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“And then?” I whisper, my eyes never leaving his.
“Your scallops, ma’am,” a server says, and I nearly jump out of my seat as he places the dish in front of me.
Shit. Right. Scallops. The second course. I pick at the prosciutto on the side of the scallops, avoiding the shellfish altogether.
“You don’t like scallops?” Asher asks, his voice deep and low.
“My dad’s allergic, and I saw his reaction once, so I’ve never tried them. I avoid eating mostly anything that swims.” I scrunch up my nose.
“Really? Even shrimp? Fuck, I love shrimp.” He licks his lip, and whoa, the dart of his tongue out to wet his bottom lip does something to me.
Something I’m not sure I’ve felt before. Somethinginsane. Paired with the way he utters the wordfuck, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt the pulse of need that throbs down low.
All I can think of is that tongue as it moves along my skin, his scruff leaving a delicious burn in its wake.
Well, that and the wordfuckcoming from his mouth while he performs the act of said word on me.
I suck in a deep breath, and I shake my head to answer his question.
He doesn’t ask, instead reaching over with his fork and stabbing my scallop. “Speaking of weird allergies, my brother’s allergic to mustard.” He shoves his fork in his mouth and savors the taste of my scallop.
I wish that was a euphemism for something, but sadly, it is what it is.
“Mustard?” I repeat.
“It’s not real common I guess.” He shrugs.
“What happens when he eats some?”
“It starts with an itch, but if it’s really severe, his mouth swells up and it can get pretty nasty. What was your dad’s reaction to scallops?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose. How did we go from that sexual “and then”insinuation a moment ago to talking about how my dad reacts when he eats shellfish?
And what’s worse, I’m not about to admit he had diarrhea for days the last time he ate a scallop.
I clear my throat. “Stomach pain.”
Our plates are cleared, and for the third course, we’re served cream of wild mushroom soup.
It’s Asher’s turn to make a face. “Cream of mushroom? No thanks.” He pushes his bowl away as if the mere smell is upsetting to him.
“The cream or the mushrooms?” I ask as I dip my spoon into my bowl. I blow on the hot soup before I stick my tongue out to check the temperature, and then I take the spoon into my mouth.
His eyes are on my mouth through the entire process. I’m literally eating a bowl of soup, and he’s looking at me like he wisheshewere my spoon.
And the longer I sit beside him, the more I want to make that particular dream a reality.
Chapter 6: Asher Nash
The Meal, the Dance, More Drinks, and Then…
Jesus Christ, this woman is something else.
Her eyes are this bright shade of green I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before, and the dress she’s wearing is…fuck. It’s tickling all the parts of my imagination that want to explore every piece of what’s under it, and the way she’s looking at me makes me think she’s into it, too.
I can tell. I have a sixth sense for these things, I guess, but the way her eyes keep flicking to my lips when we’re talking makes me think she wants me to kiss her.
And I can’t seem to stop watching her mouth as she does the simplest task, like taking a bite of her soup. She has a sexy way of shoving a spoon into her mouth that very nearly makes me want to try mushrooms, which happen to be my number one most hated food.
