stuff them into vases himself.
He didn’t even own any vases and had to endure Ben smirking at him as he had to jam them into various cooking pots and some empty wine bottles.
Ben could laugh. Nikolas noted with some satisfaction that for a man who never stopped either eating or thinking about food, Ben was entirely undone by a cookbook that finally told him there was more to life than bacon sandwiches and steak—the only two things along with fried eggs and toast Ben could actually cook. It amazed Nikolas that he’d lived with a food addict for five years but had never once been offered anything remotely edible. They ate out almost every night or he ordered ready-made gourmet meals from a select caterer patronised by his ex-wife’s family. He was watching Ben now out of the corner of his eye, face scrunched up with effort over his book, dictionary to one hand because he refused to ask the meaning of such things as sous vide or alginates .
As he studied the lowered blond hair, fingers running through it, making the strands shine against the tanned fingers, he couldn’t help his thoughts straying back to the bed. Undressing Ben, turning him over, entering him, he’d indeed discovered all the changes were very superficial. Ben’s arse was as tight to enter as he needed it to be. He could recall now in startling detail the look of Ben spread and open beneath him when he pulled out to play with the wanton looseness he’d created. He could feel again the silky touch of him as he’d pushed fingers deep, stroking him from the in—
“You’ve just murdered that lily.”
“Huh?” Nikolas glanced down at the shredded petals and slumped dejected. He’d thought it was a rose.
He had a long way to go.
With a small, feral, private smile, he asked casually, “Do I need to make a reservation somewhere tonight or is all that,” he indicated the bags of ingredients still untouched on the floor, “going to turn into something impressive to eat?”
Ben carefully turned a page. “I’m getting there.” He turned another. “I think we’ll start with Thai cucumber shrimp. Hmm, then maybe lobster tail poached in…beurre monte?…With a—”
“I think that’s pronounced—”
“— with a julienne of carrots and…snow?…Snow peas followed—stop laughing—by chocolate soufflé.” He sat back, pleased with himself—then apparently realised he hadn’t actually cooked any of it yet.
§ § §
Nikolas discovered flower arranging could be done in the living room. And, amazingly, could be done whilst lying on the sofa, watching a movie. And drinking a bottle of red wine (if he used large glasses, he’d discovered he could drink the whole bottle and stay within his three-glasses-a-day limit). Which was a shame for Ben, as his new hobby needed him to stay in the kitchen. And swear apparently. Every so often, Nikolas heard, “Fucking hell!” or “Shit!” wailed to increasingly desperate levels of incredulity. He was glad he had a moment away from Ben anyway. He dug out his mobile phone and made a quick call. He still had some friends left in his old life. It was useful.
§ § §
He’d never been so glad to be a billionaire when he was finally invited into the kitchen to eat, because even when Ben apologised sheepishly, “I’ll clean up later, yeah? It’ll get cold if I do it now,” all Nikolas could concentrate on was the thought of calling his cleaning service and then ordering in all new pans to hang up, pristine, where they should be. But he was gracious enough not to let any of this show on his face as he sat down in the place Ben had laid for some reason with a screwed-up napkin. “That’s a swan.” Sometimes Ben read his mind too easily. The table was nice, Nikolas thought, with his… rose?…lily?…Some flower or other in the empty wine bottle. Artfully pushed in, if he said so himself.
The first course looked very good. On the plate. Decorative. Green cucumber rinds and the pink of the shrimp
He didn’t even own any vases and had to endure Ben smirking at him as he had to jam them into various cooking pots and some empty wine bottles.
Ben could laugh. Nikolas noted with some satisfaction that for a man who never stopped either eating or thinking about food, Ben was entirely undone by a cookbook that finally told him there was more to life than bacon sandwiches and steak—the only two things along with fried eggs and toast Ben could actually cook. It amazed Nikolas that he’d lived with a food addict for five years but had never once been offered anything remotely edible. They ate out almost every night or he ordered ready-made gourmet meals from a select caterer patronised by his ex-wife’s family. He was watching Ben now out of the corner of his eye, face scrunched up with effort over his book, dictionary to one hand because he refused to ask the meaning of such things as sous vide or alginates .
As he studied the lowered blond hair, fingers running through it, making the strands shine against the tanned fingers, he couldn’t help his thoughts straying back to the bed. Undressing Ben, turning him over, entering him, he’d indeed discovered all the changes were very superficial. Ben’s arse was as tight to enter as he needed it to be. He could recall now in startling detail the look of Ben spread and open beneath him when he pulled out to play with the wanton looseness he’d created. He could feel again the silky touch of him as he’d pushed fingers deep, stroking him from the in—
“You’ve just murdered that lily.”
“Huh?” Nikolas glanced down at the shredded petals and slumped dejected. He’d thought it was a rose.
He had a long way to go.
With a small, feral, private smile, he asked casually, “Do I need to make a reservation somewhere tonight or is all that,” he indicated the bags of ingredients still untouched on the floor, “going to turn into something impressive to eat?”
Ben carefully turned a page. “I’m getting there.” He turned another. “I think we’ll start with Thai cucumber shrimp. Hmm, then maybe lobster tail poached in…beurre monte?…With a—”
“I think that’s pronounced—”
“— with a julienne of carrots and…snow?…Snow peas followed—stop laughing—by chocolate soufflé.” He sat back, pleased with himself—then apparently realised he hadn’t actually cooked any of it yet.
§ § §
Nikolas discovered flower arranging could be done in the living room. And, amazingly, could be done whilst lying on the sofa, watching a movie. And drinking a bottle of red wine (if he used large glasses, he’d discovered he could drink the whole bottle and stay within his three-glasses-a-day limit). Which was a shame for Ben, as his new hobby needed him to stay in the kitchen. And swear apparently. Every so often, Nikolas heard, “Fucking hell!” or “Shit!” wailed to increasingly desperate levels of incredulity. He was glad he had a moment away from Ben anyway. He dug out his mobile phone and made a quick call. He still had some friends left in his old life. It was useful.
§ § §
He’d never been so glad to be a billionaire when he was finally invited into the kitchen to eat, because even when Ben apologised sheepishly, “I’ll clean up later, yeah? It’ll get cold if I do it now,” all Nikolas could concentrate on was the thought of calling his cleaning service and then ordering in all new pans to hang up, pristine, where they should be. But he was gracious enough not to let any of this show on his face as he sat down in the place Ben had laid for some reason with a screwed-up napkin. “That’s a swan.” Sometimes Ben read his mind too easily. The table was nice, Nikolas thought, with his… rose?…lily?…Some flower or other in the empty wine bottle. Artfully pushed in, if he said so himself.
The first course looked very good. On the plate. Decorative. Green cucumber rinds and the pink of the shrimp
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