She bobbed her head. "If the vodka works, keep pouring it."
He responded with a deep laugh that warmed my skin like a blanket fresh from the dryer. "We're not in the military anymore, Toto."
"Not nearly," she said before glancing back at me. "Take the old boy out and keep him busy for a bit. He won't say it but he's starved for the real world and human companionship and all those things."
Wes hunched forward as he laced his hands on the table, his shoulders dropping. He looked shy. I liked him shy. I liked him vulnerable. The cocky SEAL thing didn't do it for me but I'd take a sweet, quiet boy any day.
"If I wasn't busy with my duties as milkmaid and chief baby cuddler, I'd tag along with you," Shannon said.
"I need some clothes," he said. "I didn't come here with anything and I really hate the underwear my mother bought."
"Then you should go without," I said, not stopping to think for a second. I wasn't going to chastise my boss for believing she had any business in a martinis-and-underwear outing. Meddling was her way, in all things. "Okay. Let's have lunch and then go shopping."
"Sounds like a fun afternoon," she added.
Wes stared at me as a smile brightened his eyes before reaching his lips. "I think it will be."
* * *
Wes leaned forward,peering out the windshield as I unbuckled my seatbelt.
"Is this," he started slowly, "a…mall?"
"Yes, it is," I replied, settling my scarf around my neck. If I kept my hands busy, I wouldn't accidentally rub his chest or throw myself into his lap. I wouldn't drown myself in his scent or demand he rub that scruffy beard of his between my legs. And I wouldn't ask how he was doing or whether his back was itchy again, or anything like that. If I kept my hands busy, I'd remember all the reasons this wasn't safe for me. "Malls are where people buy clothes, which is what you asked to do this afternoon."
"I don't think I've been to a mall since I was a teenager." He glanced over at me, taking in my charcoal trousers, tailored shirt, robin's egg tie, and vest—another fucking vest. "Is this where you shop?"
"Not that it matters but no, it's not." I shoved my keys and phone into my coat pockets. "Shall we?"
As I reached for the door handle, Wes stilled me with an arm across my chest. "Why aren't we going somewhere you shop?"
I stared down at the hard plastic of the brace on his arm. It saved me from bathing in his pouty question and enjoying the feel of him holding me still, the rough possession hadn't dissolved since last week. "Do you need a bespoke suit?"
"I don't know." His brows furrowed, he stared at my eyes behind my glasses, my lips. When he sucked in a breath, I knew he was remembering everything. I was too. "Maybe I do."
"I don't think you need a suit," I whispered.
Wes curled the hand resting on my chest into a loose fist, gathering up my shirt and tie and edging me toward him as he leaned closer. His lips hovered over mine as he said, "Tell me what I need, Tom."
It was my turn to gasp—and shift away. "There are a few shops that will meet your needs in here and, at the off chance you can't live without a decent suit, we'll stop into Nordstrom."
Wes didn't release my shirt and tie from his hold. I could've shaken him but neither of us wanted that. No, I preferred the super-fucked-up option of refusing him while also savoring the entitlement to my body he possessed. "And that martini lunch I was promised?"
"How about The Cheesecake Factory?"
A jagged, broken laugh burst out of him. "All right, Tom. We'll play it your way." I sensed him shifting closer, his chest meeting my shoulder and the warmth of his breath on my ear. "But don't forget what happened the last time you thought you were running the game."
As if I could.
* * *
I scowledat the martini across the table. I didn't have an issue with the martini, not exactly, but I refused to watch while Wes curled his tongue around the olives impaled on the cocktail stick that arrived with his martini. It was gratuitous—and intentional.
"You're sure you don't want something stronger?" he asked, stabbing the stick in the direction of my mineral water with lime.
"Certain." I ran my fingers over the damp edge of the paper napkin beneath my drink. It was fruitless as this napkin was bound to disintegrate before our meals arrived but it gave me something to do. And that was what I needed when seated across from the captor of my every waking thought.
Now finished with the olives and his show of oral acrobatics, Wes laced his fingers around the stem of his glass, asking, "Busy week at the office?"
