“Dude.” She rubs her belly again. “I am way too full.”
“A deal’s a deal, remember?”
“Fiiiine,” Violet drags out, but I don’t miss the subtle tilt of her mouth. Call me crazy, but I think my girl likes being doted on. “Then, uh, you pick,” she decides. “I’m good with whatever.”
Looking up at the waitress, I say, “We’ll take the mango sticky rice and a bunch of to-go boxes for the leftovers. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
As the waitress leaves, I catch Violet’s frown.
“There a problem?” I ask.
“I thought you said a deal’s a deal.”
“And?”
“And you said if I get dessert, I have to promise to let you have dessert, too,” she reminds me.
“And?” I repeat.
“Does that mean we’re sharing? I mean, it’s fine, I already feel like my stomach is going to burst, but?—”
“The mango rice is for you.”
“Then what about your dessert?” she challenges. “If a deal’s a deal, then I believe I owe you.”
Add it to the list, I want to tell her, but instead, I lean my elbows against the table and drop my voice low, revealing the truth. “Unless you’d like to climb onto this table right now and spread those pretty little thighs, I suggest we wait until we getback to my place.” A light pink sweeps across her cheeks, and her lips part on a gasp.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it. Maybe I shouldn’t assume we’re going to wind up in one of each other’s beds tonight. But the thing about Violet is…I don’t give a shit.
“Is that a problem, Little Thief?” I challenge.
She shakes her head. “N-no?”
“Good girl.” With a snap of my fingers, I grab our waitress’s attention. “Check, please.”
38
VIOLET
Want to know the best way to knock a girl off guard? It’s to mention eating her out in the middle of a restaurant. I squeeze my thighs together, unable to think about anything else except Jagger’s not-so-subtle promise as he drives us down the road.
I’m nervous. Should I be nervous? I mean, it makes sense to be nervous. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t wasted the last time we hooked up, but I definitely had enough liquid courage to push me past my insecurities and into Jagger’s bed.
Now, though? I peek at Jagger. With one wrist resting on the steering wheel and his head bobbing ever so slightly to the song playing through the speakers, he looks like a freaking model who jumped off the pages of a high-end magazine. And his other hand? It’s planted firmly on my upper thigh. His thumb continues its casual sweep along the outside of my leg. Back and forth. Back and forth. I fight the urge to spread my legs right here and now, just to see if he’s bold enough to move his hand north.
I wouldn’t complain if he did. Hell, I’d welcome it. But I’m not about to push my luck.
When I catch a ghost of a smile, I swear he’s reading my mind.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Tired?”
“Nope.”
“Want me to drop you off at your place?”
“Nope.” It comes out as a squeak, and his smile grows.
