Savor

*This is my entry in the Valentine's Day Story Contest 2024.

The man sat at the highly-polishsed teak wood bar of the luxury hotel, slowly sipping his Remy Martin, amidst the barely audible clink of glasses and hushed conversations. He enjoyed the caramel/honey aroma rising from his brandy snifter as the smooth, warm liquid slid silkily over his tongue and throat. He lifted his glass to admire the rich amber color, and smiled to himself as he pondered what his evening might bring.

He became aware of the warmth and a Bulgarian rose and vanilla scent just seconds before he felt the thigh brushing his. The bar stool to his left made a soft groan as she slipped her considerable derriere gracefully onto the seat.

He turned his head toward her and unabashedly looked her up and down with a smile. Cliché, perhaps, but she looked good enough to eat. She was short, thick, and curvy, with smooth pale skin. Her breasts were of average size, but he could make out hard, cherry-sized nipples that he longed to touch and to taste, stretching the shimmery fabric of her plum-colored gown and the midnight blue bra he thought he glimpsed beneath it.

When his eyes finally rose to her face, her chin tilted down slightly as her eyes teased him over the top of her glasses. Her smile was at once coy and knowing, but it was a smile to stop men's hearts. It had nothing to do with her lips. They couldn't be described as full or wide, maybe even a bit thin, and were enhanced with just a touch of sheer plum.

No, it was the way her smile extended all the way to her eyes—twinkling eyes flashing gold specks in their cerulean depths—that gazed at him playfully from beneath long, thick lashes and over the top of her stylish tortoise shell glasses. Oh, he was a sucker for a woman in glasses!

For a moment, images of thrilling new possibilities for his evening swirled in his head. Finding his voice, he asked, "May I buy a drink for the pretty lady?"

"Sure," she replied, her voice low and promising, as she tossed her hair back gently from her face. He mused at how it might feel to tangle his fingers in that hair. She knew her hair was one of her best features.

Most of the time, it fell from silky, gentle waves at the crown to a mass of curls that reached just below her shoulders. But tonight, her curls were swept to the top of her head, where they fell haphazardly in all directions, with a few soft tendrils framing her perfectly oval face. She loved the delicate strands of silver that wound through her shiny auburn curls.

As he gestured to the bartender, it was her turn to study him surreptitiously. He too wore glasses, but with shiny silver rims that suited his slightly rounded face. Even in the dim light of the bar, there was no mistaking the color of his eyes. The word "blue" was far from worthy of describing the depth of color that drew women in.

After losing herself in them for a moment, she took in the rest of his face, open and kind, and most importantly, intelligent. He sported a well-groomed mustache and short beard, white touched by silver, the same color as his thick wavy hair that curled just below his collar. God, how she loved a man with long hair!

The arrival of the young, dark-skinned bartender drew her from her observation. Her companion gestured to her, and she ordered Lagavulan, neat, in a brandy snifter. As she watched the bartender's tight ass walk away, she turned her stool slightly toward the man, the skirt of her dress whispering against her stockinged limb, opening from the high side slit to reveal a fair amount of shapely leg and even some of her sturdy, strong thigh. He spied just the bottom of a midnight blue garter holding up her sheer dark stocking, and his hand itched to feel the sleekness of that leg.

"Remy Martin, I suppose?" she asked, capturing the color and scent emanating from the brandy snifter in his hand. He shivered almost imperceptibly at the husky sexiness of her voice.

"Of course," he smiled in reply, raising his glass slightly to her.

Her golden-brown Scotch arrived, the smoky, peaty smell preceding it, and she raised her glass to him. Their glasses clinked as she toasted, "To an evening to savor."

Their shared interest in fine liquor and wine was an easy topic for pleasant conversation. Their interest in each other led each to further assess the other's appearance.

He earned points with her for his comfortable good taste in clothing. She admired his black dinner jacket with the satin shawl collar, longish, almost like a smoking jacket, and exquisitely tailored to fit his somewhat stocky form. Beneath it was a deep blood red shirt and in a nod to Valentine's Day, his black tie was dotted with microscopic red hearts. Perfectly tailored black pants and expensive black shoes completed the look, and she detected a subtle scent of sandalwood, earth, and pure man.

