“They’re fine. I’ve talked to Mama and Zia Renata on the phone. No one brought up my business plan, which is just as I’d expected. Brush things under the rug and they disappear—that’s our family motto.”
“That’s everyone’s family motto.”
“Maybe. How is your family? I only get regular updates on Neal through Marie Dawn.”
“Doing well. Gareth’s kid just had his fourteenth birthday. Makes me feel old. I remember when he was in diapers. Nolan’s wedding is coming up in the fall . . . hey, you should see if they need someone to do the cake.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ve got that arranged by now.”
“Maybe not. I’ll give you his fiancée’s number. Katie’s great. You should call her.”
“I actually love to do wedding cakes.”
“Where did you learn how?” he asked as their food arrived.
“Veggie omelet hold the onions and the house waffles for the beautiful couple!” the waiter shouted for effect as he set the plates in front of them.
“Thanks.” She smiled at the waiter before turning back to Mick. “A bit at culinary school—just doing cakes, I mean—but I apprenticed at this incredible place in Vienna for about six months and they really put me through the drills. Made me stay up literally all night rolling and rerolling my fondant until I learned to do it right.”
“Fondant?” He took a big bite of syrup-covered waffle. “Ah, this is damn good,” he said, the words muffled.
“It’s like icing, except it’s heavier and more moldable. You can make flowers out of it—almost anything.”
“Ah. And now I know as much as I did before.”
“I can give you baking lessons if you’re interested.”
“No thanks. I’ll leave the art up to the artist. Tell me more about Vienna.”
She chewed a bite of her omelet, washed it down with a sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?”
He shrugged, shoving another forkful of waffle between his lips. “I don’t know. Whatever you want to tell me. What did you love about the city?”
“The history, I guess. It’s everywhere. Ever present, if that makes sense. It’s in the architecture, which is gorgeous—the museums and the opera houses and the cathedrals. In the old cobblestone streets. In the way people go about their lives there, for the most part. I mean, there are really sleek, modern structures that rival contemporary architecture anywhere in the world, like the Haas Haus. Have you ever seen it?”
“You mean that big mirrored building? I’ve seen pictures. Looks incredible.”
“It is,” she agreed. “It’s stunning. But despite places like that there’s still a sense of antiquity about the city. Sort of like there is here. I guess that’s why I felt so at home in Europe.”
“What else?”
“About Vienna in general? Or about the architecture?”
“I just want to know about your experiences in Europe. It must have been amazing to see so many countries. To live in so many places. I couldn’t have done it. I can’t bear to be away from New Orleans for too long. You’re braver than I am, Allie girl.” He put his fork down and turned to her. “In a lot of ways.”
His gaze was steady, deep somehow. It made her breath catch in her throat.
“I’m not,” she protested weakly.
“But you are. It takes a lot to be a sub. Don’t think I don’t know that. It takes strength. Courage.”
All she could do was blink for a moment. “Thank you for saying that. It does. In my experience not everyone sees it that way. But . . . you and I see a lot of things the same way. We always have.”
He nodded slowly. And in that moment she felt something blaze between them, their mental as well as physical chemistry like the sharply burning edge of ozone in the air.
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, brushed a hot kiss across her knuckles. Her body shivered in answer.
“You are one beautiful girl,” he said, a sense of wonder in his voice.
She smiled. He smiled back, his strong white teeth framed by his wicked goatee.
She’d always loved a goatee on a man. Loved that evil edge it gave a man’s face. And on Mick’s face . . .
“More coffee for you two? Yes, and drink it while it’s hot,” the waiter asked and answered in the same breath, already pouring, bringing them both back to the world around them, full of sound and the warm scents of breakfast cooking.
Mick shook his head as he lifted his cup, one corner of his mouth quirking. “If these waiters only knew who they were bossing around,” he said quietly, humor in his low tone. He took a sip, set the cup down and picked up his fork once more, spearing a piece of waffle and offering it to her lips. “Here, have a bite before they get cold. And before we cause a scandal in the middle of this restaurant.”
She grabbed the fork. “In the interest of not causing a scandal,” she said, slipping the bite of waffle into her mouth. “Mmm, good.” She finished chewing. “Can we get out of here now?”
“You insatiable girl.”
“Luckily you like me this way.”
“Lord, do I ever.”
They finished up and paid the bill, and soon they were in his truck, moving back through the city toward the French Quarter.
Mick took her to his place, and they parked in the garage he rented for his truck a few blocks from his house. They walked hand in hand down the street, and it was sweet strolling with him through the sleepy Sunday city that smelled of ancient wood and brick, flowers and spices, along with the familiar edge of decay from the tropical air. Sweet, and yet her heart was racing, her body burning for him just from the feel of his big hand around hers. From knowing it was Mick she was walking with. From knowing what would happen when they got to his place. They reached the second block, having walked in silence when she turned to him.
“Why so quiet?”
“I’m concentrating.”
“On what?”
“On not tearing your clothes off in the middle of the street.”
“Oh . . .”
Heat shimmered through her, reached deep into her belly, in between her thighs to that warm spot that was nearly always just a little wet for him. It was tingling now. Needy instantly.
She gripped his hand tighter, and they both moved faster until they reached his door, where he let her hand go long enough to fit the key in the lock before taking her hand again and pulling her inside. He kicked the door shut behind them and grabbed her, yanking her body in tight and kissing her hard.
She moaned into his mouth as he opened her lips with his wet, seeking tongue, and her hands slid into his hair, holding him closer. In moments they were both panting, their bodies pressed close together, hips moving in rhythm.
Mick pulled away. “Fuck it,” he growled as he yanked her tank top over her head, and she was grateful she’d gone without a bra today. His gaze lingered on her bare breasts, making her feel all the more naked for him.
She helped him slide his T-shirt up. It caught on one arm, and they both yanked together, the fabric ripping before they were able to work it free. She groaned as she slid her hands over his chest, over his flat, hardening nipples, leaned in to taste his skin.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Come here, baby.”
He wrapped a hand around her hair and pulled her head back, biting into her throat, then sucking at the skin, while with the other hand he unbuttoned her jeans and shoved them down her legs. He slid a few fingers under the edge of her underwear, and she heard the tearing of lace as they came off.
“God . . . yes, Mick.”
She went for his jeans, and his hands were there, too. He shoved them down around his ankles. They got stuck and he kicked off his boots, the worn denim of his jeans slipping off easily, and she found his big cock hard as granite, her fingers wrapping around it.
He filled his hands with her breasts, squeezing, caressing. Her body was on fire, desire a fierce blaze, building so quickly she couldn’t think straight. She didn’t want to. All she knew was this panting desperation, this tearing of clothes, the need to touch and taste and feel.