"No." He meets my eyes with an intensity that steals my breath. "I'm his brother. In every way that matters."
The intimacy of the moment wraps around us like silk, binding us together in ways I didn't anticipate. I'm learning more about Drake Moses in one dinner than I ever learned about Jonah in a year of dating, and the comparison makes my chest ache with regret for the time I wasted on the wrong brother.
"Come on." Drake rises from his chair and extends his hand. "Let's get out of here. I know a great place for a nightcap and something sweet."
I blink up at him. "Where are we going?"
"You should see the city." His mouth curves into a smile that makes my stomach flip. "Not just the cage I've put you in."
My face scrunches up with confusion. “Um. I am from here, you know.”
“Yes, but you haven’t seen the city with me.”
I take his outstretched hand. “I can’t argue with that.”
The car ride is its own form of exquisite torture.
Drake sits close enough that his thigh presses against mine, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of my skirt. His hand settles on the gear shift of the spicy sports car and with every down shift, the back of his knuckles graze my lower thigh.
My senses are hitting overdrive before we’ve made it five blocks from Redthorne Holdings.
Every time the car turns, my body sways toward him. Every time we stop, his hand finds my knee to steady me. His palm is warm and impossibly distracting. He traces idle patterns on my leg with his thumb, small circles that seem innocent but send sparks racing up my thigh and settling between my legs.
I'm hyper-aware of everything. The leather scent of the car interior. The soft jazz playing through the speakers. The way the city lights paint shadows across Drake's face as we drive. The cedar and whiskey notes of his cologne wrapping around me like an embrace.
By the time we pull up to the restaurant, my nerves are raw and exposed.
Drake exits first and turns to offer me his hand. I take it, and he helps me from the car with a grace that speaks of old-world manners and careful attention. The moment my heels hit the pavement, his hand settles on my lower back, warm and possessive through the silk of my blouse.
The touch grounds me even as it sets me on fire.
The restaurant rises before us like a temple to excess, all soaring glass walls and soft golden light spilling onto the sidewalk. Through the windows, I can see elegant patrons in designer clothes, candlelit tables draped in white linen, servers moving between them like dancers in a choreographed ballet.
Drake guides me toward the entrance, his hand never leaving the small of my back. The warmth of his palm sears through my blouse like a brand, and I feel the pressure of each individual finger against my spine.
The maître d' greets Drake by name and I watch heads turn as we're escorted through the dining room. Women in couture dresses track our progress with hungry eyes. Men in expensive suits pause mid-conversation to assess the silver fox commanding attention with every step.
But it's the way people look at us together that makes my breath catch.
They see a power couple. A matched set. A man who belongs in places like this and the woman he chose to bring with him.
At least that is how my imagination wants to play this out. It’s fun to pretend for an evening.
Drake walks with his shoulders squared and his chin lifted, pride radiating from every line of his body. His hand presses more firmly against my back, pulling me closer to his side as we navigate between tables. The gesture screamsmineto anyone watching.
This is new. This sensation of being claimed. Of being shown off rather than hidden away.
Jonah never looked proud to have me at his side. He walked ahead of me at events, barely acknowledging my presence until he needed someone to impress. He introduced me as an afterthought, his attention always drifting to the next beautiful woman who caught his eye.
But Drake touches me like I'm precious. Displays me like I'm a prize he won and can't quite believe belongs to him. The possession in his grip burns through my senses until I can barely remember my own name.
We reach our table, a private booth in the back with a view of the Chicago River through floor-to-ceiling windows. The water glitters with reflected city lights, and candles flicker in crystal holders, casting dancing shadows across the white linen.
Drake slides into the booth beside me rather than across from me, his thigh pressing against mine beneath the table. The contact sends electricity racing across my skin, and I have to focus on breathing normally as the waiter recites the evening's specials.
We order wine. Appetizers. Something for dessert that I'm certain I won't be able to eat after everything we enjoyed back at the office. The waiter disappears, and we're alone again in our little bubble of candlelight and tension.
"You're nervous." Drake's voice is low, meant only for my ears.