She enchanted him with the marvelous cut of her stylish stretch-satin gown. Broad straps held up the form-fitting bodice, its sweetheart neckline swooping low and wide, her décolletage reaching from shoulder to creamy shoulder and forming a deep V between her breasts. The skirt draped elegantly over her ample hips and thighs, not tight, but certainly body-skimming, clinging lusciously to the twin globes of her big round ass before dropping to just a few inches below her knees. She was clearly comfortable with her body, including her short stature, as her eggplant leather pumps bore only a small, chunky heel.

Taking a final sniff, the last few drops of his cognac sluiced down his throat, then he placed his empty snifter on the bar with a hushed thud, and glanced at his Cartier watch. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Just a moment," she replied, as she relished the last burnished taste of her Scotch skimming over her taste buds just before the slight burn in her throat. She set the glass down and daintily dabbed her mouth with a cocktail napkin. Picking up her beaded vintage evening bag, she smiled and nodded to the bartender, then purred, "Okay, lead on."

He stood and offered her his arm as she slid down from the stool again feeling her dress ride up, earning her an appreciative glance from a customer at the other end of the bar. She took the proferred arm, and their eyes adjusted to the brighter lighting of the hotel lobby. They strolled easily to the four-star restaurant that graced the establishment.

"Reservation for Rhys," he told the white-gloved maître d', who nodded and conveyed them toward their table. The enticing and varied smells of the food all around them made both eager to taste it as well. As they followed their captain, he guided her with his hand resting lightly in the small of her back, enjoying the barely audible swish of her stockinged legs as she walked.

The lighting in the restaurant was brighter than the dim bar, but was still soft and romantic. The tables were clothed in a rich cream color, matching the walls, while the thick carpet, plush chairs, and elegant monogrammed napkins wore a neutral slate blue. The décor matched the restaurant's amusingly pretentious name: Crème de Bleu.

They noticed the resonance of a string quartet, stationed unobtrusively in a far corner. A scan of the room confirmed that this was undeniably a fine-dining restaurant, full of distinguished gentlemen and dignified ladies in formal attire, all with impeccable manners.

Dropping back slightly to ensure that the maître d' couldn't hear her, the charming lady in the plum gown leaned close and whispered to her well-dressed swain, "Geez, I'm amazed they allow the likes of us in a place this swanky." A wicked grin spread over her pretty face as she continued under her breath, "Whaddya say we blow this pop stand? I'll take the men..."

He snorted slightly trying to contain his laughter. "Behave!" he hissed at her, swatting her lightly on the ass. "Can't I take you anywhere?"

The maître d' turned questioningly, "Sir?" but the man straightened his face and waved him on.

They had reached their table, so their tuxedo clad host bowed politely and returned to his station. The mischievous white-haired man seated his lady, "helping" her to arrange her skirt on the chair by stroking over the wide expanse of her fanny. She shot him a wide-eyed look and a small smile as he took his own place across from her at the smallish square table. A single perfect white and blush orchid exuded a faint scent of lilac and coconut, as it graced a small cut glass vase in the center of the table.

The sommelier appeared at the man's elbow, furnishing him with the wine list. His blue eyes lit up and a small grin formed on his face as he passed the long, leather-bound booklet across the table to his companion, who flashed her dazzling smile at the slightly-confused wine-steward. "She chooses the wine," he said, a modicum of pride in his voice.

"Pardon, Madame," the sommelier managed nonchalantly, turning to face the lady.

"Pas du tout," she said with a casual wave of her hand. "I believe we shall peruse the menu first, so as to choose our wine to complement our meals."

With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and moved away with a fragment of haste. The curly-haired woman raised both hands to her lips as she burst into tinkling giggles behind them, whispering, "I love when you do that," to her partner.

He chuckled quietly as he reached across the table and captured one of her soft hands, brushing her fingers with his lips. Then, holding her eyes spellbound, he gently flipped her hand over and very subtly licked her palm, unsurprised at her muted gasp. She whisked her fingers across his lightly as she recovered her hand and opened her menu.

His eyes roved over the elegantly presented selection of fine meals, the fluttering sound of the fine linen paper turning inside the menu revealing the evening's offerings, presumably prepared by a Cordon Bleu chef. He quietly asked, "What looks good to you this evening, my dear?"

