Guilty Pleasures (21 page)

Across the city, Millie poured herself a glass of wine and drew her diary nearer.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Help! I can’t stop thinking about Will. Best think about work, and get my mind off him.

Tomorrow is Chocoholics Anonymous. Honour Greerton is having handmade truffles delivered from every corner of the world. Serge is doing his spicy and triple-deadly specialties—dark bitter velvety chocolates that taste like kisses.

I wish I remembered that kiss Will said I stole from him.

Okay, I’m thinking about him again.

But how can I stop? For God’s sake, I even dream about him. Last night I dreamed I awoke—how’s that for weird—with his arms around me, his body curved around mine, his cock inside me, his bent legs curled into the back of my knees. We were so perfect together. It felt so right.

His soft, even breath stirred my hair and his hand cupped around my belly—not moving, just being together, being one.

I felt so safe, so warm, so whole. I woke feeling very calm.

I have no idea of what tomorrow might bring, but I feel somehow it will bring me peace.

Chapter 15

Tell her you love her.

Yes, she’s supposed to know it—even when you act like a jerk—but tell her anyway. Then, you tell her again and again. You tell her ten times a day if that’s what she needs. Tell her she’s beautiful, tell her you love her body, then tell her again.

Tell her when you’re making love to her; tell her when you’re not.

Whisper it when you’re inside her, and when you’re at her mother’s and the old bitch is driving you mad.

Pull her into the bathroom just because you need to touch her in the middle of a party. Make her come at the movies. Make her feel irresistible. Make her feel desired.

Surprise her. Show up with flowers.

Yes it’s corny. Yes, they love it, and yes, you’ll
surely
get laid.

Give her balloon bunnies, or a pretty shell from a beach you walked along together.

Diamonds also work, but we’re trying to keep this to a budget.

Dress up like Elvis—unless you look like Elvis in his last years, then
don’t
—and sing her a serenade. Make a fool of yourself.

Women believe true love means being willing to give her ammunition to humiliate you for the rest of your natural life. They are quite right.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Tuesday morning found Lance at Guilty Pleasures by three fifty.
 

Millie was there. She walked over and got into the van. Her hair sparkled with minute droplets of mist. Her face was solemn; her smile tranquil.
 

“Good morning, Millie.”

“Hello! So, how was your weekend?”

“Lovely. Quiet and introspective. I think I needed that.”

“A little quiet time to listen to yourself is always rare, don’t you find?”

“I needed a little quiet, to be honest.”

“
I
lie. When I need to lie to myself, I eat. A lot. I ate a lot this weekend. Oodles.”

Lance quietly pondered the offered opening. “What lies were you considering swallowing along with the food?”

“That I . . . I’m indifferent to you. That I’m not avoiding being attracted to you out of cowardice.”

“Wow. How upfront can
I
be here?”

“Very, please.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“I give too much of myself, and I get hurt. I withhold myself so I can have an escape route . . .” Millie hesitated and fell silent, carefully studying her entwined fingers.

“That’s a contradiction. You can’t give
and
withhold at the same time,” Lance said.
 

“I give myself emotionally, but I don’t allow anyone to please me, physically.”

“So you hold the power,” Lance said.

“Yes. That sounds terrible, but it’s true. I gave up a long time ago, Will. I have my work to please me—immensely. I feel content, at peace. But, Will, you disturb me.”

“You don’t seem disturbed. You seem very calm. You seem very centered right now, even though we’re having a frighteningly honest conversation. I can’t remember a more frank exchange.”

“I know.
That
disturbs me—the fact I’m not disturbed. I think I sort of trust you. Against all reason, I feel very safe with you, Will. That scares me. You know how irrational that is? I don’t know you at all.”

“Trust . . . well, you can’t earn it, you give it on faith. Time either proves you wrong or right. Sometimes it takes a lifetime, but maybe we can build on that hunch, Millie.” Lance took a deep breath.
 

Millie nodded.
 

“Okay, my turn. I’m not attracted, Millie, I’m falling for you. Falling hard. I didn’t expect that. I wasn’t planning on that, either. I’m frightened, too. I’m out of control here. Out of control is not something I’m comfortable with. So let’s make a plan. You take the reins, you hold the power, you walk away at any point and I . . . I’ll accept it. Millie, I’ll trust you, and that is a hard thing for me, too.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “I don’t know you, either. How about it? We’ll take it at a snail’s pace. Until . . . until we both feel safe and comfortable enough to take things to the next level, okay?”

