Page 18 of The Devil’s Feather

Rafael waited for me in the garage again; dressed in his usual black.

As he opened the door, I said, “That little whisper at the end of our last date was fucking diabolical, sir.”

He stepped back and scrubbed a hand back over his hair. Was that his tell for embarrassment?

I let him pull me to my feet. Goddammit, was he a player after all? “Part of your usual approach, Mr. Devilish Charm?”

“My usual approach to seduction is to lurk in dark corners, hiss, and hope for the best. Did I make you uncomfortable?” For a moment, he seemed genuinely worried.

I leaned against him in the elevator. “Yes, but not in a bad way.”

Startled, he looked down at me. How was the man who’d commanded me to touch myself suddenly so self-conscious?

“Relax. I won’t bite you for being sexy.” Not unless you ask nicely. I patted his arm, proud of myself for turning his own words back on him, and waltzed into his apartment.

A mouthwatering aroma hit me: roasting meat and a blend of sweet, spiced, and savory.

“I hope you like Moroccan food. Lamb tagine, specifically. I subbed out the tomato paste to make it safe for you. No dairy.”

“You made this? Doesn’t it take a long time?”

“I started it after you left yesterday,” he admitted. “It has been marinating overnight.”

He served us in a small breakfast nook off to the side of the kitchen. We sat in tall café chairs at a high, octagonal table of dark wood, inlaid with starbursts of mother-of-pearl. The plates were handmade ceramic in earthen colors. Each one had a slightly different hue and a small, spiral appliqué. They complimented the colorful food.

The lamb was exquisite; honey and apricot coated my tongue, blending with the savory spices for a near-orgasmic experience. I forced myself to slow down.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I dabbed at my mouth with a cloth napkin.

His eyes dropped to his plate, and he pushed a carrot around with his fork. He’d already inhaled an impossible amount of food.

“I grew up the kind of poor most Americans can barely comprehend. When I finally had money to spend on quality ingredients and utensils, I developed a cooking fixation. I rarely do it these days since I do not like leftovers. Too many times eating spoiled remnants as a kid.” He smiled at me, softening his words. “Thank you for the opportunity to do it again.”

“You are amazing.” I shoveled another forkful of lamb and dried fruit into my mouth.

Rafael poured me another glass of Tempranillo and refilled his own. “To answer your question, I am terrible at embroidery. No patience for it.”

“Embroidery?” I squinted at him, trying to determine if he was messing with me.

“I wanted to decorate my clothes, try something different, but it did not go far. Everything I wear is bespoke as it is.” He watched my face. “Also, I am terrible at drag.”

I almost dropped my fork. “Now I know you’re fucking with me.”

Rafael clasped a hand over his heart. “I swear to you. I tried, but I am too damn tall to walk in heels. And too ugly for makeup.”

“Please tell me you have pictures.”

“Hell no. No evidence,” he laughed.

We finished the meal and retired to the den. I needled him for more details about drag, but he dodged them all.

Rafael leaned back in his leather chair. “Turns out I am also ill-suited to West Hollywood party culture. Any party culture, really. Especially if it involves hookups. Ends badly for everyone.”

“Wow, I really cannot imagine you in WeHo.” Did he wear a harness and a jock strap like so many of the party gays? God, I would like to see that.

Rafael’s nose wrinkled. “Keep it that way. It was a terrible idea, but I was young and trying to find myself.” His fingers played silent piano chords on the armrest. “Does it matter to you if I am a top, bottom, verse, or side?”

“No? Should it?”