Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
The pigeon, on the other hand, is a perfectly bronzed bird with crispy golden-brown skin, about the same size as a Cornish game hen. The glossy port wine reduction cascades over the meat, mingling slightly with the side dishes.
“This is a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth,” I say, looking down at the art on my plate. “I’ve never had pigeon before.”
“Neither have I,” Dave says, “but I bet it tastes like chicken.”
I laugh. “I don’t know where to start. I don’t want to disturb any of it.”
Before I can think further, though, the sommelier arrives with our wine. “Chambolle-Musigny from Bourgogne.” He shows us the label. “That is what you know as Pinot Noir. Or Burgundy if you use the French name in English.”
Dave nods. “Merci.”
The sommelier expertly uncorks the wine and pours a small amount in Dave’s glass. Probably just as well. Although our family is in the wine industry, we produce mostly lower-priced table wines as opposed to the fine wines produced by Steel Vineyards.
Dave takes the glass, swirls the liquid, and then sticks his nose inside, just like I’ve seen my father do countless times. Then he takes a sip, swishing it around in his mouth. He swallows, and then seems to contemplate it for a moment.
“Excellent,” he says.
“Very good, monsieur.” The sommelier fills my glass and then Dave’s. He bows and leaves us.
Dave lifts his glass. “To a nice evening.”
“To a nice evening.” I clink my glass to his and take a sip.
The aroma of ripe red cherries mingles with the flavor of darker fruit. The tannins are mild, and the wine is slightly acidic, which means it will pair well with food.
“An excellent choice,” I say.
Dave smiles. “It’s delicious, but I can’t take credit. The sommelier chose it for me. I don’t have Uncle Ryan’s or Dale’s nose when it comes to wine.”
“It’s perfect.” And I mean it. Even if it sucks with the pigeon, which it won’t, this evening is already perfect in my book.
The meal is delicious—Dave was right, the pigeon tastes like dark chicken meat—and when Giselle comes with our cheese course, which includes more baguette drizzled with local honey, I can’t eat another bite.
“Try a little,” Dave says. “And then of course there’s dessert.”
“I’m not sure I have room.” But to appease him, I take a bite of brie on one of the baguette pieces. The honey melds into the creaminess of the cheese, and it’s wonderful. I end up trying the Roquefort as well, but I stay away from the chèvre. Not a goat cheese fan.
Dessert turns out to be Grand Marnier soufflé served hot from the oven with crème anglaise. The aroma alone opens up a tiny corner of my stomach. I’ve got to try this.
It’s decadent, with orange liqueur as the primary flavor, but egg yolks and vanilla flavor are also apparent, and the crème anglaise brings it all together. Giselle brings a digestif of Calvados, pear brandy from Normandy, that perfectly ends the meal.
I’m truly mesmerized, and my tummy is full of gastronomic delights by the time Dave pays the check—or l’addition, as they call it here.
The limo picks us up and drives us back to the Narcisse Blanc.
I float on air as we ascend in the elevator and then get to our respective rooms.
Dave stands next to me and takes my key card, opening my door.
“Maddie, I—”
But I grab his arm and pull him into my room.
Chapter Eleven
Dave
We rip each other’s clothes off in record time.
Our mouths are fused together in a searing kiss, and I can’t get enough of Maddie.
Maybe it was the lush Burgundy wine we drank with dinner. Or maybe it was her sparkling conversation. We talked about things other than the plane nearly crashing, other than the concert tour, other than both our families. Most of the conversation revolved around the food and wine we were consuming. We were present in the moment, not thinking of the bullshit we’ve been through and the bullshit to come. At this point, I can’t recall the specifics of what we talked about, only that it made me feel good.
Maybe it was the pear brandy, or maybe the lushness of the restaurant itself.
Or maybe…
Maybe I just want her.
Maybe I just fucking want her.
We end up on the bed, and she rolls me over so I’m on my back. She climbs on top of me and sinks down on my cock.
No foreplay tonight. I suppose we had enough of that last night.
Tonight she wants to fuck, and I’m totally fine with that.
I reach forward, cup her perfect tits. She has a little more than a handful, and her nipples are dark brown and scrumptious.
She closes her eyes, moves with me, undulating her hips, and then circling while I’m embedded inside her.
Each time my cock hits her anterior wall, I know I’m getting her G-spot, and it makes her go insane.