“And I’ve got some more Amarone to go with it. Be right back.”
As David retreated, Farzan couldn’t help staring: Farzan had seen plenty of suits before, but never one that did as much for a guy’s ass as David’s seemed to. Or maybe he was just built differently.
Farzan shook his head and turned back to the short ribs. The meat fell apart as soon as his fork grazed it. The beef was savory and deep, but the wine had imparted a bit of fruit to it, too. Farzan closed his eyes as he tasted. It was so good. Everything was so good, he did what he’d been trying to refrain from all night:
He moaned aloud.
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” David’s voice came from above, darker and closer somehow, and Farzan’s eyes snapped open.
David was at his side, holding a glass of inky purple wine. He slid it onto the table, grazing Farzan’s hand; Farzan gripped his fork tighter.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Farzan admitted.
“No shame in enjoying a good meal. How’s the wine?”
Farzan took a taste: silky mouthfeel, concentrated raisin, leather, and vanilla.
“Wow.”
“Good.” David glanced at the plate, then back at Farzan. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
And then he withdrew, treating Farzan to another view of his backside, and fuck. Fuck!
Farzan’s heart gave an annoying hammer against his rib cage. David was cute, and funny, and that wink had definitely been flirty, right? Farzan checked his phone again. Still nothing. He could imagine his friends’ response though: Ramin suggesting restraint, Arya telling him to see if he could blow David in the back of the restaurant.
Neither felt right. He didn’t want to hook up, and he didn’t want to make David uncomfortable, but hewashandsome, and if hewasflirting then Farzan just needed to know how to respond. Should he leave his number on the check? Go the direct route?
What if he was just imagining it all in a haze of wine and food?
He ran a hand through his hair. What the fuck should he do?
As the night waned, the crowd thinned a bit. Aspire wasn’t emptying, but it seemed the worst of the dinner rush was over. And still, David kept swinging by to check on him, always with a smile, or a quirked eyebrow, or a little wink. Always leaving behind a whiff of vetiver.
One time, Farzan glanced over at the bar, where David stood in profile, talking to one of the bartenders. With one hand, he poured a glass of white wine; with the other, he reached down and adjusted himself where the front of his suit pants seemed fuller than usual.
Fuck.Was that because of me?
Nerves rippled through Farzan’s stomach, settling between his legs. Farzan was feeling warm all over, and not just from the wine.
David glanced his way, caught him looking, licked his lips. Was it unconscious or on purpose?
Farzan felt a twinge in his pants. He wished he could be sure.
Finally, dessert came: a tiny Bundt cake, with some sort of white glazeover top that set Farzan’s mind racing.Everything reminds me of him, he joked to himself, then snorted.
“Problem?” David asked.
Shit shit shit. Flirting or not, jokes about cream pies were definitely off the table. Farzan could feel his cheeks getting redder as David looked down at him. That damned eyebrow cocked again.
Farzan blurted, “There’s a hole in this cake.”
The moment stretched so taut, Farzan feared it would snap. Sweet mother of crap.
Joking about holes was hardly any better, flirting or not.
Farzan became intensely aware of his sweaty armpits. Oh god, was it a flop sweat from bombing his joke, or meat sweats from the short ribs?
And David was still looking at him, eyes twinkling. Wait. How long had they been staring at each other?
