I smile softly. “So do you.”
The hum of the engine kicks up as the car starts moving, the privacy partition already raised.
“How was your afternoon?” he asks.
“It was good. Everything for the launch party has been finalized and the marketing all rolls out next week. We’re almost set.” I shift slightly in my seat, causing the silk to fall further across my skin and reveal another inch of thigh.
His expression remains cool. “I don’t want to discuss work tonight.” He takes my hand in his, resting it in his lap. His cock is already hard beneath my palm. His other hand moves until his fingertips touch the bare skin of my thigh.
My mouth goes dry as I try to control my breathing.
He drags his fingers higher, taking full advantage of the slit in my dress. My legs part instinctively.
When he reaches the apex of my thighs, my lips separate and my body hums.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he says, his voice dripping with lust.
I whimper when he slides a finger through my folds, finding me soaked and aching.
“Christ,” he groans. “Always so wet for me.”
He pulls his fingers away and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean while he watches me.
My eyes hood.
“Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’ll bend you over the nearest surface,” he says.
Holy. Crap.
The car pulls to a stop at the curb before I can get a word out. The driver opens the door and I climb out after Max, who takes my hand tightly in his and leads me inside.
The restaurant is almost as extravagant as the hotel.
“Booking for Browne,” Max says as we approach the host.
“Right this way, sir,” the waiter says, leading us to a dimly lit corner enclosed with sheer dark curtains. Lanterns dot the room, creating a moody and expensive atmosphere. It’s romantic.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter asks after we’re seated.
I scan the wine menu, somewhat overwhelmed and blown away by the prices. Jesus Christ, I thought Lance’s coffee was overpriced—this wine list is obscene. Eight hundred pounds for an Australian red? What’s it made of?
Max watches me patiently over the top of his menu as I carefully make my selection, deciding on the most expensive by-the-glass Grenache—sod it, I might as well make the most of it. He orders a Shiraz.
“I’ll be back to take your orders,” the waiter says before gliding away, leaving us alone in our little alcove.
I uncross my legs and my dress whispers over my skin. Max’s eyes flicker to the sound and I roll my lips to suppress a smile.
“So. What do you want to know?” I ask.
He stares at me for a beat. “Everything.”
I clear my throat. “How’s Grayson’s eye?” I ask, ignoring the way my insides twist.
Max laughs, and it’s so boyish and relaxed compared to how I’ve previously seen him.
“Much better,” he says.
He goes on to tell me about New York—not just the glossy parts that everyone hears about, but the gritty details. His time at NYU, moving to a new country in his twenties, and how he came to work for Grayson.
