More Farmer’s Market Solas, because I was asked for a part two, and also because I am weak and couldn’t resist.
Part one is here
“Are you free this Friday?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Excellent. I would like to invite you over for dinner. Would you be comfortable with that?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know. Are you secretly a murderer?”
“No, but I cannot promise I will not be tempted to eat you. *laughs*”
“Neria? Are you there?”
“… yes. Sorry, I, ummm… I thought I heard someone at the door.”
“So, how about it? Dinner at seven, my place?”
“Works for me.”
“I’ll text you the address.”
“Perfect. See you on Friday, Solas.”
“Until Friday, Neria. I cannot wait.”
She smooths out the skirt of her dress nervously. He hadn’t told her what kind of meal it was going to be, so she erred on the side of caution and decided on a classic little black dress. The lack of sleeves shows off her lithe, tanned arms, and between the hem that hits her just above the knee and her high heels, her legs look like they were a million miles long.
Adjusting the bottle of wine in the gift basket one last time, she knocks on his door. He responds promptly, and she forgets the greeting on her lips when she sees him. He is wearing a grey shirt - the same color, she thinks idly, as the flecks in his blue eyes - with the collar loose, paired with crisply ironed black slacks.
He looks long, lean, and lethal.
He is luscious.
“Hello,” he says politely, an appreciative glint in his eye as he looks her over.
“Hey,” she replies, cheeks faintly pink under his gaze. “Here, this is for you,” she hands over the wicker basket, “my peach tree is overloaded. The wine’s an Antivan vintage, I hear it pairs well with everything.”
“Thank you, this was unnecessary,” he answers, swinging the door open wider to let her in.
“Oh, it was nothing,” she smiles.
“Would you like a drink first, or the grand tour?”
“A drink, please.” Something to keep her hands - and lips - occupied while she is in such close proximity to him.
“Of course. I happened to pick up a wonderful pear wine yesterday; would you care to try it?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
The wine glass is elegant, the stem covered in vines and leaves. The vintage itself is sweet and crisp, and she enjoys how smooth it feels as it travels down her throat.
“Come, I’ll show you around,” he holds a hand out to her. She places her hand in his, and he draws her closer, tucking her arm into his elbow. This close, she can smell the cedar of his cologne and the musk that is him and wholly him. It is intoxicating, and she debates the propriety of leaning in close and sniffing him out.
His apartment is breathtakingly stunning; a penthouse condo with wall-to-wall windows offering a stunning view of the Frostbacks, fireplaces with elegant marble mantles, rugs of the softest bear hide she’s ever felt. The walls are covered in paintings, each one meticulously done and intricate in its details, and she is surprised to hear that they are his own work. The furniture is all clean, modern edges; simple, but she knows quality when she sees it.
He saves the bedroom for last, and she’s not quite sure how to breathe.
The bed is large, long enough to accommodate his height, and is meant to be the centerpiece of the room, but that isn’t what catches her eye. It is the nook tucked away by the window, with bookshelves adorning the walls, and a window seat at the base. It is something so beautifully indulgent, and it makes her want to curl up among the cushions and read. She tells him as such, and he chuckles. “Perhaps one day, hmmm?” he says, a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she murmurs, taking a sip from her glass.
Dinner is a simple, but elegant affair. He’s clearly shopped at more than just her stall, the vegetables fresh and full of flavor. The filet mignon is pan seared with herb butter, and practically melts in her mouth. They converse about her work, and his - she is not unsurprised to hear that he is a well-known artist - and between the food, and the wine, and the intoxicating presence of a man who is all charm and wit and masculine essence, she is bedazzled.
“How do you feel about dessert?” he asks, once they are seated on the plush sofa in front of the fireplace, where a cheerful, crackling fire burns.
She laughs. “I believe you mentioned apples?”
“Ahh, yes,” his look is one of mock regret, “Unfortunately, a friend found your apples immensely appealing and claimed them for herself.”
“Oh?” Her heart sinks at herself’. Does he have a woman in his life already?
“Yes,” he says easily. “Mythal is my publicist and manager, and immensely fond of apples. She claimed yours are the best she has ever tasted, by the way.”
She turns pink. It is as though he has read her mind. “T-that’s… umm, tell her I’m flattered she thinks so.”
“I will,” he grins, wide and warm. “To make up for their absence, I hope strawberries will do. Sylaise had some left over from her wine-making, and I promise you these are very good indeed.”
“Well, if you say they’re good,” she laughs, “they must be. You do have excellent taste in fruit, after all.”
He places a bowl of the ripe, red fruit on the table, and another filled with whipped cream on the side. She swallows lightly as she sees the tips of his fingers stained red with their juice.
She wants to suck them clean, one digit at a time.
His eyes are knowing as they meet hers, as he reaches across and picks one up by its delicate stem. His fingers grip the fruit in a firm, yet gentle grip, enough force to keep it from falling back into the bowl, but not so much that he crushes it within his grip. A part of her is disappointed; she wants him to press the fruit between those long, elegant fingers, wants to see the ruby red liquid flow down his hand. She wants to run the tip of her tongue up from his wrist, and drink the juice from his palm.
She wants… she wants him.
“Go ahead, please. Try one.” He’s bitten into the fruit now, lips stained garnet, berry juice dripping from the corners of his mouth. There’s a tiny bit of whipped cream on his upper lip, and his tongue flicks out and cleans it in a fluid motion.
Her mind is in shambles.
Her gut is a long, single, tightly-wound coil of lust.
Hand shaking, she reaches out for the fruit, and bringing it to her lips, bites into it. The sweetness of it spreads immediately across her tongue, and it lingers even when she swallows. She can feel the stickiness of the juice around her mouth, and hopes she doesn’t look too messy.
She gazes up at him, meaning to compliment the fruit, but his pupils are wide now, dark and feral, and there’s something terribly primal about the way his eyes are fixed on her mouth. She bites down on her lower lip, and the soft growl he lets out has a small gush of wetness flood her underwear.
“Solas?” she asks, her voice little better than a mewl.
“You have a little something-” he leans in close to her, and for a second, their breaths mingle, the scent of strawberries ripe in the air. Then his mouth comes crashing down on hers, and he’s devouring her, and she can’t help but let him because he’s so good, and he tastes like berries and heaven, and she wants more…
He pulls back slightly, his lips curled up into a wanton smirk. “Shall we continue this elsewhere?” he asks.
She mirrors his look, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Lead the way.”