chewed.
I fed myself one and enjoyed the bright burst of citrus and wine with the underlying richness of the mussel itself.
“Why did that feel so obscene?” she asked softly, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.
“Because all I can picture is those beautiful, soft lips wrapped around my cock.”
She froze, wide-eyed, staring at me as though I’d just set something on fire. Judging by the creeping blaze of color seeping up her chest and into her cheeks, I perhaps had.
“Why do I get the impression that appeals to you?” I asked with a slight smirk. She turned her head resolutely in anotherdirection and stared at the door, as though half-willing someone to come through it, while the other half contemplated making a break for it. But alas, there was another part of her that kept her rooted to her seat, and that intrigued me more than anything.
I could see the struggle play out in her stiff body language, and I relished it.
“Have another,” I murmured. She turned back to me, all wide-eyed and innocent, trying to cope with a myriad of emotions and thoughts. I thoroughly enjoyed the cognitive dissonance playing out in real time before me.
“Are you always so crude?” she asked softly, and yet she took the proffered bite of mollusk I held out to her.
“Oh, you have no idea, Bright Eyes,” I told her.
She blinked, mystified at the little pet name, and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. I let her think about it, the rest of the way through the course.
The next course was a traditional Caesar salad, the notes of vinegar intent on cleansing the palate before the main course, which arrived promptly just as we each had taken our last bite of crisp romaine.
She seemed to relax a little as the main course was served. Rockfish stuffed with a shrimp and crab medley with a rice pilaf of exquisite execution, the likes of which would torture my brother, Torment, who was an executive chef.
We ate quietly, and the silence had shifted to something quite pleasant, and considering how I wanted my dessert, I was alright with that.
“Who were those men?” she asked quietly, after taking a fortifying sip of wine. “The ones who came after you…” She didn’t need to clarify. I knew who she meant.
“You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m an Iron Wraith.” She jolted with a bit of startlement.
“You?” she asked, and gave a long, slow blink. “I never would have guessed in a million years, actually.”
“Ah, excellent,” I said and took another bite of my fish. I chewed carefully and slowly, thoughtfully studying her as she silently ran up and down the catalog of implications that the revelation had brought with it. She really had no idea, which just meant I had done well at keeping my mundane, day-to-day business life and my real life separated well enough. That was a good thing.
“I somehow can’t picture you as a biker,” she said finally, and I laughed decently long and hard at that.
She winced and said, “Don’t make fun of me. Clearly, you didn’twantanyone to know, and I can have a guess or three at why.”
“Enlighten me,” I said with mirth. “And I would never make fun of you.”
“I’ve heard a rumor or two about the Iron Wraiths operating more like the Mafia rather than a biker gang,” she said evenly, but there was a slight tremor in the lilt of her voice that gave her away. She was afraid, and rightly so.
“I suppose with that reaction, now would be a bad time to mention I’m more than just a member… I’m the vice president of the club.”
Her fork clacked against the fine China we dined off when it slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers.
“You’re joking,” she said incredulously, and her deep blush returned. If I were a betting man, which I was want to be from time to time, I would bet that it had more to do with anxiety this time rather than any sense of embarrassment or what have you.
“I don’t joke about things so serious to me,” I told her flatly.
She looked at me with new eyes, and I watched her visibly shrink as she leaned back into her chair and let it catch her.
“Those were some of my club brothers, to answer your question, and now you likely have put two and two together on why I’d rathernotinvolve the police in such matters.”
“I’d wondered about that,” she whispered faintly.
