Page 51 of The Summer We Lie

Fuck. I'd forgotten about the clubbing plan. The thought of Harper and Skye dressed like this in the clubs of Los Angeles makes my jaw clench and add to it the fake ID’s, fuck. My daughter can handle herself—I know this—but I don't like the idea of predatory men looking at her. And Skye... the image of other men watching her, wanting her, possibly touching her on a dance floor makes something dark and possessive twist inside me. Mine. The word surfaces unbidden, dangerous in its intensity.

"I can handle myself," Harper says, reading my expression with the ease of someone who's known me her entire life. "Now, are you done acting like I'm fifteen so we can go to dinner?"

"Fine," I concede, though my tone makes it clear I'm not happy. "But I don't have to like it."

She smiles, satisfied with her victory, and walks toward the garage door. Skye follows, passing close enough that I catch the soft scent of her skin. As she moves by, she gives me a glance over her shoulder—a devious little smile that speaks volumes about what happened earlier and what might happen later. That smile contains blueprints for a thousand filthy scenarios, each more tempting than the last.

I want to bite those lips. To taste her mouth the way I've tasted other parts of her. To claim every inch of her body until she understands she belongs to me.

God, this girl is driving me insane. I came watching her live show last night, then had to take care of myself again after getting her off just twenty minutes ago. Now I'm getting hard again, watching her walk away in that dress, knowing she's still wet from my touch. My self-control is crumbling to dust around her.

I take a deep breath and drain the water bottle, crushing it in my hand. Tonight is going to be torture. Watching her all evening, knowing I can't touch her the way I want to, not with Harper right there. Thinking of other men looking at her in that club, maybe trying to dance with her. I begin calculating the exact angle and pressure needed to break a stranger's fingers should they touch what's mine.

But she's not mine. What is she doing to me...

I toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin and follow them to the garage, trying to shift my thoughts to something—anything—that might calm my body's reaction to her. Cold showers. Building codes. The structural integrity of load-bearing walls. Because the last thing I need is to sit through dinner with an obvious hard-on while trying to maintain a normal conversation with my daughter.

I follow the girls toward the entrance of STK, watching the sway of Skye's hips as she walks ahead of me. The valet takes my truck keys with a respectful nod, and I turn my attention back to Harper and Skye. I extend both arms, offering one to each of them.

"Ladies," I say, the gesture automatic—something my father taught me years ago about how a man escorts women.

They both step forward, each wrapping an arm through mine. Harper's grip is casual, familiar—the easy confidence of a daughter who's done this a hundred times. Skye's touch is lighter, more tentative, her fingers resting delicately in the crook of my elbow. Even that innocent contact sends electricity coursing up my arm. The faint scent of her reaches me, and my mind flashes back to how she smelled when I had her naked body against me—that intoxicating mix of arousal and something uniquely her that I could become addicted to if I allowed myself.

Focus, Dom.

We walk through the entrance, and I'm immediately grateful for the restaurant's dim lighting. It helps mask whatever expression might be betraying my thoughts. The sophisticated ambiance with its modern lines and strategic lighting would normally appeal to my architectural sensibilities, but tonight my attention is elsewhere.

"Reservation for three, Grayson," I tell the host at the podium, keeping my voice level and controlled.

He checks his tablet and nods. "Yes, sir. Right this way."

We follow him through the restaurant, past the bar where businessmen in expensive suits eye the girls as we pass. I feel my jaw tighten, fighting the urge to glare at each one of them. One particularly bold executive lets his gaze linger too long on Skye, and I feel my hand instinctively tighten at my side. The host leads us to a booth in the back, partially secluded from the main dining area—exactly what I requested when I made the reservation. Private, discreet, perfect for us to enjoy our night without interruption. At least that was my intention when I made the call.

Harper releases my arm first, sliding into the right side of the booth with practiced ease. I expect Skye to follow, but she steps back, her green-gold eyes meeting mine briefly.

"Go ahead, so you can sit by Harper," she says, her voice soft enough that only I can hear.

I hesitate, not loving the idea of being boxed in, my natural preference for strategic positioning warring with the opportunity to sit next to Harper. Finally, I slide in next to Harper. Skye follows, settling in beside me, the length of her thigh now pressed against mine under the table. The contact is maddening—casual enough to seem innocent but intense enough to send heat racing through my body. Her warmth seeps through the thin material of my slacks, creating a point of connection that dominates my awareness.

"Your server will be right with you," the host says before departing with a professional smile.

I look between the two of them, trying to focus on normal dinner conversation rather than how Skye's dress has ridden up slightly as she sat down, exposing another inch of thigh. The soft, pale skin there looks impossibly smooth, and I have to fight the urge to run my hand along it, to feel if it's as silky as it appears.

"You guys want a glass of wine?" I ask, forcing my voice to remain casual, parental.

Harper perks up. "Will you get that one I love for us? I can't ever remember the name."

"Yeah, for you too?" I ask Skye, turning toward her, which proves to be a mistake. At this angle, I can see the swell of her breasts in that dress, the way the fabric strains slightly across her chest when she breathes. The neckline isn't even particularly revealing, but knowing what's beneath it, having already tasted her skin, makes it impossible not to imagine more.

"Trust me, you'll love it," Harper tells Skye with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to the tension radiating between us.

Skye smiles at Harper. "I trust you. Same for me," she says, glancing back at me. Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.

"Have you been to STK before?" Harper asks Skye, breaking the moment.

"No. What's good?" Skye looks at the space around us, taking in the modern décor and ambient lighting. Her eyes widen slightly as she absorbs the upscale atmosphere, and I find myself wondering how many places like this she's been to before.

"Well, they're mostly known for their steaks, but you can't go wrong with anything," I say, grateful for the mundane topic. Something safe to anchor my wandering thoughts.