The bartender doesn’t so much as blink at this late-night delivery. It only deepens my curiosity about who exactly he is. Or rather, how influential this man must be to make bending the rules feel routine.
He opens the box to reveal an elegant slice of cake that looks almost too perfect to touch. Layers of white cake stacked between glossy sheets of raspberry glaze catch the light like a work of art. Placing it between us, he slides one of the forks toward me.
“Well, Lilly,” he says, meeting my eyes as he adjusts the cake’s placement like he’s presenting an offering. “I promised you the best, and I don’t like breaking promises.”
I glance at him suspiciously but can’t stop myself from reaching for the forks. Handing him one, I slice through the decadent layers. He waits, watching me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine, as if the simple act of cutting cake holds his undivided attention. Once I have my bite ready, he mirrors me, carefully piercing a piece of the treat. Then, to my surprise, he extends his fork toward mine.
“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he says softly, his deep voice brushing over me like a caress. “It might be your birthday, but meeting you this evening, being in your presence, has been the best gift I could have asked for.”
My chest tightens, and not just from his words, but the way he looks at me as he says them. Steady, piercing, leaving no room for doubt.
Jesus. Who talks like this?
I tap my fork to his, a smirk playing on my lips to hide the sudden rush of nerves, and we both take our bites. The second the cake hits my tongue, my eyes fall shut, a moan of pleasure escaping me.
“Holy hell,” I mumble, covering my mouth as I savor the blend of fruit, cake and subtle sweetness. “This is amazing.”
He nods approvingly, setting his fork on the bar like a man completely assured of his choices. “It’s from a little bakery a couple miles from here. It’s run by the sweetest old Italian woman. Everything Valerie makes is pure perfection.”
He floors me. The sharp contrast between his imposing presence, tattoos inked into his knuckles, an expensive watch gleaming against his wrist, his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin, then his casually dropped mention of a granny with a knack for baked goods spins my head.
“You woke her up this late just for a piece of cake?” I ask, arching a brow.
His lips curve into a faint smirk. “No, I let her sleep. The delivery was courtesy of her grandson.” He shifts, his legs brushing mine, heat radiating from him even in the dim light of the bar. “And it’s not just a piece of cake. It’s a celebration.”
The weight of his words presses against my skin, the way he makes it sound like more.
“Do you live in Detroit?” I prod, curious to keep the layers of him unraveling.
He shakes his head, his dark gaze never leaving my face. “Chicago. But I’m here for business often enough to feel at home.”
“What kind of business?”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face as he answers, “Real estate. Art. A little bit of everything.”
It’s vague, purposefully so. A part of me itches to press, to tell him I know Chicago well, but another part holds back. Tonight isn’t the kind of night for revelations.
“How long are you in town for?” I ask, carving another bite from the cake as if distracting myself will temper the fire brewing between us.
But then he moves closer, his fingers brushing my hair to one side. His knuckles graze my neck as he tucks the strands behind my shoulder, and when I feel his breath at the edge of my ear, my pulse stumbles.
“I’d love to keep up this casual back-and-forth,” he murmurs, his voice teasing. “But now that you’ve had your cake, I can’t help wondering if you taste just as sweet.”
I lift my fingers,making a subtle checkmark in the air to signal the bartender to close my tab. The weight of her gaze burns into me, but I don’t glance her way. I let her hang in that sliver of silence that demands an answer she may not want to admit.
“You think champagne and cake will get me into your bed?” she asks, her tone sharp. But she can’t mask the slight catch in her breath, the way her pulse visibly quickens beneath the delicate skin of her neck.
I turn my head just enough to meet her eyes, the corner of my mouth curving. “No,” I reply evenly. “You’re not that kind of woman. But I know chemistry when I feel it, Lilly. And a birthday girl,” I lean closer, my voice dipping lower, “always deserves to come. At least twice.”
Her breath hitches, and I don’t miss the way her lips part, no matter how much she tries to fight it. My words are direct, shameless, and I mean every single one of them. I’ve been holding myself back all night, letting tension come to a breaking point between us, but it’s damn near unbearable now. I need to feel her skin against mine, taste the sweetness lingering on her tongue, drown in the soft sounds I know she’ll make.
She rolls her eyes, a weak shield for her flushing cheeks. “And you think you’re capable of making me come twice?”
I let the smirk deepen, refusing to look away. “I don’t think, Iknow.” My gaze drops to her lips before locking onto her eyes again. “Hell, if you let me, I might make it three.”
Her cheeks bloom into a deeper crimson. Her mouth opens, as though she has some snappy comeback, but nothing comes out. Instead, she stammers, “I’m not—I just…”
That’s my cue.
