"Jesus Christ."
"What?"
"That dress." He moved toward me. "Come here."
I stayed put. "You said dinner."
"I did." He kept coming until he was right in front of me. "But first I need to confirm something."
His hand slid up my thigh, under the hem of the dress.
"Good girl," he murmured, finding nothing but bare skin. "You followed orders."
"You said it wasn't a suggestion."
"I did." His fingers traced higher, teasing. "And you obeyed so perfectly."
I grabbed his wrist. "You said dinner."
"I'm having an appetizer." But he withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth. "Fuck. You're already wet."
"Stop that."
"Stop being turned on by you, or stop noticing that you're turned on by me?"
"Both."
He laughed and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward a small table I hadn't noticed before. It was set for two—actual china, silverware, wine glasses. A covered dish sat in the center, smelling incredible.
"You cooked?" I asked, surprised.
"Shocked?"
"A little."
"I'm full of surprises." He pulled out my chair. "Sit."
I sat hyperaware of my bare skin against the leather chair. Of the way, Olek's eyes tracked my every movement as he took his own seat across from me.
He uncovered the dish—chicken in some kind of cream sauce, vegetables, pasta.
"This looks amazing," I admitted.
"Family recipe." He served me first, then himself. "My mother insisted that all her sons know how to cook. Said we shouldn't rely on women to feed us."
"Smart woman."
"She was." Something sad flickered in his expression. "Died when I was sixteen."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Long time ago." He poured wine—red, expensive-looking. "Eat."
I took a bite and nearly moaned. It was incredible—rich and savory and perfectly seasoned.
"Good?" he asked, watching me.
"Really good." I took another bite.
