Page 4 of Eat Slay Love

Chapter two

The Unholy Hunger in His Eyes

Rae

I stepped inside, and the world shifted.

The first thing I noticed wasn’t the people standing in the dimly lit room but the way the space itself breathed.

The ceiling stretched high above, painted in the deepest black, scattered with tiny glimmering silver lights like an endless midnight sky.

Starlit and infinite.

There was no telling where the black walls ended, as if we had stepped into some celestial void—a place where time unraveled, and the ordinary no longer applied.

This is just. . .amazing.

A soft mist curled along the floor, delicate as silk, swirling around my ankles with each step.

The scent of something exquisite and decadent filled the air—amber, vanilla, and a hint of spicy smoke—like the lingering memory of a passionate night.

I exhaled, letting it settle into my skin.

Alright. This place is going to blow my mind.

There were others in the space too. Around seven couples, each of them beautiful, privileged, and exuding the kind of effortless wealth that didn’t need to be flaunted—it simply existed in the way they moved, the way they carried themselves.

Elegant.

Poised.

Men in tailored suits, women in dazzling gowns, furs draped over shoulders, diamonds sparkling.

Their hushed conversations spilled between soft laughter and murmured flirtations.

An older man with a sharp jawline whispered something to his much younger companion, his Patek Philippe glinting as he brushed his knuckles along the pearls at her throat.

Another woman adjusted her Cartier bracelet, leaning into her date as if he were the most fascinating man in the world.

The air crackled with intimacy and indulgence.

I inhaled slowly, steadying myself, trying not to feel like the outsider in my shimmering pink gown.

Then, I felt it.

That feeling.

The unmistakable weight of being watched.

I turned my head, pulse kicking up, and found him , standing ten feet away.

Tall.

Dark.

Ridiculously handsome.

Like. . .panty-wetting.

A man built for Hollywood camera lenses and self-touching fantasies.

Leading man fine—razor-sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, lips that looked sinful even when at rest.

Yet he stood there, six feet tall and in the flesh, boldly watching me without the slightest hint of shame.

Oh damn.

His eyes—unholy green, the color of emeralds held up to candlelight—burned into me as if they saw something deeper than what I had let the world see.

I bet when he first walked in here, the very space sighed.

His black hair was dark and effortlessly tousled.

His body was slim, but toned like he worked out weekly not for strength, but for control.

And he was dressed in a sleek tuxedo that must have been intended to trigger visual orgasms.

Yet. . .there was something foreign about him too. Something too elegantly refined about him to say that he was American.

His very stance screamed that he was a man who had grown up on luxury.

On art.

On passion.

Is he looking at. . .me?

I slyly turned away, knowing I’d already gawked over him long enough. I did a quick check around me and only saw the black wall.

However, I could still feel his bold gaze on me.

Why is he staring like that? Have you never seen a Black woman before?

A little bit of anxiety seized me.

Relax.

I breathed in and out.

You’re just. . .freaking out because he’s fine as hell and watching YOU.

For God’s sake, he was the type of man I'd want to intimacy coordinate on a set. Someone so devastatingly gorgeous that I wouldn’t hesitate to adjust his modesty patch, to smooth my hands over his cock in a perfectly professional manner—while swallowing the heat curling at the edges of my composure.

Keep it cool. Hey. . .you do look gorgeous as well. If I were a man, I would stare at me too. . .right?

If Laila had been here, she would have made a damn scene.

She wouldn’t have let me stand here overthinking this moment, wouldn’t have let me drown in the quicksand of my own self-doubt while a man that fine was burning holes into my soul with his gaze.

No way.

Laila would have let the entire room know that I was single.

Loudly.

She would have waved him over like she was conducting air traffic control at JFK, grinning from ear to ear, snapping her fingers like a damn Cupid in designer heels.

"Eh, you! Yes, you! She’s single! Come get her number!"

Hell, she might not have even bothered waiting for him. She probably would have just started yelling my number out herself, or even worse, gotten it directly from my phone and handed it over like a gift-wrapped invitation to my thighs.

That thought alone almost made me laugh out loud.

Instead, my clutch buzzed in my hand.

I reached inside, fishing for my phone, knowing it could only be one person.

Laila.

And I was correct.

I read the text.

Laila: I checked your LinkedIn and didn’t see the picture. Give me your username and password so I can hook you up.

I grinned.

You are relentless.

I typed back quickly.

Me: Never mind that. You better have your ass in that gown and ready to go. Don’t have my big bro waiting for his hot date night.

I hit send and tucked the phone back into my clutch, shaking my head.

Laila was the perfect wing woman, even from miles away.

Alright. So. . .I’m sure his date is back or whatever. I’ll just. . .you know. . .glance that way to confirm.

I slipped my gaze along the walls like I was so into their blackness and then. . .slyly. . .I turned to the left and checked him again.

Fuck.

He was STILL staring at me.

Not glancing.

Not casually looking.

But BOLDY staring.

And that stare wasn’t polite.

It wasn’t casual.

It was the kind of gaze that should’ve been illegal in public spaces—hungry, unfiltered, dark with something that sent a flush down my spine.

Alright now, handsome. I kidnap fine men so. . .be careful.

As if he heard me, the line of his jaw twitched.

Mmmm.

I blinked, heart hammering, and turned away sharply, not used to that kind of attention.

That level of enthusiastic intensity from any man.

Maybe. . .he would like me to kidnap him.

I swallowed, exhaling slowly.

