That blond head turns as if he senses my arrival. His lips lift into a wide smile, revealing years’ worth of expensive orthodontics. Our eyes collide across the room. That invisible, ever-present chemistry powering between us.
His jaw could cut glass.
And his cheekbones? They could give a catwalk model a run for their money.
But the most attractive thing about him?
That quiet, commanding confidence. If I had to guess, I’d put him around thirty, maybe thirty-two. After his performance this morning, there’s no questioning his experience. Even from twenty feet away, he radiates charisma and control. His sheer presence could do with its own postcode.
Tate whispers, ‘Here if you need me,’ before taking his own table. The maître d’ leads me through the restaurant. The décor is yet another study in understated luxury: marble-topped tables, deep green velvet seats, and an entire wall covered in hand-painted ceramic tiles depicting the Amalfi Coast. Golden pendant lights hang low over each table, casting everything in a flattering, irresistible glow. But what’s truly irresistible is the scent of California’s rich cologne as he stands to greet me. That should come with a health warning because the heat flooding through my core could melt my clothes straight from my body.
He brushes his lips over my cheek in a greeting that sets goosebumps sizzling over my spine. ‘Irish,’ he mutters into my ear, and his hot breath fans my neck.
I slip into the seat beside him, and flash him a small smile.
His pupils flit over my face, then drop to take in my dress. ‘You look stunning.’
‘You’re not too shabby yourself.’ Understatement of the year. His top button is open, and I glimpse an inch of the tanned, taut chest I’ve been dreaming about touching all day as I lounged on the beach, pinching myself. My gaze falls to his forearms. They’re thick and strong, and the urge to reach out and touch them consumes me.
‘Drinks?’ The Maître d’ asks.
His eyes snap to mine. ‘Champagne.’ It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
He orders a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé Vintage without blinking. It’s my favourite champagne—bar my families own brand—and it’s also eye-wateringly expensive. Yep—he must do well for himself.
‘That’s exactly what I would have picked.’ I beam at him as the Maître d’ nods her approval, then swivels on her heels towards the bar.
‘I had a feeling we would have similar tastes.’ Hisinnuendo isn’t lost on me as his big bright eyes scan the room before finally finding Tate. ‘I see you brought your bodyguard.’ He picks up the menu from the table. ‘Is he going to watch us fuck as well as eat?’ His casual tone implies he couldn’t care either way. ‘Or is he going to stand outside the door and try to decipher if your screams are ones of pain or pleasure?’
My lip curls upwards. That filthy mouth. It’s fucking fabulous. A bolt of lust strikes between my thighs. I press them together and try to look utterly unaffected by the sordid scenario he’s painting. ‘Confident, aren’t you?’
‘Confident I can make you come ten times a day until next Tuesday?’ He tosses the menu on the table, affording me his full attention, the weight of which is debilitating. ‘Yes, I am.’
Next Tuesday.
He leaves the same day as me.
But where will he fly back to?
I push the thought down as quickly as it popped up. It doesn’t matter where he’s going. Who he is or what he does. What matters is if he’s as good with the rest of his body as he is with his fingers.
A waiter brings over the bottle of champagne balancing in a chrome cooler filled with ice. He pops the cork and pours it into two long-stemmed flutes before leaving me alone with my hot stranger again.
California lifts his glass and taps it against mine. ‘Cheers.’
‘What are we toasting?’
A wicked grin splits his lips apart. ‘To holiday flings, and carnal things.’
Amen to that.
Chapter Eight
COLE
Irish is clearly well educated. She has a particularly articulate way of keeping the conversation going without prying—and without revealing anything personal about herself.
Has she done this before?
