Page 8 of Eat Slay Love

Chapter six

Fingers, Lips, and Everything In Between

Rae

As the minutes passed, we indulged in a sensuous dance of feeding. Our exchange of bites and sips felt more like a seduction than a mere meal.

Every time I reached for a bite to place near his full lips, the act shifted to a divine ritual, like offering something precious to an intoxicating man who knew exactly how to savor.

His lips—plush, sensual, the kind of mouth that was made for slow kisses and filthy promises—would part just enough, accepting the food with a kind of quiet indulgence.

And then, just as I would compose myself from him being so sexy, he would tilt his head and passionately swipe along my fingertips with his tongue in the most tantalizing ways, sending heat straight to my core.

Mmmm. He’s doing that on purpose.

That much was clear.

And every time it happened, my breath hitched just a little more.

And my pussy kept on jumping, trying to get his attention.

She was already so wet.

So ready for him.

And trust me, I desperately wanted to act unaffected.

To keep the game light, to pretend that this was just playful teasing.

But every decadent slide of his tongue against my fingers, every flicker of his endearing gaze locking onto my mouth afterward, chipped away at my composure.

I was unraveling, and he fucking knew it.

Because Fabien—this too-damn-smooth Frenchman with a voice like silk and tongue that could probably ruin me—wasn’t just eating.

No.

He was devouring me in ways that had nothing to do with food.

Oh fuck.

The way he held my gaze, the way he exhaled just slightly after each taste, the way his fingers lingered against my mouth for a second too long—it was all a promise.

A sensual preview.

A slow, torturous build toward something inevitable.

And God, I wanted it.

Wanted him.

Desperately.

Because sure, the dish was good—perfectly balanced, rich with flavor, worthy of its Stellar-starred kitchen.

But Fabien?

He was everything.

Every smooth glance.

Every hushed chuckle.

Every deep murmur of "Mmm, delicious" that he sent my way in that velvety accent had me clenching my thighs and barely holding myself together.

And the worst part?

I knew.

I fucking knew!

A man who could eat like this, with such unhurried indulgence, with such aching attention to every bite, was a man who could absolutely eat pussy like it was a religion.

Mmmm.

And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to be the next thing he tasted.

My bestie’s voice screamed in my head, “I double dare your ass to take him to bed tonight!”

I blushed, and hoped that he didn’t catch it.

As the last morsel of the previous dish vanished from our plates, the staff glided in with seamless precision, whisking the dishes away.

Next, our waitress returned with the kind of effortless grace that suggested she had mastered the art of fine dining service.

In her hands, she cradled an elegant bottle of wine and presented the label—Chateau Margaux 2000—a vintage so rare and revered that even I, a casual wine drinker, recognized its prestige.

"This," she said with a knowing smile, "is one of the finest Bordeaux wines in existence. A Premier Grand Cru Classé, aged to perfection, with layers of blackcurrant, truffle, and the faintest whisper of violets.”

I could already taste the fine liquid on my tongue.

She continued, “It has a velvety texture, a finish that lingers like a lover’s touch, and was once served at royal banquets."

With that, she poured a measured stream into Fabien’s glass first, then mine.

The deep ruby liquid caught the light. “Take your time with it. Each sip should be an experience.”

“Amazing.” Fabien leaned back in his chair, watching me with that same slow-burning intensity that had been unraveling me since we met. His gaze, heavy with interest, traced the line of my lips before lifting to meet my eyes.

I picked up my glass, tilting it slightly to let the deep ruby liquid swirl and watching as it clung to the sides. "Do you live in New York?"

"God no." He shook his head, looking genuinely horrified. "If I did, I would need to be on suicide watch."

I let out a surprised laugh. "I swear, if you keep dissing America like this, I’m putting in a complaint with the French embassy."

"Ah, but then you would have to deal with French bureaucracy, and that is an entirely different kind of torture."

"Fair point.” I smirked. “So where do you live?"

"Paris," Fabien picked up his glass, lifted it to his nose, and deeply inhaled.

Then, he took a quick sip and nodded in enjoyment.

"My condo is in the 7th arrondissement, home to the Eiffel Tower.

In fact, my terrace has a perfect view. And.

. .my neighbors are famous artists, top diplomats, and old-money aristocrats. "

I snapped my fingers. "Talk that shit."

He laughed, deep and rich. "Well. . .that is my humble way of trying to entice you to visit me."

"There was nothing humble about that."

"As I said before, the French can be out of practice with being humble." His smirk was devastating.

My heart was drumming in my chest, this pull between us growing tighter.

I took a slow sip of my wine, and it coated my tongue like silk, impossibly smooth, rich with an almost sinful depth. Heat curled low in my belly as the flavors expanded

Fabien sipped his wine too. His throat moved as he swallowed, and I had no business finding that as erotic as I did.

Once he set the glass down, he quirked his brows. "So no boyfriend or lover for me to compete with?"

"No. I'm completely single. What about you? Are you dating?"

