“No,” he commands when I try again. “Relax, Sloane.”
A strangled moan passes my lips. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
Rowan chuckles, nonplussed by the fact that desire is burning me up, every cell torched with the need for more than he’s going to give. “Just try. See where it takes you.”
My pulse drums a galloping rhythm, my breaths are shaky and uneven. When I stop trying to move, Rowan lays his chin on my shoulder and takes up a dessert spoon.
“Such a good girl you are, Blackbird,” he coos into my ear as he slides the spoon through the crème brûlée and brings it to my parted lips. “And good girls get rewards.”
The creamy dessert and tart berry topping land on my tongue with a burst of flavor. Rowan remains still as I savor the taste.
“Did you like it?” he asks.
“Y-yes.”
“Missing anything?”
“I…” Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think clearly with his cock thick and hard in my pussy, my arousal slick at my entrance, my clit demanding relief. When I shake my head, he seems to understand that I don’t mean ‘no’， but that I can’t be sure.
“Close your eyes. Try again.”
I do as Rowan asks and close my eyes. The scents of sugar and fresh berries flood my nostrils, aromas I didn’t truly notice the last time. Rowan traces the edge of the spoon across my lips to paint my pink skin in flavor before I open for him.
“What do you taste?” Rowan whispers against the shell of my ear.
“Cream. Vanilla. Caramelized sugar. Strawberries and raspberries,” I reply, my eyes still closed. It feels like I’m floating, not outside of my body but in places within it that I’ve never seen or felt before. There’s another realm inside that I didn’t even know existed. It’s as though I’m disconnected from the rest of the world, yet more present in it than I’ve ever been. Every sensation becomes clearer in the absence of extraneous noise.
“What’s missing?” Rowan tries again.
“Nothing. But…” I shake my head. Rowan’s hand glides down my arm in reassurance, that this place and my words are safe with him. “But it’s not unique.”
“You’re right,” he replies. An indulgent kiss lingers on my neck as his cock twitches within me. I notice every motion he makes, from the way his lips lift from my skin to the rise and fall of his chest against my back. “It’s not unique. It’s like every other crème brûlée in the city. It needs something different. Something new.”
“Thorsten Harris probably would suggest—”
“Blackbird,” Rowan says, punctuating his warning with a bite to my earlobe. “Do not even think about finishing that sentence or there’ll be hell to pay.”
My eyes remain closed as I grin. “I like your version of hell.”
“You say that now. But I could stay in this tight little cunt of yours for hours, and I think you’d feel differently if I spent all that time not letting you come.” Rowan shifts his hips, just a hint of movement that ignites my desperation for more. “Now be my good little bird and name me the most random fruit you can think of. The first thing that springs to mind.”
I don’t even really think about it. I just speak. “Persimmon.”
There’s a beat of silence. Rowan relaxes behind me, as though the pent-up tension in his chest has spirited away.
“Yes. Persimmon. That’s an excellent idea, love.”
And then he slides out of me.
I open my eyes and turn around as he takes a step back, tucking his erection back into his briefs before he tugs his pants up. My breaths come in shallow pants as I take him in. There’s heat and desire in his eyes, but he keeps it banked. Not like me. I know my desperate need for more is written all over my face.
“I thought you said good girls get rewards,” I say, my voice low and husky.
A slow smile tips up the corner of Rowan’s lips where his scar brightens in a straight line through his skin. “You’re right. I did say that. Go out into the restaurant and sit on your table.”
“Which one is mine?”
“You’ll know.”
He tosses me a wink and starts to gather the unused ingredients onto the tray. I watch for a moment before he nods toward the door and tells me he’ll be there as soon as he’s done.
I head out into the dimly-lit space and toward the booths beneath the black wing mounted on the wall. When I glance between the front entrance and the sign for the emergency exit by the bathrooms and the door to the kitchen, it’s obvious which one I’d choose—the booth that sits just beneath the vertex of the spread wing.