“Can’t.” I grab her hip and pull her against me, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me. “You walk out looking like that and expect me not to stare?”
She presses her palms to my chest. “We have a reservation.”
“I own the fucking place, babe. They’ll wait.”
“You own the…” she blinks. “Of course you do.”
* * *
The restaurant is on the waterfront. Italian. Private. The kind of spot where the city’s most powerful people eat and nobody bothers them.
When we walk in, every head turns. Not because of me. Because of her. My wife in that green dress, all curves and dark skin and quiet confidence she doesn’t even know she has. She walks next to me with her hand in mine, and I can see men clock her. I pull her closer. My hand moves from her hand to the small of her back.Look too close, and I’ll break every fucking bone in your body.
The maître d’ seats us in the back corner at a private table with dim lighting, in a curved booth.
Zara slides in, and I settle close to her with my thigh pressed against hers under the white tablecloth.
“This is insane,” she murmurs, looking around. “Me, sitting in a place like this in a dress that costs more than my rent.”
“Your old rent.”
She laughs, then picks up the menu, and her eyes go wide. “Nik. There are no prices.”
“You don’t need prices.”
“Everyone needs prices.”
“Baby. I own the place.”
She puts the menu down and gives me a look. “You know what’s annoying about you?”
I grin.
“The fact that you own everything. The restaurant, the penthouse, half the city, probably this tablecloth.” She tugs at the linen.
“I own everything at this table,” I say, and my hand lands on her bare thigh under the cloth. My fingers pressing into the soft, warm skin above her knee. “Including you.”
Her breath hitches. “Nik, we’re in public.”
“I know.” My hand slides higher.
The server appears. He smiles at Zara a beat too long, and I feel my jaw tighten.
“Good evening. Can I start you with…”
“We’ll have the Burrata to start,” I say, not looking at him. My eyes, on Zara. My hand moving under the tablecloth. “Then the truffle pasta. And sparkling water. No alcohol.”
He glances at Zara for confirmation. She opens her mouth to answer, but my fingers find the edge of her panties…
“That sounds perfect,” she manages in a tight voice.
He nods and leaves. And my fingers slip under the lace covering my wife’s pussy.
“Nik,” she whispers. Her hand grabs my wrist under the table. “There are people…”
“There are always people.” My fingers find her slit. She’s already wet. Of course, she is. My girl gets wet when I look at her, when I talk to her, when I breathe in her direction. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”
“No.”