Her smile turned saucy as she replied, "Oh there are simply far too many ways to answer that question." As the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, she glanced at him over the top of her glasses, feigning innocence. "Oh, you meant the FOOD, didn't you?"

"Of course," he smirked. "What else could I mean?"

As they studied their menus with conspiring smiles, a server, immaculately attired in a short-jacketed tuxedo with white tie, stepped up to the table, a creamy-hued napkin folded neatly over his arm. He expertly filled their "CdB"-etched crystal water goblets, then simply stood, watching them attentively, waiting for one of them to speak.

"How is your Steak Tartare this evening?" the gentleman inquired.

"All of Chef's dishes are exquisitely prepared, sir," came the well-trained reply.

"I'll have the filet mignon Crème de Bleu," the lady decided, sharing the slightest of eye-rolls with her man. "Rare."

"Very well, Madame. And for you, sir?"

"I absolutely must try that exquisite Steak Tartare," the man offered with a completely straight face, as his companion bit down hard on her lip to keep from bursting into giggles.

"Very good. And shall I send the sommelier?"

"That would be lovely," the lady replied obligingly.

As he walked away, the server wondered why he heard a muffled burst of giggles from the table.

"Uh-oh, here comes your buddy!" the man chortled under his breath as the sommelier simpered through the maze of tables, heading directly to "Madame" this time.

"We'd like a bottle of the 2017 Domaine de l'A Castillon Côtes de Bordeaux, please," she announced confidently, her French pronunciation flawless.

"Ah, a fine choice," the snobby man answered, as he again turned on his heel and took his leave.

"Of course it is, dumbshit," she muttered to her partner with a delicate snort, "or I wouldn't have ordered it."

He laughed aloud this time and threatened, "You are being a naughty girl tonight. I might need to spank you."

"Promises, promises," she purred, batting her eyelashes shamelessly, whilst under the table, she slipped off one dainty purple pump and glided her toes enticingly up his leg. It was his turn to gasp, as he felt his manhood twitch to life.

"Yes, I believe I can promise you a little surprise later," he teased her back in his quiet, seductive voice.

The sound along with the image in her mind's eye caused her nether regions to commence dampening. She stretched her silk-stockinged leg languidly under the table, reaching her toes beyond his knee and proceeding up his inner thigh, but he coughed lightly and pushed back in his chair. His eyes met hers and traveled upward, imperceptibly nodding toward the flustered man standing at her elbow presenting the bottle of wine to her with a flourish.

She "accidentally" brushed her fingers on his hand as she took the bottle into hers. She examined the dark bottle with its ivory label, printed in French with a swirl of plummy ink. She enchanted (and embarrassed) the professional with her smile as she handed back the bottle for him to open.

She watched his delicate fingers deftly uncorking the bottle, and smiled at him again when he passed to her the cork. She placed the cork in her palm and studied it carefully. It looked plump and supple, tinged with deep, wet color. She held it between thumb and forefinger, lifting it to rest momentarily between her nose and lips. Her eyes flashed green as she fixed them on her companion's blue ones, taking a quick sniff of the cork, whilst flicking out her tongue to pass just the tip over the wine-stained top.

She placed the cork on the table and nodded to the man holding the bottle, who seemed distracted for a fraction of a second before pouring a quaff of the deep, rich liquid into her large rounded glass. As she held it in front of her eyes to examine the texture and clarity, she noticed that the color nearly matched that of her partner's shirt. She met his gaze, then closed her eyes as she lifted the glass to her nose and inhaled the wine's intense bouquet of licorice, blackberry, and espresso bean.

"Mmmm," she moaned sensually, "earrrrrrthy." She drew out the word to sound as sexual as possible, deliberately teasing at the stuffy man whose breath seemed to hitch.

She poured a taste of the Bordeaux onto her tongue, holding it there as she tipped her head back, offering them a view of the long column of her pale neck. Once again she closed her eyes and moaned as the sumptuous textures and round tannins swirled smoothly down her throat. She remained that way for a long moment as she savored the long, smoky finish of fresh, ripe, dark plum.

Slowly she opened her eyes to see both men watching her, mesmerized. She nodded and raised her glass, breaking the collective trance and signaling the sommelier to fill first her glass, then the white-haired man's, with the intensely colored drink.

"Yes," she breathed, letting her gaze drift lazily from the bulge in the server's immaculate trousers to his nervous eyes. "That will do nicely."

