To her dismay-and utter fascination-he leaned back, reclining onto his side on the pile of pillows, his upper body propped up on his left elbow and forearm. Her gaze involuntarily wandered down his length, taking in his tanned throat, the enticing expanse of his broad chest, his long, outstretched muscular legs.
“Do you like it?” he asked in a husky voice.
She jerked her gaze back to his and found him studying her with deep concentration. Like it? More than anything I’ve ever seen before. She glanced down at the china bowl cradled in his left hand and fire raced into her cheeks. Heavens, he’d meant the dessert.
“It’s, um, delicious.” When he dipped the spoon into the bowl again, she asked, “Are you going to have some?”
“I’d love some.” Sitting up, he handed her the bowl and spoon, then scooted around to face her, moving closer until their knees bumped.
A tingle shot up her leg, and she stared at the bowl and spoon she now held. His meaning was unmistakable. Everything cautious in her warned her to set the food back on the table and leave. Everything feminine and curious in her wanted to know what it was like to feed a man. This man.
Heart beating hard, she scooped up a bit of the creamy dessert and brought the spoon to his lips. Fascinated, she fed him the bite, withdrawing the spoon slowly from his mouth as he’d done to her. She watched him chew. Dear God, the man had a beautiful mouth. She instantly recalled the thrilling sensation of that firm, sensual mouth brushing against her lips and skin.
Reaching out, he brushed a single fingertip against her lower lip. “A drop of custard,” he murmured. He then brought his finger to his own mouth and licked off the creamy dollop.
She felt as if he’d tossed her into the fire. Before she could think of what to say or do, he gently took the bowl and spoon from her, setting them back on the table. He then picked up an oval ceramic platter filled with an assortment of cut fruits, olives, and shelled nuts.
Setting the platter next to him, he picked up a small piece of fruit. “This is a fig, very popular with the Greeks since ancient times. Taste.” He reached out with the offering, but when she held out her hand, he shook his head and brought the fruit closer to her lips. “It is customary for a guest to eat a handheld offering from the host-if the guest enjoyed the meal. It symbolizes a harmonious end to the dinner.”
“I see.” She tried to tell herself that she would eat from his fingers solely so as not to flout ancient custom and offend him, but it was such a blatant lie she banished the excuse as quickly as it formed. Ancient custom had nothing to do with it as she leaned forward and ate the bit of fig from his fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that the fruit was sweet and luscious, but all she could concentrate on was the sensation of his fingers touching her lips.
“The guest may return the favor to the host, if she wishes,” he said, “to indicate that she found the company pleasing.”
Dear God, she found him so much more than merely pleasing. Tempting. Tantalizing. Exciting. Unable to refuse, she reached out and picked up a small section of peeled orange, which she then held out. His gaze steady on hers, he lightly grasped her wrist and pulled her hand closer to his mouth. He drew the sweet citrus and her two fingers between his lips. She gasped as the warmth of his mouth surrounded her fingertips, his tongue brushing over them. Her own lips involuntarily parted in response, and her breath caught. He withdrew her fingers, then dropped a kiss on them.
He chewed, swallowed, then said, “Delicious.” He then picked up a plump, dark olive, the pit clearly removed. “After the sweet fruit, the host offers something salty-to show that he holds his guest in the highest regard.”
As if in a trance, Meredith watched him bring the olive to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat when he slowly ran the offering around the perimeter of her parted lips before allowing her to eat it. The salty tang slid over her tongue, a sharp contrast to the sweet fig.
“The guest may offer the same to the host. If she wishes,” he said, his brown gaze searching hers.
Just as she couldn’t deny she found his company pleasing, nor could she deny she held him in the highest regard. Of course, to do something that admitted that-openly, and to him-was more than a bit frightening. And most certainly unwise.
Yet she could not stop herself from picking up an olive and offering it to him. His eyes darkened behind his lenses, and a tremor shook her hand. Again he lightly clasped her wrist and drew her hand closer to him, gently sucking the olive and her fingers into the heat of his mouth.
The desire she’d attempted to bludgeon back gushed through her, bubbling in her veins, quickening her pulse. She wanted his mouth on hers. So badly her lips tingled.
“And last,” he said, “to finish the meal, is this.” From the center of the platter he picked up an object about the size of an orange, but it was a deep purplish red in color.
“What is that?”
“A pomegranate.”
She looked at it with interest. “I’ve never seen one, although I’ve heard of it.”
“It is called the Fruit of Paradise, and throughout history it has been cited in the myths and legends of many different cultures and civilizations, as well as in art and literature.”
“Actually, I first heard mention of one in Romeo and Juliet,” she said. “A lark’s song tells Romeo that morning has come and he must leave his love. But Juliet tells him, ‘Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ’”
“Yes, I recall that passage. She assured him it was the nightingale rather than the lark… because she did not want him to leave. You enjoy Shakespeare?”
Speak. Talk. Say something, anything to dispel this unbearable tension. “Yes. And Romeo and Juliet is my favorite. I’ve always loved losing myself in a book, shutting out everything else and being immersed in a story that transported me to another time and place…” Her voice trailed off as an image of herself at age twelve flashed in her mind. Someone had left a book at the house, and she’d found it. Romeo and Juliet. She’d immediately added it to her precious hoard of reading material. That night, as she had so many other nights, she’d hidden in the cupboard under the stairs and read by candlelight, this time whisked back in time to Verona and the heartbreaking love that would never be. The beautiful words drown out the noises she did not want to hear, allowing her to escape, for a few hours, all that from which she so desperately longed to escape.
“Meredith… are you all right?”
His softly spoken question yanked her back to the present. She blinked to dispel the lingering cobwebs of the past. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“You looked very sad.”
She forced a smile. “Romeo and Juliet is a sad story.” Not wishing to dwell on stories of impossible love, she asked, “How do you eat a pomegranate? Like an apple?”
“No. You cut it open and eat the seeds.” Still holding the fruit, he handed her a small china bowl filled with tiny, red, pearl-like seeds. “The inside is filled with such an abundance of these seeds, the pomegranate has long been a symbol of fertility, bounty, and eternal life. Ancient Egyptians were buried with pomegranates in the hope of rebirth.” Reaching into the bowl, he withdrew one seed. It looked like a miniature red teardrop resting on his fingertip. He brought it to her lips. “There’s a tiny seed within this kernel that is edible. Taste.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted the offering, her lips brushing against his fingertip like a kiss. His eyes darkened, and he dragged his finger over her bottom Up as he moved his hand away. Lips tingling, Meredith gently bit down on the seed. A tiny burst of flavorful juice touched her tongue, and her eyes widened.