police?”
“No, I didn’t want to drag my family into a New York Post Page Six scandal. My mother was just getting over my father’s death but was still fragile, and I was restructuring the family business. And I didn’t want to scare Ben, who was already traumatized enough. It was the last thing everyone needed. My twin sister, an attorney, the rational one in the family, came up with a plan to pay my wife off. She offered her a multi-million dollar settlement if she would change her name and never have contact with Ben or me again. Her attorney insisted she take the deal over a trial and possible imprisonment. She agreed to it, and I’ve never seen or heard from her again. Thankfully, Ben doesn’t remember her—or anything about the incidents. He’s been told that she died in a car accident.” He sighed and lowered his champagne glass to the table.
I was verging on tears. His story was way more complicated and tragic than I anticipated. My darling Trainman was damaged. So, so damaged. Emotionally and physically. I desperately wanted to hold him in my arms and heal his scars. But I held back.
We both sipped our champagne in silence until our waiter brought us a large bowl of moules and a side of frites. The delicious garlicky smell rushed up my nostrils.
Ari’s face brightened. “Ah, Saarah, fresh mussels from the South of France.
I wondered—did he eat these with her in St. Tropez? I loathed Ari’s ex-wife for what she did to him and even more, for what she did to that poor innocent child. No wonder my Trainman was so afraid of getting involved with another woman. The chances of having a long-term relationship with him were dismal. And I hated his ex even more for that.
Stopping me in my thoughts, Ari demonstrated how to eat a mussel. “It’s easy, Saarah. Watch.” He plucked the meat from the shell, dipped it into the broth, and then bit off the lower plump, fleshy part, and savored it. My eyes followed him as he discarded the tendons in a bowl along with the iridescent black shell.
“Okay, your turn,” he said brightly.
I reached for a mussel and copied his actions. The tender mussel meat rolled around in my mouth. God, it was good. Buttery, garlicky good. It got my mind off the intense conversation we’d just had. I instantly wanted another one.
I glanced at Ari. The expression on his face indicated he was pleased with my reaction. He opened another mussel, but this time held the meat by the grisly tip over my mouth . “Ouvre ta bouche,” he ordered in French. I assumed it meant, “Open your mouth.” My mind instantly flashed back to the blow job I’d just given him, bringing me awareness of the little vibrating egg still inside. It was making me hunger for him.
Parting my lips, I let him circle my lips with the succulent meat until he deposited it on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I savored it and swallowed. I opened my eyes slowly.
Ari’s blue eyes searched mine. His warm breath brushed my neck as he said in that deep, sexy voice, “Do you know, Saarah, mussels are a natural aphrodisiac. The ancient Greeks believed they were the sustenance of the Goddess of Love.”
My God of Love must be right. My hormones were raging out of control. Wetness was pooling between the pantyless triangle between my inner thighs. Heat was coursing through my body, and a fluttering sensation extended from my gut to my crotch. Ari must have known the effect the mussels were having on me. He reached his hand beneath the table and through the entranceway of my thigh-high slit, he slithered his fingers to my hot, moist cleft. He massaged the folds, arousing me further, and then pulled away with a smirk on his lips. The tease!
“Feed me,” he ordered. He tilted back his head and parted his lips. I dangled a mussel over his kissable mouth and slowly lowered it inside.
“Hmmm,” moaned Ari.
We continued this sensual back and forth feeding ritual until all the mussels were devoured along with the cone of
“No, I didn’t want to drag my family into a New York Post Page Six scandal. My mother was just getting over my father’s death but was still fragile, and I was restructuring the family business. And I didn’t want to scare Ben, who was already traumatized enough. It was the last thing everyone needed. My twin sister, an attorney, the rational one in the family, came up with a plan to pay my wife off. She offered her a multi-million dollar settlement if she would change her name and never have contact with Ben or me again. Her attorney insisted she take the deal over a trial and possible imprisonment. She agreed to it, and I’ve never seen or heard from her again. Thankfully, Ben doesn’t remember her—or anything about the incidents. He’s been told that she died in a car accident.” He sighed and lowered his champagne glass to the table.
I was verging on tears. His story was way more complicated and tragic than I anticipated. My darling Trainman was damaged. So, so damaged. Emotionally and physically. I desperately wanted to hold him in my arms and heal his scars. But I held back.
We both sipped our champagne in silence until our waiter brought us a large bowl of moules and a side of frites. The delicious garlicky smell rushed up my nostrils.
Ari’s face brightened. “Ah, Saarah, fresh mussels from the South of France.
I wondered—did he eat these with her in St. Tropez? I loathed Ari’s ex-wife for what she did to him and even more, for what she did to that poor innocent child. No wonder my Trainman was so afraid of getting involved with another woman. The chances of having a long-term relationship with him were dismal. And I hated his ex even more for that.
Stopping me in my thoughts, Ari demonstrated how to eat a mussel. “It’s easy, Saarah. Watch.” He plucked the meat from the shell, dipped it into the broth, and then bit off the lower plump, fleshy part, and savored it. My eyes followed him as he discarded the tendons in a bowl along with the iridescent black shell.
“Okay, your turn,” he said brightly.
I reached for a mussel and copied his actions. The tender mussel meat rolled around in my mouth. God, it was good. Buttery, garlicky good. It got my mind off the intense conversation we’d just had. I instantly wanted another one.
I glanced at Ari. The expression on his face indicated he was pleased with my reaction. He opened another mussel, but this time held the meat by the grisly tip over my mouth . “Ouvre ta bouche,” he ordered in French. I assumed it meant, “Open your mouth.” My mind instantly flashed back to the blow job I’d just given him, bringing me awareness of the little vibrating egg still inside. It was making me hunger for him.
Parting my lips, I let him circle my lips with the succulent meat until he deposited it on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I savored it and swallowed. I opened my eyes slowly.
Ari’s blue eyes searched mine. His warm breath brushed my neck as he said in that deep, sexy voice, “Do you know, Saarah, mussels are a natural aphrodisiac. The ancient Greeks believed they were the sustenance of the Goddess of Love.”
My God of Love must be right. My hormones were raging out of control. Wetness was pooling between the pantyless triangle between my inner thighs. Heat was coursing through my body, and a fluttering sensation extended from my gut to my crotch. Ari must have known the effect the mussels were having on me. He reached his hand beneath the table and through the entranceway of my thigh-high slit, he slithered his fingers to my hot, moist cleft. He massaged the folds, arousing me further, and then pulled away with a smirk on his lips. The tease!
“Feed me,” he ordered. He tilted back his head and parted his lips. I dangled a mussel over his kissable mouth and slowly lowered it inside.
“Hmmm,” moaned Ari.
We continued this sensual back and forth feeding ritual until all the mussels were devoured along with the cone of
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