I sit into the back seat, startled to find Gregory next to me. We drive to the restaurant in silence. I want to speak but I can only think of pointless small talk. His body is too close to mine. Those lips are next to me and all I can think of is what I’d like them to be doing, where I’d like them to be. The tension in the car is unbearable. Arriving at the restaurant is a relief.
We’re greeted by a short man with an Italian accent who I assume is the restaurant manager from his black suit and sparkling gold badge that reads Amerigo. ‘Good evening, Mr Ryans, how wonderful it is to see you. I have reserved our finest table for you and your guest this evening.’
Amerigo bobs from one foot to the other as he leads us to our table, like his hips are tired from working until after ten already.
As is seemingly customary, Amerigo is overly familiar with Gregory, full of chatter and smiles. He places us in a booth, closed off from the sight of other guests but with a fantastic view of the city.
‘Do you ever go to restaurants on ground level?’ I whisper to Gregory.
He grins smugly as he lifts his hands to allow Amerigo to place a napkin across his lap.
‘Would you like water, Mr Ryans?’
‘Please.’
‘And your wine?’
Gregory considers me as he rubs his index finger and thumb along the line of his chin. ‘The lady will pick the wine.’
Amerigo initially looks completely stunned but quickly recovers and hands me an open wine list. I accept the menu, playfully scowling at Gregory.
‘We’ll take two glasses of Dom Perignon brut while we look over the menu, please. I’ll choose wine for dinner once we’ve made our food choices.’
Amerigo nods and leaves us alone in the booth. The tension from the theatre instantly returns. It’s a relief to see Gregory remove his jacket and tie and open the top two buttons of his shirt. My eyes lock onto the few fine hairs exposed on Gregory’s chest. I want more.
The sommelier brings two glasses of Dom Perignon. I’m vaguely aware that he’s making comments about the wine maker and the vintage. I take the opportunity to coax my eyes away from Gregory and inhale deeply, trying to push oxygen to my clouded mind.
‘Have you decided?’ Amerigo asks, holding a white pad of paper and a small pen. When he arrived at the table is anyone’s guess.
‘I. Oh. I haven’t.’ I clear my throat but it brings no more cohesion to my words.
‘Actually, Scarlett,’ Gregory interjects, ‘I know what’s good here. Perhaps I could choose for us?’
I nod and take a sip of the cool, effervescent champagne. I don’t hear the exchange between Gregory and Amerigo.
When Amerigo leaves, we’re alone again. Closing my eyes, I take another sip of bubbles. Desire wells in my throat. I’m out of control. Every logical thought I’ve had about why I shouldn’t want him has escaped me. I have to have him.
My glass is gently tugged from my lips and guided to the table. I open my eyes to find Gregory’s face unbearably close to mine, our thighs touching under the table. He sighs and the scent of his breath, cool and fresh, pervades my senses.
‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he whispers.
My entire body tenses and my breath abandons my lungs.
His palm holds my cheek. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, resting at my chin, and my body yearns for him. He lifts my head to face him and leans closer to me, like he did in the theatre, like he did at Saunders, like he did at the gala. I don’t think I’ll survive another withdrawal.
‘Please.’
His eyes dart to mine, impeding the beating of my heart.
Finally, his lips are on mine. His kiss is soft, gentle and teasing. He nips my lower lip in his and I squirm closer to him, my hips tilt towards him as I groan into his mouth. It’s everything I imagined and more, so much more.
His full lips cover mine and my tongue brushes his front teeth, receiving a moan from him that resonates right where I want him. My fingers grab his hair at the nape of his neck and his kiss intensifies. It’s rough, carnal and exactly how I need it. With a firm hand on my lower back, he pulls my body towards him, my leg crossing his beneath the table, my back bowing towards him. I finally breathe, a heavy, hot pant as our tongues entwine.
A waiter feigns a cough at the tableside. ‘Your starters.’
Instantly shifting away from him and pressing my back into the booth, I’m hot, blushing and wired like a compressed spring, ready to explode. I smile meekly at the waiter as he places a deconstructed sushi plate in front of me. Sashimi salmon, crisp rice, soy jelly cubes and wasabi globules. It looks fantastic. Another waiter places a similar plate in front of Gregory.
The sommelier immediately replaces the waiters at our table and discusses our bottle of wine. Did I pick that or did he? Once again, the sommelier’s efforts are entirely wasted on my fuzzy mind.
