‘Can I order for you?’ I ask.
Her lips slant up. ‘Like being in charge, do you?’ Her foot remains locked around my leg.
‘Yes.’ There’s no point denying it. Not when I’m planning on taking complete charge tonight.
She sits back in her chair, sweeping a hand in front of her face. ‘Go on then. Surprise me.’
Oh, I plan to. She folds her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them higher. My dick is straining, desperate to get out. Fuck. Not here, buddy. Not fucking here.
I avert my eyes to the menu. ‘We’ll start with thecarpaccio di manzo,’ I tell the waiter. ‘Then the handmade truffle tagliatelle for the lady.’ I pause, letting the moment stretch. ‘And the wagyu osso buco for me.’
‘Good choice,’ she concedes, her tone thick with approval.
‘I have excellent taste.’ My eyes fall to her mouth.
‘Obviously.’ She watches me intently, like she’s trying to figure me out. Good luck with that. I’ve been trying to figure me out my entire life with no luck.
The waiter slips away. She rests her chin on her hand, studying me like she’s committing every inch of my face to memory.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ she asks thoughtfully.
I fold my hands on the table. ‘You can ask, that doesn’t mean I’ll answer though. No deep and meaningful conversation was your idea, remember.’
Her breath catches. Just a fraction. But I hear it—her hesitation. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’ I snort. ‘I’m not a good man, but I’m not an asshole.’
She nods.
‘Why did you ask?’ I murmur.
‘I just find it hard to believe that a woman hasn’t locked you down, given your looks, fingers, skills, and age, which I’m guessing is—’ she pauses, smirking at me again ‘—mid to late thirties.’
‘Ouch! I’m thirty-four, smart-ass.’ I huff out a breath, and she laughs. ‘Several women have tried to lock me down, but not necessarily because of my looks or, what did you call it?’ I muse, ‘Finger skills. Anyway, let’s not go there. Anonymity was your request.’
‘To sex with strangers,’ she says, lifting her glass.
I clink mine gently against hers. ‘To sex withastranger.’
She laughs again. The sound is throaty, rich, and it curls around me like an utterly addictive smoke.
For the next two hours, we don’t talk about names, families, careers, or anything that would tether us to reality. Instead, we talk about food, travel, the art on the walls, the notes in the champagne.
And fuck, with every minute that passes, I only want her more.
When the waiter brings over dessert menus, she nudges hers aside.
‘I think we know what we’re having,’ she says, eyes lifting to mine, slow and deliberate.
My grip tightens on my glass. Thank fuck.
She hands back the menus with a small shake of her head.
Game on.
‘My place or yours?’ I ask.
She pushes her chair back with her thighs. ‘It’ll have to be mine.’ Her eyes flit to her bodyguard, who’s already making his way for the exit, probably to sweep her suite before she goes back. I’m used to having a security team. I know the drill.
