Missionary Position(8)

By: Daisy Prescott


“Lion hunting?” he joked.

“No, a hot alpha man washing my hair. Duh.” I rolled my eyes.

“The naked women expert dreams of being seduced in Africa? I’m sure that can be arranged.” His eyes met mine, and we locked stares for a moment. I couldn’t read him. Maybe it was a Dutch thing.

“Africa, Amsterdam. I’m easy that way.” I smirked at my own word play.

His eyes searched my face for a hint of joking. There wasn’t one.

He straightened his shirt cuffs. “You’re a funny bird.”

“I’d say so. Given I’m not a bird at all.” I smiled at him.

He studied my expression, considering me for a moment.

“Anita said you met at the sushi bar in JFK.” His face exhibited his doubt in my taste and sanity.

“We did. I see you judging me. Normally, I’d be sitting in judgment, too. Sushi. Airport. Eating raw fish in advance of a long flight. However, it’s good quality sushi, and surprisingly delicious.”

“I’ll have to believe you and Anita.”

“Next time you’re at JFK, try it. Trust me.”

“Trust you? I don’t know you.”

“Then trust Anita.”

He blinked at me and his eyes flickered with some emotion I didn’t understand. “Do you like sushi? It wasn’t some sort of dare you lost with a friend?”

“Absolutely love it. I’ll miss it in Ghana.”

“Ghana is known for many things, but sushi isn’t one of them. You should eat sushi before you leave.”

“Is that an invitation to dinner?”

He played with the edge of his cocktail napkin for a moment, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. We should have dinner. Do you have plans for tonight?”

I checked my watch. It was close to nine, but unlike home, people here didn’t eat until later. “Can we find a table somewhere?”

“We can get one downstairs. One of the best sushi places in Europe is in this hotel.” Gerhard waved the bartender over and they had a quick conversation in Dutch before the bartender walked over to the phone behind the bar. He returned and they spoke for another minute. I understood nothing.

“We’re set for 9:30. Another cocktail?” He smiled and pointed to my empty glass.

With a few words, Gerhard could make a last minute reservation for us at an amazing sushi restaurant. Suit or no suit, Gerhard was quickly becoming my favorite person on the planet.

We spent the next half hour chatting about Ghana, art, Amsterdam, and Boston. His arm drifted behind my shoulders and rested on the back of my stool. A delicious soap or cologne scent tickled my nose. Another point for the Dutchman. Damn if he wasn’t winning me over, regardless of being so very not my type.

When we stood to walk down to the restaurant for dinner, my head came up to his bicep—his very shapely, nicely defined bicep. I could climb him like a tree if I were a koala. Lucky marsupials.

His hand warmed my lower back as he guided me through the bar and remained there in the elevator as we descended. The size of his hand made me feel petite in the best way. I shivered at the idea of his fingers other places on my body.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Not at all. I was thinking of your hand on my back.”

“My apologies. Too familiar?” He removed his hand and leaned against the wall.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.” I met his eyes.

He broke eye contact and swept his gaze up my body while rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.

He nodded but didn’t speak. The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and whatever he intended to say, or not say, was lost.

Despite his teasing me over airport sushi, dinner tasted incredible. Beyond the airport variety, I’d eaten excellent sushi more times than I could count, but nothing came close to this meal. Everything tasted like it descended directly from sushi heaven and each dish resembled tiny sculptures. No spicy tuna rolls here. I didn’t bother asking what I was eating after the first course. I didn’t care. My normal squeamishness about texture and taste disappeared into a hedonistic frenzy of flavors and sensations. It felt like having an orgasm for the first time.

Gerhard laughed at my moans of delight while we ate. I teased him about letting his hair down when he took off his tie.

“I can’t remember the last meal I enjoyed this much,” I said when the last of our plates had been cleared from our table.

“You certainly enjoyed yourself. I worried at one point the waiters might have thought some hanky-panky was happening under the table the way you moaned and squirmed.”

“Say it again,” I demanded.

“Say what?”

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