Page 65 of The Client
“No, it’s fine,” she says, forcing a smile. “And yes, to your question. I was on the phone with her that day. Eva loves getting updates about my ‘glamorous’ life here in America.” Her voice is bitter. “I told her I will bring her here as soon as I can, but I didn’t know it would be like this.”
Hell. It is completely unfair that her job modeling at shitty bridal boutiques left her feeling like escorting was the only option. I’m fiercely thankful that my ego managed to convince Konstantin to give her the jobs she needs. The ones she deserves. And fuck him for putting her in that position in the first place. I hadn’t realized what a rigged game he had going. But I don’t want to lose my temper and ruin the evening. I want to hear about Izabela’s sister, and her life back home on the farm.
“And when you bring her cake, do you say what you said when I walked in?” I ask, gently steering the conversation away from the topic that’s making her sad and me furious. “Happy birthday in Polish?”
“Oh!Sto lat, yes,” she says, her cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t even think, it just popped out. It’s sort of a catch-all we use for good wishes. It means ‘one hundred years.’”
“Sto lat. Like when we say ‘Many happy returns,’” I suggest.
She brightens, gives me a teasing smile. “Yes. We wouldn’t want to limit your happiness to only one year.”
I think I might have done that all by myself when I signed a six-month contract with Konstantin Zoric.
“So should we eat it now?” I ask. “Or wait until after dinner?”
“It’s your cake. You can do as you please.”
I get a knife from the drawer and grab us two plates. Izabela watches me cut two slices and plate them. Handing her a fork, I hold her gaze for a moment before sliding her cake over.
“Thanks again for this.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “I’m glad to bring a bit of my home here.”
Shrugging like it’s no big deal, I take a bite of cake. And then another. And one more, just to be sure that I’m tasting what I think I am. The pastry is shatteringly crisp on the outside, giving way to a thick layer of pastry cream, delicate and rich at the same time. It’s like eating a crunchy cloud.
“Mmm,” I half moan.
“Good?” she asks around a mouthful, looking pleased.
“Amazing. Best thing I’ve tasted in a long time.”
“I should have lit the candles for you.”
She takes a candle from the top of the cake and sets it into the small bit of cake I still have left on my plate.
“Drawer to the left of the stove,” I tell her, and she fetches the barbecue lighter to light the candle for me.
I blow it out, breathing in the distinct scent of hot melted wax, burned wick, the puff of smoke. It brings me back to my childhood, when I actually used to look forward to having a birthday cake each year. I remember being young and very eager to lick the frosting off the bottom of each candle.
“Did you make a wish?” Izabela asks softly.
I didn’t, but she looks so eager that I can’t tell her that. “Of course.”
She smiles. “What did you wish for?”
“If I tell you, it won’t come true. Or maybe that’s just an American superstition.”
“I never understood that,” she says, shaking her head. “You have to give a voice to what you want most before it will come true.”
“Maybe.”
I pluck the candle from my cake and hold it out, my gaze hot on hers. Right now, I know exactly what I want most.
“Go ahead,” I say. It’s not a request, but a command.
She leans forward, not breaking eye contact, and opens her mouth. I slide the candle between her lips and watch as she sucks the cream filling off the end. My cock is instantly hard.
Dropping the candle, I grab her chin and slip my thumb into her mouth, stroking her tongue in little circles. With a low moan, she closes her lips and darts her tongue around my thumb, then starts to suck on it. Soft first, then harder. My eyelids flutter.
