Page 41 of Bourbon Truths
Chuckling, I gave her a slow clap while she bowed and waved her hand in appreciation.
“The best boudin is the kind in the sausage casing that you suck out, and after you’ve got it all, it looks like a used condom, all shriveled up and gross.”
“Yes, I love it when my food ends up looking like a used condom. Rather appetizing,” I replied as she stuck the remaining boudin with a fork.
“Who doesn’t?” she smirked.
Our main entrees showed up shortly after that, and we talked about trivial things while we sucked on the heads of our crawfish and enjoyed the traditional rice and beans. It was obvious Lyla used her meal to entice me by the way she sucked on the crawfish and moaned about their Cajun flavors. To say I didn’t let it affect me was a lie. With each lick of her fingers and devilish look in her eyes, I grew harder by the second. Her pink lips glistened, and her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, reminding me what her lips were capable of.
I’d never been this turned on during a meal.
“You’re quiet,” she said, licking her fingers once again.
Clearing my throat and adjusting in my seat, I said, “Never saw someone turn eating crawfish into a sexual experience.”
“Oh good, you noticed.” She grinned. “I was afraid you weren’t paying attention.”
“Is that why you dropped sauce on your breasts?” I asked, remembering the way she’d made it seem like an accident, but knowing damn well it wasn’t.
“Of course. Did it work?”
I wiped my hands on my napkin and then leaned back in my chair. “What do you think?”
“I think if I ran my hands up your jeans, I would be very happy with what I found.”
She pushed her chest toward me, displaying her breasts next to her plate and gripping my thigh under the table. The feel of her hand was like an electric shock, kick-starting my body. It felt fucking good.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I warned.
“I always finish.” She winked, pulling away.
After I paid and finished my water, I stood up and waited for Lyla to stand as well, but she just sat in her chair and looked up at me.
“What’s going on?” I asked, wondering why she didn’t move. “Did you want dessert or something?”
“So romantic,” she teased and held out her hand.
“What?” I asked, looking down at it.
“Part of going on a date is holding hands, Kace. Go on, take my hand. It won’t hurt.”
Little did she know the hand-holding we’d done earlier had done a number on my soul. Walking around the French Quarter with her hand in mine was most definitely going to hurt because I knew damn well I was going to want more of it after tonight.
“Go on,” she encouraged.
Taking a deep breath, I grasped her hand, giving in to her little demand. Her hand fit perfectly in mine and once again, our fingers intertwined. Our palms connected and the warmth of her hand ran up my arm and straight to my heart, slowly melting a little part of the black soul I’d developed.
“Where to now?” I asked, leading her out the door and onto the cobblestone streets of the Quarter. “Do I take you home?”
“What kind of date would that be?” she asked, insulted that I’d even suggested the idea. “Let’s go shopping.”
I groaned. “Shopping?”
“Haven’t you ever gone into the touristy shops around here? They have the best items.”
“I try to avoid any place crawling with tourists,” I replied as she pressed her side against mine. I felt comforted. It was an odd sensation.
“It’ll be fun. Come on.”
