“I don’t see crackers or ketchup on this menu,” I say. “Unless yuzu kosho is French for tomato.”
“I think that’s Japanese,” Logan says helpfully.
I lower the menu. “Logan, what are we doing here?”
He combs his fingers through his hair, suddenly looking young. “I went too far, didn’t I?”
I bark out a laugh. “There are no menu prices! I thought that was a myth for us poors to amuse ourselves thinking about—like rich people all having secret underground lairs like Batman. “
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Can I be honest?”
I flutter my fingers at him in ago-aheadmotion. “Please.”
“I just wanted you to feel… I want you to understand how I…” His voice falters.
My face softens. “I do. But this…this isn’t what we agreed to.”
“I know.” He hesitates. “What you said at Isolation Canyon…you were right. I can’t…my feelings are involved.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks.
The responsible thing would be to break it off now, but the thought hurts so badly—like the chef just cut out my heart and then julienned and brûléed it.
“Can we have one night?” he asks quietly. “We can go backto no-strings-attached fuck buddies tomorrow. Just give me one night to pretend…to show you how much I cherish you.”
Oh, dear. My heart gives one painful thump.
“Canyou go back, though?” I ask him, but I know the question is really directed at myself.
“If you want to go back to that, we will.” His voice lowers. “I’m so starved for you, you know I’ll take whatever scraps you offer.”
Yeah. That sounds like a “no.”
It also sounds like this would be a bad idea, for his heart and for mine.
However, the thought of bruising this beautiful man’s heart when he’s offering it to me so vulnerably kills me. Before, when I ran away, I hurt him so badly without realizing it. I can’t do it with eyes wide open. And I don’t want to.
I am also not known for my excellent decision-making.
“Okay. One night,” I whisper.
And so we “pretend.”
Logan holds my hand throughout dinner, caressing my palm and fingers with his thumb. We kiss between sips of wine. His eyes go dark when I tell him to open his mouth so he can try a bite of my dinner. I watch his mouth close around the fork and how his throat moves as he swallows, and my breath catches. I never realized how intimate feeding a lover could be. I offer him another bite and let myself take in every delicious movement. My blood thickens into molasses.
He whispers sweet nothings, and sweet everythings: how beautiful I look, how complete and at peace he feels when he’s around me. How his dinner tastes not nearly as good as I do, how he wishes he could spread me out over this table and feast on me instead. His eyes grow hooded as he watches melick cream off my spoon during dessert.
We go home and make love, reaching for each other over and over again until we are past the point of satiety.
And when he begs me not to leave—that his one night isn’t over until dawn—I don’t fight it.
I stay.
***
The next morning, Logan props his head up on my thigh, using it like a pillow as he resumes his leisurely licking.
“You’re insatiable,” I murmur.