Millie giggled. “A snail’s pace! That won’t do! Serge is making escargot with chocolate and ginger sauce for an entrée tonight.”

“Millie, no jokes. I need this to be real. No running away; no avoiding decisions. I’m . . . I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Millie sighed. “Okay, Will. Let’s just . . . play it by ear.”

“God, Millie. You don’t play the cello, do you?”

She burst out laughing. “Hell no . . . not even the flute. What
is it
about cello players, anyway? It’s not even a gender thing.”

“Speaking of cello players, you never told us, what
was
Anton’s tattoo?”

“Well, on one buttock a rampant, scruffy little Mongol pony was rogering another, and on the other, a Mongol warrior was brandishing his
sword
threateningly. Although, it was hard to make out the details. I think the cello player played the flute, too.”

They were laughing, relaxed, and somehow the prickly subject of the dawning understanding between them was smoothed and overcome.

Lance reached down between them and lifted her small, capable hand to his lips. He turned it over and pressed his mouth to the delicate pattern of veins on her wrist. He inhaled her scent, feeling the warmth of her skin, and her pulse against his lips.
 

She sighed.

“Will you stop kissing the boss so we can get to work? We have the Chocoholics Anonymous for dinner and we need quail, escargot, filet mignon, lots of nuts, and a whole list of fruit for the chocolate waterfall. I need gold orchids from Maria, and we have to be back at Guilty Pleasures by eight thirty, ’cause that’s when the special chocolates start to arrive!”

“Right, Boss. The Pony Express is on its way.” Lance pulled away grinning, an enormous bubble of joy threatening to explode his ribcage. Glancing sideways, he caught a peaceful smile suffusing her face as she stared back. “There is one promise I want to extract from you. Will you make me breakfast sometimes?”

“Count on it. You are now officially my guinea pig. I’ve got these really great East Indian recipes I’m dying to try.”

At eight in the morning, they arrived at Guilty Pleasures, sorted out the shopping, and Lance watched entranced as Millie deftly flipped impossibly thin crêpes and stuffed them with bitter orange jelly and clotted cream. As a final touch, she scraped generous curls of velvety dark chocolate over the golden triangles and dished up.
 

“God, Millie, I’m getting goose bumps.” Lance groaned.

Millie poured out a cup of dark coffee, aromatic with cinnamon and cloves. “Try it now.”

“Heaven.” Lance gasped with his mouth full. “More, please.”

“No. Three is more than enough, Will,” she said. “You should never overdo it. Always leave a little craving for more, that way the pleasure never palls.”

“Can I have a kiss, then?” Lance watched as a soft flush tinged her cheeks.

“Just one.” She stood and waited.

“Oh no, you kiss
me
.” He grinned teasingly.

She gasped and blushed brighter. She moved towards him hesitantly.
 

Lance lifted his opened hands to where she could see them, then carefully sat on them. “Look, Ma, no hands.”
 

Millie placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. She brushed her lips on his, testing their firmness. She moved closer, tasting him. She lightly ran her tongue over the contour of his mouth, delicately probed for an opening. She sighed as she felt him yield it. Her tongue shyly tangled with his, redolent with the chocolate and orange.
 

He felt her shudder and withdrew.
 

Millie pulled back, short of breath and bright-eyed. “Did you like that?”

Lance grinned and glanced down significantly at his crotch. “What do you think?”

A vivid wash of deeper colour rose from her neck, suffusing her face.
 

“Did
you
?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, I, yes . . .”
 

The doorbell rang and she ran off to answer it, returning shortly leading several burly men carrying towers of small white boxes marked FRAGILE.

“Will, go on home now; take a rest. I’ll see you at four.”
 

Lance wisely nodded his good-bye and left. He was exhilarated, buoyed up by her kiss. As he walked down the last two steps, he did a skip and a jump, and broke into a soft shoe shuffle.

That afternoon, Lance watched, entranced, as Serge delicately stuffed the tiny quail with the chocolate and pine nuts, closed the body opening with a curved needle and thread, and gently browned them. He added a few cloves of garlic and port wine to barely cover, and left the quail to gently simmer to tenderness.
 

“Serge, that looks like a religious ritual.”

“It’s chocolate, Will. Of course it is.”