Chapter 13 #3
My empty stomach panged at the fragrance emanating from the plate—garlic, butter, seafood. All the scents mixing together, somehow not forming an off-putting smell. All of it was piled on a roll with coleslaw on the side, my plate bursting with the colors from the different vegetables.
The lobster roll was drizzled with a rich and creamy-looking sauce. Although the uncomplicated meal had my mouth already watering, I didn’t snatch it into my hands and shove it in my mouth as I wanted to.
Elliot sat beside me, putting down his own plate before settling a napkin on my lap.
Sitting back in his chair, he watched me. “Something wrong?” He tilted his head to the plate.
My fingers toyed with the napkin, suddenly uncomfortable by the question and the honest answer that I was unable to not give him.
“I don’t eat bread,” I told him.
He tilted his head to regard me. “You’re not allergic, or you would’ve told me.”
“No, I’m not allergic,” I agreed. “Just a militant control freak who needs to ensure my weight stays at a magic number that is maintained with protein, vegetables and martinis.” I felt my cheeks flush with shame.
I’d never felt embarrassed when I’d declared my dietary restrictions to my family.
Mostly because I’d said it with a false bravado even I’d convinced myself with.
It wasn’t a problem, nothing to be dissected closer or sheepish about.
I liked controlling what I put in my body, fueling it with what it needed and nothing more.
Elliot didn’t look at me with an ounce of judgment.
Surely it was not the first time he’d encountered a woman on some diet or another.
Maybe that’s why I felt so abashed. I prided myself on being different, strong, unwilling to bend to men, yet there I was, a slave to society’s doctrine that women must be thin and hungry.
“You don’t let yourself enjoy things,” he mused. “But tonight, it’s not you letting you do anything. It’s me. So beyond any physical reactions to the fucking amazing lobster roll in front of you, you’re going to eat the entire thing. Like a good girl.”
My stomach pitched at the way his voice lowered in the last sentence.
My belly was also responding to the food in front of me, the kind I had been denying myself for years.
Denying myself that enjoyment. I let myself have it with cars, clothing, jewelry, and other expensive things that did nothing to fill the emptiness inside of me.
Yet I couldn’t sit and have a fucking croissant that my sister-in-law made and enjoy it without guilt.
“You charging by the hour for this therapy session?” I asked him in a snide tone he didn’t deserve.
“I’m the one getting the payoff here,” he replied casually, seemingly incapable of being offended. “Now eat.”
He spoke softly, but the authority in his tone was unmistakable.
The rebellious teenager, the rebellious woman inside of me, still wanted to push back, even though I’d committed to a night of obedience. It wasn’t like it was easy to unlearn a lifetime of behavior.
But I was also surprised at how it wasn’t exactly hard either.
My hands latched onto the bread, lifting it up and savoring the feel of the crust, the tasty aromas coming from it.
I took a bite, mindful that Elliot was examining me with rapt attention. Some ridiculous part of me wanted to take a dainty bite so I didn’t seem messy or put him off.
Though I instinctively knew that was not what Elliot wanted from me. So I took a large mouthful, some of the filling exploding from the sides onto my hands and fingers then landing on the plate.
Once the flavors hit my tastebuds, I didn’t care about the mess or the carbs. A low moan burst from my throat, and I looked at Elliot who hadn’t picked up his own roll, just gazing at me with a self-satisfied grin.
I swallowed, wiping the sides of my mouth with my napkin, and not at all embarrassed that he’d witnessed that.
Again, like the simplicity of me sitting in the chair, the act of eating had pleased him, and my body thrilled at that again.
Along with the delicious taste of something I’d been denying myself.
“Your brother must put crack in his lobster roll if this isn’t the one they’re serving at the restaurant,” I told him.
Elliot chuckled, and the sound warmed my insides better than any kind of dirty martini ever had.
“We had a dueling roll contest early on in the restaurant’s iteration, and he won by a small margin. Next time you’re at Shaw Shack, you’re going to try his and see why I’ll begrudgingly accept the silver medal.”
Next time.
Like it was a forgone conclusion.
I skipped over the bitterness that decimated my insides at the thought then quickly took another bite to chase any lingering feelings away.
