Nadia loved everything about sushi, the flavor, the scent, and the taste. What she loved more than sushi was owner of her favorite restaurant, Zen Su Chow. She'd lost track of whether her visits to his restaurant were about his food or him, but one thing was for certain, for Nadia, it was love at first taste.
Zen Su Chow had been born and raised in Japan. His immigration to the United States at 18 allowed him to work for his success and bring his family with him. The American dream was his for the taking, when he meets Nadia. Within a short time, Zen can't see his future or his dream without her in it, despite how much it distresses his family.
Sushi is just plain without the other ingredients to flavor it, to bring it alive. Zen knows he's just been existing. Now he has to convince Nadia she's just the wasabi heat he needs in his life.
“Oh, yeah, that’s so good.”
Zen laughed. “Agreed.”
The ice broken, the awkwardness and her anxiety coaxed by sake, she and Zen ate. Laughing and talking about managing a business and politics, time both slipped by and stood still. When Nadia looked down at her watch, she couldn’t believe two hours had passed.
“Wow, look at the time!” She noted with a bit of disappointment her cup was empty. “I’m sure you have to get back to work. Close the restaurant or what have you.”
Zen’s smiling face faltered a bit. He shook his head slowly, tsking her a bit.
“I have managers to handle that, Nadia. You are more important than work. Are you not enjoying yourself? I can have Ichiro make…”
“Am I?” she asked softly, her throat closing. How long had he felt this way about her? “Of course, I’m having a great time. No need at all to make more. I’m stuffed.”
“I like being here with you,” Zen replied evenly, but the thread of heat set each syllable on fire. He leveled his gaze at her and it zipped right through to Nadia’s heart.
That look meant only one thing—desire. She squeezed her thighs together to try to ease the growing ache throbbing there. She swallowed and recrossed her legs. Her pussy already glazed with desire’s dew, grew wetter still when Zen leaned forward on the table, and took her hand in his. Rubbing her knuckles, he refused to relinquish their shared gazed.
Wordlessly, he stood up, still holding her hand firmly in his. He came slowly around the curve of the table. When he reached her, he guided her out of her chair. With her heart hammering, she swallowed. He touched her chin, and lifted her mouth toward his. With gentleness, he leaned down and kissed her. At once, she tasted the fresh hint of fish and the spiciness of the wasabi. It added an already sizzling fire to his kiss. Zen coaxed her lips open farther, giving his permission to explore her mouth, to share with her his very essence.
His fingers, nimble and determined, slid into her hair. With slow massages, he caressed her scalp. They tangled in her strands, and she melted into his kiss, into his smooth hands and into the hardness of his chest. Not relinquishing her right hand, Zen moved it to his waist, and held her arm against him. She shook off his hand and wrapped both of her arms around him, feeling his stone torso beneath the tailored suit and really, really wanting all the fabric that separated them off and tossed carefully on the floor.
She breathed him in, tasting him, and hearing the rasp of his desire. Zen hugged her with his one-armed to him, his fingers lost in her hair, and he moaned—he nibbled around the edges of lower lip. When he released her mouth, he held her firmly to her, and gazed down at her. Carefully, he untangled his fingers from her hair.
“That too was, tasty,” he confessed softly against ear.