I wait, and perhaps it’s the silence, the long stretch between our conversation, that makes his attention finally snap back to me.
“I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew.” He adjusts his tie and sips his wine. He glances at my glass, notes it’s empty, and reaches for the bottle to refill it without asking.
I don’t say anything. He seems the kind of guy who’s used to getting his way without asking, and I would like another glass if I’m going to stay. Although that’s still to be determined.
“I work for my family’s business and purchase the real estate that I believe may be a good investment for us, both here in the US and overseas.”
“Oh wow, that sounds more exciting than my job. Although I do travel a lot. I often fly out to London or Paris, as we have firms in both locations.”
He studies me intensely, and I feel my skin prickle with awareness. That delicious warmth settles in the pit of my stomach, and there it is again—that chemistry that wraps around us like a piece of string.
Isn’t that a thing? The red-string theory? Pretty sure it is…
Our main course, roasted duck with an orange-ginger glaze, is placed before us. The scent of the orange teases my senses, and I understand completely why there is such a waitlist to come dine here.
“This smells delicious. I can’t wait to devour it.”
Stephen growls as he picks up his fork and knife. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and I know to my very marshmallowy core he doesn’t mean the food, but me. Devour? Does he want to eat me that badly?
I bite my lip, unable to stop the memory of the last time he went down on me. My attention moves to his mouth as he chews his food. He has a very clever tongue, and he obviously enjoys women, or he wouldn’t do something so intimate to them.
Lucky for me, I guess.
Without a word, he moves to sit beside me, shifting his plate and glassware without raising an eyebrow elsewhere in the restaurant. He’s so close to me now. I can feel his heat and smell his cologne.
A faint clink of cutlery from nearby tables blends with a low hum of conversation.
I breathe deep. Damn, he smells good.
I start as his hand slips onto my thigh, squeezing my leg. I meet his gaze, and I can see nothing but determination burning in his brown eyes.
I look around, hoping the long, white tablecloth will hide anything Stephen has in store for me. Having thought of nothing else but his hands on me the last half hour, even with his distraction, all I want is for him to touch me. Feeling far bolder than I should, I reach below the table and slip my hand on top of his. His are large, strong, and a little coarse. Hands that don’t seem to suit the occupation he holds.
I move his hand upward, toward my weeping sex that wants nothing but to be touched, even here in the middle of this beautiful restaurant.
His eyes darken with hunger. I relish the sight of him looking at me in this way. Like I’m the only person in the world, the only person he desires.
“Naughty girl.”
His deep, gravelly voice whispered against my ear does things to me no one else ever has. Makes me want to be what he wants, what he’d like. What I’d like to be. “Only when around you,” I admit, not sure if I should be so vulnerable so soon into knowing this man, but we’ve already done more than most. I can’t see what the harm is.
He leans close and kisses my neck. It’s electric. I feel his warm mouth as if it’s kissing all over my body, and I’m helpless to stop him. I ache for him, want him with a need that’s fierce and strange, but wonderful, too.
“You smell so good,” he whispers. His hand presses against my sex. With nimble ease, he works his hand under my panties. We lock eyes, and he’s all wickedness. I love it. I want him to touch me, make me feel as good as I know he can.
“And wet. You want me, Dallen?”
I swallow, nodding. I do want him, but I fear if I speak right at this moment, others in the restaurant will hear—hear the need in my voice that may give away what Stephen is doing to me under the tablecloth.
He glides one finger into my sex, and I clasp the table, spreading my legs and hoping no one can see. I am wet, so embarrassingly so that I doubt I’ll ever live down the shame, but I don’t push him away.
He fucks me with his hand before everyone in the restaurant and I’m powerless to stop him. I don’t want to stop him. I want more. Thoughts of pushing him back in his chair, straddling his legs, and guiding him into me bombard my mind. Of him picking me up, thrusting everything on the table to the floor, and eating me for his dinner instead of the meal we’ve come out for.
“Dallen? Is that you?”
The sound of my mother’s voice douses my desire instantly.
