~Fantasy Lover Part 18~
Michael heard the strange bell toll before Grace pressed a bar and opened
the black box where she'd placed his food.
She set the steaming bowl of food before him with a silver fork, knife,
paper napkin, and glass goblet of wine. The warm aroma filled his head,
making his stomach ache with need.
He supposed he should be shocked by the way and speed with which she'd
cooked, but after hearing about things called a train, camera, automobile,
phonograph, rockets, and computers, he doubted if anything could take him
by surprise now.
In truth, there was nothing left for him to feel since, out of necessity,
he'd banished his emotions long ago.
His existence was nothing more than snatches of days strung along
centuries. His only purpose to serve his summoner's sexual needs.
And if he'd learned anything over the last two millennia, it was to enjoy
what few pleasures he could during each incarnation. With that thought, he took a small bite of food and savored the delectable
feel of the warm, creamy noodles on his tongue. It was pure bliss.
He let the smell of the chicken and spices fully invade his head. It had
been an eternity since he'd last eaten anything. An eternity of unrelenting
hunger.
Closing his eyes, he swallowed.
More used to starvation than nourishment, his stomach cramped viciously in reaction to the first bite of food. Michael clenched the knife and fork in his hands as he fought against the brutal pain.
But he didn't stop eating. Not while he had food.
He'd waited so long to finally quench his hunger that he wasn't about to
stop now.
After a few more bites, the cramps eased, allowing him to actually enjoy
the meal again.
And as the cramps lessened, it took all of his willpower to eat like a human and not shovel the food into his mouth by the handfuls in a desperate
need to quench the gnawing hunger in his belly.
At times like this, it was hard to remember he was still a man and not some feral, rampaging beast that had been freed from its cage.
He'd lost most of his humanity centuries ago. What little was left, he
intended to keep.
Grace leaned against the counter as she watched him eat, slowly, almost
mechanically. She couldn't tell if he liked the food, but he kept eating it.
Yet what amazed her were the perfect table manners he had. She'd never been
able to successfully eat that way, and she wondered when he'd learned to
use his knife to balance the pasta on the back of his fork and eat it. "Did they have forks in ancient Macedonia?" she asked.
He paused. "Excuse me?" "I was just wondering when the fork was invented. Did they have them in..." "The fork was invented sometime in the fifteenth century, I believe." "Really?" she asked. "Were you there?" His features blank, he looked up and asked, "What, for the invention of the
fork, or the fifteenth century?" "The fifteenth century, of course." And then thinking better of it, she added, "You weren't there when the fork was invented. Were you?" "No." He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with the napkin. "I was
summoned four times during that century. Twice in Italy and once in England and France." "Really," she said, trying to imagine what it must have been like back
then. "I bet you've seen all kinds of things over the centuries." "Not really." "Oh, come on. In two thousand years-" "I've mostly seen bedrooms, beds, and closets." His flat tone gave her pause as he returned to eating. An image of Paul
pierced her heart. She'd only known one selfish, uncaring jerk. It sounded
as if Michael had known many more. "So tell me, do you just lie in the book until someone calls you?" He nodded. "What do you do in the book to pass the time?" He shrugged, and she homed in on the fact that he didn't possess a wide
range of expressions.
Or words.
She moved forward and took a seat across the table from him. "You know,
according to you we have a month together, why not make it pleasurable and talk?" Michael glanced up in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had actually conversed with him, except to issue encouragements or suggestions to help heighten the pleasure he was giving them. Or to call him back to bed. He'd learned very early in life that women only wanted one thing when it
came to him-some part of his body buried deep between their legs.
With that thought in mind, he drifted his gaze slowly, leisurely, over her
body, stopping at her breasts, which grew tight at his prolonged stare. Annoyed, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited until he met her gaze. He almost laughed. Almost.
