Chapter 38
E mma
Marcus is unusually quiet, almost brooding, as he leads me downstairs for brunch. Is he upset with me for allowing the grilling? Because he pretty much asked for it—insisted on it, really. Still, I feel a little bad that I let my grandparents put him through the wringer.
I should’ve shielded him from the worst of it, like I’d always done with Jim, my college boyfriend.
Oh, well, too late now. And Marcus had held his own the way Jim could never have.
He’d spoken to my grandparents respectfully but as an equal, answering their questions without the slightest hint of nervousness or uncertainty.
At the same time, he hadn’t boasted about his accomplishments, all of his answers factual but revealing little of the extent of his power and wealth.
Of course, Gramps and Grandma had been impressed anyway—and why wouldn’t they be?
It’s not his billions that make Marcus Carelli formidable; it’s the steely, indomitable core of the man himself. A few minutes in his company is all it takes to know that he’s a force of nature, someone you’d never want to cross.
“You okay?” I ask softly as we approach the dining area with Marcus still not saying a word. The rich, savory aromas emanating from the kitchen are making my stomach growl, but I’m too concerned about his strange mood to think about food. “I’m sorry about my grandparents. They’re just—”
“Protective of you.” He smiles, and though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the strange tension between us fades. “They seem like lovely people. Your grandfather reminds me a bit of Mr. Bond.”
I beam at him. “Yes, they’re great. And Gramps actually was a teacher. He taught English and Social Studies for almost forty years before retiring.”
Marcus’s smile warms. “Really? What about your grandmother?”
“She was a nurse, a really skilled one. I almost never went to the doctor when I was living with them. Grandma can handle anything short of major surgery.”
“Mr. Carelli?” A thin man with ramrod-straight posture steps into our path as we approach the table. With a noticeable British accent, he announces, “Your food is ready.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Marcus glances at me. “Emma, this is Geoffrey, my butler. Geoffrey, this is Emma, my… guest.”
I manage a smile despite the sudden acceleration of my pulse. I caught that moment of hesitation before Marcus said “guest,” the split second of indecision that must be as rare for him as a lobster dinner is for me. Had he been about to say something else?
My date?
My friend , maybe?
There’s no way he was going to say “my girlfriend.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Geoffrey says, inclining his head. “Now, please, have a seat. I will bring out the food.”
He hurries away, and Marcus leads me to the table—which is set with two straw mats topped with square white plates, sleek modern glasses, and gleaming utensils next to white cloth napkins.
In the middle is a carafe of water infused with lemon, mint, and cucumber, and next to it is what looks like fresh-squeezed orange juice, along with a pitcher of dark green liquid.
Marcus pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, once again feeling overwhelmed. Not only does this brunch seem fancier than at any restaurant, but I’m still wearing a robe. Not that having my own clothes would’ve helped; I’m pretty sure a single fork here costs more than my entire outfit.
The worst part is that I can’t pay for my portion of this meal—unless I offer to cover half of one morning’s worth of Geoffrey’s salary, along with the cost of the ingredients.
And even I know that’s ridiculous. My best bet is to reciprocate by making Marcus a meal at my place one of these days, but after seeing the way he lives, the idea of asking him over to my tiny studio makes me cringe.
I might as well ask Queen Elizabeth—the monarch, not my cat—to have dinner in a closet.
“Water, orange juice, or green juice?” Marcus asks, and I force a smile to my lips.
“Green juice, please.” There’s no need for him to know I’ve never tried the overpriced health elixir before—or that all of this is making me feel like a fish out of water.
Marcus pours the green liquid into my glass, and I take a sip. It’s surprisingly good, tart and refreshing instead of bitter. I can taste the Granny Smith apple underneath the grassy flavor of the greens, and I down the rest of the glass in a few long gulps.
“More?” Marcus asks wryly, and I nod, because why not.
It’s a delicious way to meet my weekly quota of fruits and vegetables in one morning.
As I’m sipping on the refill, Geoffrey comes out with a silver-domed tray.
Setting it on the table, he removes the dome, revealing two plates with a perfectly folded omelet on each, along with two little bowls of cut-up fruit and a basket of fluffy biscuits.
The omelets are covered with some kind of creamy orange sauce and topped with a sprig of parsley, and it all smells absolutely scrumptious.
Definitely fancier than any restaurant brunch I’ve had.
“Shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster, topped with spicy gorgonzola sauce,” Geoffrey announces, putting one plate in front of me and the other in front of Marcus.
He then does the same thing with the fruit bowls and puts the biscuit basket between us, adding a pair of tongs for easy grabbing.
“Thank you, Geoffrey. It looks amazing,” Marcus says, and I echo his sentiment, barely able to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. How is it possible that I was thinking of lobster only a few minutes earlier and now there’s a lobster omelet in front of me?
No, scratch that, a shiitake and oyster mushroom omelet with crab and lobster —as in, all the foods I love and can rarely afford in one insane dish?
The butler inclines his head and disappears back into the kitchen, and I dig into the omelet, my fork trembling from eagerness.
Holy. Cow. I nearly orgasm on the spot as the spicy richness of the gorgonzola sauce touches my tongue, followed by the delicious texture of the seafood chunks wrapped in mushroom-flavored egg.
I must’ve moaned out loud and closed my eyes because when I open them, I find Marcus staring at me like I’ve just stripped naked. His face is tightly drawn, his eyes burning with savage hunger as his omelet sits untouched in front of him.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, my face turning hot as I realize I must’ve looked like I was literally having an orgasm. Again. At this rate, he’s going to think I have a food fetish. “It’s just really, really good.”
“One of these days, I’m going to fuck you as I feed you.” His voice is a low, dark growl. “I’m going to lay you out on this table, and make a meal of your sweet pussy as you eat.”
Oh God. Said pussy clenches on a violent spike of need, flooding with warm slickness in an instant. I can picture exactly what he’s saying, and my body’s helpless reaction makes me dizzy, a squeezing band around my lungs preventing a full breath.
“Yes, that’s right.” He leans in, blue eyes glinting as his big hand covers my knee under the table. “I’m going to make a feast of you right here, kitten, and you’re going to love every fucking second. I’m going to stuff you so full of me you won’t even think of food.”
I’m not thinking of food now. I can’t—not with my heart thudding in my chest and my entire body burning.
I didn’t know dirty talk could turn me on like this, that words could fill me with such agonizing need.
It’s only the knowledge that Geoffrey is here and can walk in on us at any moment that makes me swallow and break eye contact, gulping in shallow breaths to settle the mad thrumming of my pulse.
There are a few beats of silence, moments so thick with tension I can almost taste it in the air. Then Marcus removes his hand from my knee, and I hear the scrape of knife and fork against plate.
“You’re right. This is delicious.” His voice is back to normal, his tone conversational, but I’m not fooled.
As soon as we’re done with this meal, we’re heading back into the bedroom.
And damn if the thought doesn’t make me soaking wet.