Fabien exhaled. "Until now. . .I had not been able to find someone to even spark my interest."

I scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"You're in the city of love. Surely, there are elegant women all over the place."

He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough that his presence seemed to wrap around me. "Elegant women are plentiful in any city across the world. In fact, I've yet to ever see a woman that isn't stunning in some way. Every woman on this Earth is beautiful.”

He raised one finger. “But a woman that makes me freeze. One who just. . .causes my heart to pulse fast. Makes my head spin and my mind want to know more and more about. . .well. . .”

He exhaled again. "That happened tonight , and it’s been a good ten years since that has occurred."

Those words hit deep within me. "And. . .ten years ago?"

His expression shifted, the teasing light in his eyes dimmed slightly. "That was when I met my ex-wife. Obviously, we're now divorced. The marriage lasted for four years.”

He paused, glancing up at me, searching my face for something—maybe judgment, maybe curiosity.

I stayed silent, giving him space.

His jaw flexed before he let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I was wrong back then,” he admitted, tapping his fingers lightly against the base of his glass. “I thought love was supposed to be about perfection, yet effortless too. Like it wouldn’t take so much work.”

He shook his head. “But love isn’t effortless. People aren’t effortless. And I. . .I didn’t know how to be patient. How to listen . How to meet someone where they were instead of where I wanted them to be.”

His voice dipped, and when his eyes lifted to mine again, they were softer than before, open in a way that made my chest tighten.

“But she was wrong too,” he said, almost hesitant, like it pained him to admit it.

“She also demanded a version of me that didn’t exist. A man who never second-guessed, never faltered, never needed time to figure himself out.

And I let her believe that was who I was, thinking maybe I could become that man if I tried hard enough.

But in the end, we were just. . .two people loving ghosts of each other instead of who we really were. ”

He picked his glass up, took a long sip, and then set it back down with a quiet thud. “That’s why I don’t rush things now because love—real love—deserves honesty and time. And I won’t make the mistake of giving someone a mirage of me ever again. They must know me and all my imperfections.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I finally let it out, something deep and aching twisting in my stomach.

Because damn.

That was a confession.

A real one.

No bravado.

No arrogance.

Just a man admitting that he had been wrong, that he had learned, and that he refused to repeat those mistakes again.

“The other lesson I took away from my past marriage. . .”

I hung on the edge of my seat.

“I lost a woman from not being a good enough man.”

I blinked.

“I vowed to never do that again in my second marriage. It’s now been six years of my being single.”

“Oh.”

“My friends say I closed myself off, but I don’t like to rush the possibility of love. I always believe that the right woman will show up when I'm the right man to love her."

I stared at him, stunned into silence. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them.

The quiet conviction.

The raw honesty.

The surprising vulnerability.

I knew Fabien was cultured, refined in a way that made charm second nature. A man like him—wealthy, effortlessly smooth, steeped in the kind of confidence that only came from privilege and experience—could probably seduce any woman with a well-placed compliment and a well-aged bottle of wine.

And yet, what struck me wasn’t just the elegance of his words, the practiced cadence of a man who knew how to keep a conversation dripping with intrigue.

No.

It was the fact that he wasn’t hiding behind those things.

He wasn’t just leaning on charm or mystery to keep me interested—he was giving me something far more valuable.

Honesty.

He’d cracked himself open, just slightly, letting me peek into the corners of his past, his wounds, his healing.

A typical playboy would never.

A man just looking to fuck would never either.

This?

This was different.

Because for all his flirtation, for all his seductive teasing, he had just done something far rarer—he had made himself vulnerable .

And that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t a passing amusement to him.

Maybe I was something more.

Someone he actually wanted to know, not just seduce.

And God, that was dangerous.

Because for the first time in a long time, I felt the ground shift beneath me.

I swallowed. "And now you think you are the right man?"

Fabien’s lips curved into something faint and thoughtful. "I've been working on myself, doing the things people do to heal. Therapy. Meditation. Even did a trip with my friend to try Ayahuasca."

My eyes widened. "Oh my God. How did that Ayahuasca trip work out?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "It was thrilling and terrifying. I think. . .I might have had a conversation with God."

I leaned in, intrigued. "And what did God say?"

Fabien exhaled slowly, like he was reliving the moment.

"God told me that love isn’t something we chase.

It’s something we become . That when we learn to love ourselves without condition, when we are whole in our solitude, then love will walk toward us naturally.

And it won’t feel like we’re grasping at something just out of reach. It will feel. . .like breathing."

A shiver ran down my spine.

I wasn’t sure if it was his words or the way he looked at me as he said them.

I took another sip of my wine, letting the rich velvet of it coat my tongue, buying myself a few extra seconds before I spoke. “I, uh. . .I’m also divorced.”

Fabien’s expression remained unreadable, but his focus on me sharpened. His green eyes—already deep with interest—darkened as if urging me to continue.

Oh God. Do I tell him everything?