Okay. Listen. You’re daydreaming.

There was no way he was alone. No man that looked like that would be by himself on Valentine’s Day. His model lover was probably in the bathroom, powdering her nose, or fixing a gown that had cost more than my entire trip.

Still. . .

I glanced back one more time.

Eh. . .this is crazy.

He was still watching me.

And this time, his mouth curved with a hint of wicked knowing.

Heat curled in my belly—low and slow—unexpected but impossible to ignore.

Well damn. I stand. . .corrected. . .maybe. . .

Before I could fully process everything, a soft, refined voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Ms. Harris?"

I turned to the right and spotted a tall, slim man in a perfectly tailored velvet tuxedo. He was Asian, with delicate features that sharpened at the edges. His jet-black hair was slicked back.

On each of his fingers sat a gleaming red diamond ring.

I gathered myself. "Yes. I’m Ms. Harris."

He smiled. "Ahh. You have arrived. Excellent. My name is Cosmo. And yes"—he chuckled—"my parents actually named me that."

I smirked. "I like the name."

"My grandparents didn’t." He gave an exaggerated shrug. "But what can you do? Anyway, we will begin in a few minutes."

"Awesome."

"Can I take your coat?"

"Oh, yes." I slowly slid it off.

The luxurious fur slipped away, and soon I was handing it to him.

Cosmo widened his eyes. "This is a lovely fur. Russian sable?"

"Yes."

"Breathtaking.” He sighed like he was looking at a lover. “I’ll do my best not to drool over it."

I laughed softly. "A little drool won’t hurt it."

Grinning, he headed away, pressed at the bud in his ear, and murmured something into it.

I scanned the space again, noting how most of the couples were lost in quiet, intimate conversations.

Only a few people had noticed me.

But one pair of eyes hadn’t left me.

I turned again.

He was still watching me like a man who had no plans to eat anything at Alchemy but me.

Alright. I am not imagining anything.

A breath lodged in my throat.

Then, a soft, melodic chime rang through the room.

I put my view in that direction.

Cosmo stood at the front with a crystal bell in his hand. He lifted it in the air and rang it again.

The soft, melodic chime sounded.

Cosmo took us all in. "Good evening, Alchemists."

Excitement flared in my chest.

"We will now begin our experience where magic meets food in the most alluring ways." Cosmo lowered the bell to his side. "There will be some small travel and moments before you are actually seated."

A woman giggled, clearly giddy with the possibilities of tonight, and I felt the same energy rush through me.

Cosmo’s grin widened. "But, before we enter the first course, does anyone have any questions?"

To my surprise, a hand lifted.

I turned and saw it was the man who’d been watching me.

Aww. He wants us to wait on his sexy date to get out of the bathroom. I bet $100 that’s the case.

He parted his lovely, full lips, and before a single word left them, I knew—I just knew—that whatever sound came out of that mouth would do unspeakable things to me.

And then, he spoke.

Dark.

Deep.

A voice made for sin.

No.

It wasn’t just a voice.

It was a caress .

A slow drag of seductive fingertips down my back.

A dirty, lustful murmur in the dark.

The kind of sound that belonged in low-lit hotel rooms.

And my poor, starved pussy?

She fucking JUMPED like a puppy at the door when its owner comes home.

Like she had her own set of ears and had been waiting—ten years—to hear a voice like that again.

At this point, my pussy was basically feral.

A neglected houseplant desperately reaching for sunlight.

A parched desert praying for rain.

A dry-ass biscuit begging for honey and butter.

Alright. Calm down.

I clenched my thighs before she embarrassed me further.

Because this man?

This six-foot-something, foreign, green-eyed temptation?

He sounded like he could make a woman forget her own damn name.

“Cosmo,” he said. “I have one question, before we begin.”

There was this accent to each word, something smooth, deliberate, and just a little indulgent, like the way melted chocolate draped over a spoon before it slipped onto your tongue.

Is he. . .French or at least, French-adjacent?

It wasn’t the thick, cartoonish accent that actors fake in bad romance movies, but the real thing. It was subtle, refined, rolling through his syllables like each one had been carefully selected for seduction.

There was rhythm to it.

Oh, I know this man isn’t actually French, because if he is. . .

Just like that, I saw myself rushing out to get rope and duct tape to actually kidnap him. Of course I would need to send Laila a large sum of money so she could eventually bail me out of jail for the crime I was destined to commit.

I smirked.

Cosmo raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Mr. Lyon [Lee-yon]. What is your question?"

And to my utter shock, Mr. Lyon—the man with the unholy green eyes gestured toward me. "Will we be waiting on her guest?"

What?!

I parted my lips.

Heat crawled up my neck.

Heads turned.

Suddenly, I felt the collective weight of everyone’s attention shift to me.

What the hell?

Cosmo, to my horror, smiled wickedly. "Thank you, Mr. Lyon, for your. . .concern, but like you. . .Ms. Harris is dining solo."

Oh, fuck.

I blinked.

He’s alone too?

I barely had time to react before Mr. Lyon turned those sinful green eyes back on me.

And he wore that look again.

That I want to ruin you look.

Cosmo’s soft chuckle broke the moment. "Perhaps. . .love is in the air."

A few couples snickered.

I widened my eyes, and even more heat flashed across my cheeks.

“Now.” Cosmo clapped his hands together. “Let's begin with the first course.”

I swallowed.

And Mr. Lyon?

Well. . .he did not stop looking at me .