Chapter 83

“Ma petite rebelle,” Marc said as he opened the door to his condo, giving the Detective a warm smile. He offered her his hand and guided her in, stopping her just inside the door. She was dressed in her leather coat as usual, but instead of her usual slacks, she had clearly made an extra effort with a green dress and heels despite the continuing cold weather.

“Hello, Marc,” she said, half-cold and half-nervous. “I wasn’t sure-”

“We’re staying in tonight, Sinead,” Marc assured her as he helped her to take off her coat. The dress was delicious even if it wasn’t of the quality he would buy for her - she knew how to dress for her body type. It was a halter and had a plunging neckline that showed off the middle of her torso and small cleavage, but also left her shoulders and most of her back bare. The skirt portion hugged her hips and ass and came down to about mid-thigh, loose enough to let her walk but tight enough that it wasn’t flowing around her. Her heels, a matching green, were closed-toe but tall enough to do the job of heels and accent her legs and ass. “Tu es ravissante, ma chère.”

She sighed as he hung her coat on a hook alongside his coats by the door. “What does that mean, Marc?”

“Just an observation, Detective,” Marc smiled, then took her hand and led her deeper into his home.

“Marc,” Sinead sighed as she saw the table. “Really?”

The candle-lit dinner was a flirtatious dance. He had cooked for her, first serving a gruyere cheese souffle as an appetizer, followed by Coq au Vin prepared the traditional slow way. The chicken stew was a bit of an ordeal to eat since the chicken remained boned - well, it was an ordeal for non-Europeans, Marc had learned. Sinead didn’t comment on that, but did compliment him on the rich flavours.

The conversation was also light, and Marc enjoyed that part of the dance the most. The Detective was just off-balance enough, wondering what came next. Knowing something was coming, some turn. Or at least expecting it.

Because that was the game.

But Marc kept the conversation light. Talking about family, and travel. And Sinead rose to the challenge, digging for little nuggets of information. He discovered that the Detective had considered being a lawyer while she was in high school because she had an aunt who was one. She pried a couple of his stories out of him about the three months he’d lived in Italy in his twenties. They laughed, and Marc loved both of the looks in her eyes - the one where she was piecing together the little bits of him like he was a puzzle or riddle, and the one where she was eyeing him like she was expecting him to climb across the table and eat her whole.

Still, however, Marc kept up the game.

When he stood and took their finished plates to the kitchen, he could feel the Detective’s eyes following him, and when he returned he could see she was expecting that the night was about to move on to other things. He took her hand and she stood, licking her lower lip with nervous energy.

“Come, ma petite rebelle,” he said. “I think it will be fun to teach you something new.”

“I think so too,” she said, a little breathless.

This motherfucker, Sinead thought to herself.

Her thong felt like it was a soaked piece of napkin wedged up her cooch, she was so turned on. The whole dinner had been fucking ridiculous, and the fact that he’d cooked it for her and hadn’t just ordered it in or something was another layer of annoyingly sweet and hot. It was like he was trying to prove that he was fucking Man of the Year or something.

And then he took her hand and said something about teaching her new things, and her knees had gone weak because she had the buttplug in and she knew that he was going to have her doing things she’d never done before. Scary things. Hot things. And he was going to make it good.

But he didn’t take her up to his bedroom. He didn’t even take her over to the couch.

Hell, he could have stripped her down and done her on the fucking floor and she would have probably done whatever he wanted.

Instead, he had her fucking helping make dessert.

She wanted to grab him and shake him and shout, ‘Just fuck me already!’ She wanted to strip down naked and jump on him like a wildcat. Hell, she wanted him to fucking grab her ass or something, at least.

But he was a perfect gentleman. The most he touched her was on her arms or hands as he showed her what he needed her to do to make these fucking crepes. He would stand close, but not too close. Not close enough to press against her. Just close enough for her to lean back into him if she wanted.

Except that he was in charge. Frustratingly, aggravatingly in charge.

Her agreement to that felt like it was stuck in her damn throat.

“Ah, perfect, Sinead,” Marc said as he took the orange butter sauce from her. “Now watch closely.”

She did, and fuck him for making the whole process interesting as he dipped the crepes into the sauce, then put them in a hot pan with Grand Marnier and lit the fuckers on fire. The fact that he had to make sure she knew to use the blue label in the future, like she would be just casually making them at home, and not the cheaper red label was funny and annoying and put a tingle through her.

Once they were done, and he’d plated them on one plate, Marc led her back to the table and he fucking cut one in half and offered her a fork like she was a little kid, or they were some disgusting lovey-dovey over the top couple out on a Valentine’s Day date. And she hated herself for letting him feed her, even if it was just one bite, and feeling a little gooey inside as she did it.