Though I expected Elliot to make conversation, he didn’t. He just sat and ate his roll while watching me eat mine. It should’ve been incredibly uncomfortable. But the soundtrack of the vinyl he’d put on before we sat down served to cut away any of the need for conversation.
There was an undemanding warmth in the air. It felt nice. Intimate to be able to enjoy a meal together without the adornment of words.
Though I craved them too, words. I wanted to ask him questions about his life. His past. Old girlfriends. The one he’d hinted had broken his heart when we’d spoken in front of the photos at the restaurant. I wanted to drink up every small detail I could find.
I fought against that instinct, trying not to sully the uncomplicated aura that surrounded us.
As Elliot ordered, I managed to eat the entire roll and accompanying coleslaw, its flavors fresh and sharp, the perfect complement to the heavy roll.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded. “More than good. That might’ve been the best meal I’ve had in my life. And Avery Shaw has cooked for me before.”
“You don’t have to lie to get in my pants,” he teased. “I’m planning on you getting in there already.”
The smile that stretched across my face was genuine, easy, the warmth between my legs the same.
I stood, intending to gather the plates to wash. I did so on instinct. My mother raised me to have good manners. And although I resisted a lot of traditional values, I didn’t think that using basic manners with someone who served you extraordinary food in their home was anything but polite.
One of the few ways I could be considered polite.
“Did I say you could stand?”
My body froze at the low tone, so different from the light tenor we’d been conversing in moments ago.
My skin electrified with desire that had already been dancing below the surface. Beyond the seemingly wholesome meal, an inescapable sexual tension coiled between us. The promise of a night of deviance so starkly juxtaposed against the unpretentious meal with no booze or tawdry accompaniments.
Mouth dry, I looked at him, wanting to put that satisfied, pleased smile back on his face.
Fuck, I wanted to serve him.
“I was going to wash these,” I gestured to the dishes. “Since you cooked.”
“Nice thought, baby, but I’m serving you tonight,” he motioned to the table. “Sit.”
I immediately did what he said, though I didn’t completely back down.
“You know, in large areas of my life, people serve me all the time.” My remark came off uncouth, haughty and spoiled.
I’d intended it that way. Large parts of me wanted to please him, but another part, maybe even an equally large part, wanted to show him my worst—maybe my real?
—qualities so he could get rightly disgusted with me and go find someone else to order around.
I was testing him.
I was always testing him, to see how far I could pull back my mask and show him what was behind it before he inevitably figured out that I was bad for him.
“I know that, Calliope,” he didn’t so much as scowl, reaching over to grab my plate to stack it on top of his.
“You pay people to serve you throughout your life,” he corrected.
“I’m doubting very much you let people do it because they want to.
” His eyes narrowed on me. “And I want to. So sit. You’ll be taking care of me soon enough. ”
I licked my lips at the promise, never so turned-on at the thought of taking care of another man. I’d never been excited to serve another man in any way, sexual or otherwise.
Again, he didn’t give me any instructions nor permission to do anything to distract myself.
My brain had already rewired itself to comprehend that if he didn’t explicitly say I could do something, the default was to be as I was.
Again, it was at odds with every cornerstone of my personality, every inch of my history, and didn’t make logical sense.
Yet it didn’t bother me.
Not for the night.
I’d always let myself have nice things, regardless of the price tag, yet this thing, letting go, was the first thing that brought me peace.
Elliot didn’t rush in the kitchen. And I couldn’t decide if his slow, meticulous cleaning and drying of every dish was an instrument to torture me or a hint of the kind of attention to detail he planned on attending to me with.
Or if it was the simple act of ensuring that both of us had fully digested our meals in order to engage in sex that was free of any kind of uncomfortable bloating.
Not that I felt uncomfortable in any kind of way.
Physically, at least. For someone who didn’t indulge in breads or high fat dressings, I half expected to have some embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction.
But I felt comfortably satiated. Nourished, even.
I’d always told myself that my eating habits were nourishing my body with everything it needed, when in reality, I was just depriving myself of things I didn’t think I deserved.
Elliot wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, his eyes landing on me with the hungry gaze of a man who hadn’t eaten in months. Years.