He settled the bottle on the table and scuttled away in obvious discomfort, while the man across the table from her shifted to rearrange his own bulge.

He lifted his glass and murmured, "To my brazen Jezebel," as their glasses kissed with a tiny clink.

"To my white knight," she replied breathily.

The next few minutes were spent in quiet small talk and people-watching of the refined crowd.

The gentleman heard a trifling squeak of rolling wheels, and the lady identified the pungent smell of garlic, which signaled to each the approach of the artiste with a small rolling cart bearing a wooden mixing bowl and all the necessary accoutrements to assemble their Caesar salad table-side. The beauty of witnessing the preparation of a Caesar salad tableside by a master with all of the ingredients presented on a specially designed cart is without equal.

The large Black man in the chef's coat and hat smiled at them (which was probably a breach of his training,) and announced, "My name is Antoine (he spoke it with a distinctly trained French accent) and I will be assembling your Caesar salad for you. Please inform me if there are ingredients you would like omitted, or if there are any seasoning items that you would like me to add to your salad in larger portions." He smiled again, and said, "Because I am preparing this salad just for you."

As he bent to retrieve his first ingredient, he whispered to the couple, "Hey, I've been watching you and I can tell you're real people. You just let me know, and I'll get you anything you want."

The lady smiled at him and murmured "Thank you," then aloud said, "Oh, dear, did I knock that head of garlic off your tray? I'm so sorry—carry on."

Antoine returned a hint of a smile, and began crushing cloves of garlic and rubbing them around in the wooden bowl. The white-haired man was in heaven. He adored the smell of garlic, and could tell that these cloves were of good quality and fresh.

The smiling woman enjoyed the smell of the anchovies, which exuded their tangy saltiness as they too were added, scraped apart with tines of two forks and mashed into the crushed garlic.

She even remarked to Antoine, "Not many people like anchovies, but I adore them!"

"Well, Madame, I would be pleased to add a couple of extra anchovies to the top of your salad."

Now they watched as he drizzled in fine extra virgin Italian olive oil and aged wine vinegar, flipping and catching the bottles like a hot-shot bartender. These were stirred into the garlic/anchovy paste he had just made. Again he flipped and caught the bottle of Lea & Perrins as he squirted in a small amount, followed by tapping a container of dry mustard into his hand before adding just a pinch.

"Don't want too much mustard, unless you like it really hot!" Antoine bantered.

"I've had hot mustard sauces in Chinese restaurants that could clear you sinuses!" joked the white-haired man, and they all laughed together.

As Antoine again bent low over his cart he whispered, "Now don't be gettin' too funny. I'm only allowed to laugh if the customers do. I 'bout died when you were teasin' the sommelier."

"The mix is smelling wonderful," the smiling lady complimented.

Their Artiste then added an already beaten egg yolk, which contributed its light flavor to the sauce as he stirred it quickly, scratching the sides of the bowl with his wooden spoon. Then it was time to add the lettuce. He patted dry the bunch of fresh Romaine, before tossing it into the bowl. Now he squeezed a quarter of a lemon through a CdB embroidered napkin.

"Oh," the woman in purple grinned, "lemon is so wonderful because it pleases the senses three times—first with its flashy yellow color, then the bright smell and finally with its spritely taste. Did I mention that I love Caesar salad?" she ended with a musical giggle.

Antoine flung into the bowl a handful of croutons, whose smell attested to their having been baked that morning. Then he added a small bowl of already grated, very fresh smelling Parmesano cheese. With amazing dexterity and artistry, he combined the ingredients with his wooden utensils.

"Carefully," he told them, "so as not to bruise the lettuce!" He gave the gentleman a (hopefully hidden) small smirk, to indicate exactly what his views were on bruised lettuce!

Using his wooden utensils, he very carefully (with no bruising) scooped a healthy serving on each of their salad plates, offering additional croutons or grated cheese. The gentleman declined. The lady asked for a little more grated cheese, and said, "Now, don't forget the anchovies!"

He placed the two that were left artfully on her salad, as the gentleman held out his hand to shake, saying "Antoine, we particularly enjoyed the excellent service from you tonight." He had slipped the salad master a $20 bill, and when Antoine tried to balk, the man signaled to him that it was a closed issue.