I steer the conversation to chit-chat, keeping my eye on the room instead of wholly on her, which is fucking hard. Lola has no idea how hot she is, how unbelievably sexy in her work clothes.
Fantasy work clothes.
Thank fuck she isn't in one of the sluttier ones I got.
And slutty suits her.
Classy, too.
Anything, actually. I'll take her any way she comes.
But there's something about the green silk long-sleeve shirt that's almost sheer, and the hunter green pencil skirt and black stilettos that make her almost irresistible.
No wonder a number of men are eyeing her in a way I recognize. I've been there, done that.
And the erection I've been fighting all night is winning the battle.
I motion to the waitress and hand her my card.
After I tip, we head outside, and again, I can sense that tension in the air. The wrong kind. This one is a waiting heaviness.
I want that taut one buzzing with sex and anticipation, not whatever this is.
It's about a ten-minute walk home.
I look up at the cloudless night sky. "Nice night. We should walk."
I don't wait for an answer.
My people are here, watching, waiting, and the SUV we came in is waiting. It's a custom, black windows, and very roomy in the back. Like a limo, there's a partition, too, in case sensitive things need to be discussed or done.
I call it and text Rich, who is in charge of Lola tonight, to follow her and memorize the license plate.
Then I say, "Something's come up. You can walk home."
She stares at me. "Excuse me?"
"Walk. You. Without me."
She's still staring.
"You want your freedom, right? Well, you can have it right up to my front door."
My car pulls up, and I open the door.
But I don't think she's getting the memo.
I want to play secretary with her, but this time, I want to shock her with it.
"Wait."
I sigh. "What is it, Lola?"
"You invite me out somewhere nice, and now you're making me walk home?"
"That sums it up." I make a show of looking at my watch.
"Have you ever tried walking in six-inch stilettos? Because here's a tip, it's fucking hard."
