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I was past playing gahs, pushingmy hips with his palms, I squeaked "Please, your mouth I need your mouth!" I cried And he coainst the pillows At the first nibble of his teeth, I threw the pillow from the bed At the first moan from his lips, deep into the center of that world, I bowed so hard off the bed I pulled the fitted sheet free And when he suckedfuriously, I could feel that beard tickling the very softest part of hs And it was so Very Good

Worth every squeak

"So who are the two old guys?"

"Old guys?" I asked, not sure where this was going

"Over the desk," he said, referencing the bulletin board "One of them looks familiar, actually"

"They’re Ripert and Bourdain Celebrity chefs"

"Sounds like a French cop show"

I laughed "Anthony Bourdain was a chef in Manhattan for , eating, et cetera Eric Ripert runs Le Bernardin, also in--"

"Aha! That’s why he looks familiar"

"Makes sense; he’s been on TV forever"

He shook his head "No no, the other guy Le Bernardin isreservation; they’re there at least twice a month"

Somewhere in the world, tiny chef heads exploded The idea that there could be a life where you could regularly go to Le Bernardin even once a month--but twice? At least? That was the most decadent morsel of that entire sentence