Page 40 of Broken Vows

I lift the corner of my brow. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

Oh, God. The look he flashes me would make my knees weak if I was standing up. There’s no denying this man radiates danger and sex from every pore—nothing about him suggests he’d ever be satisfied with anything plain.

But, of course, he would infer this from my response and not the fact that he has wealth, a mansion, and private chefs. The way he grew up surrounded by excess, with a palate refined far beyond most people’s. Of course vanilla’s not enough for him.

As we sample the cakes, silence settles between us except the faint noise of a buzzing phone that sounds from my bag. Each vibration needles my focus, my agitation building as I resist the urge to check whether it’s urgent. Across the table, I can feel something dark radiating off Theo, a coiled displeasure at the interruption, at my attention straying from him.

“For God’s sake, just answer your phone.” All softness evaporates. “And tell whoever the fuck it is to stop calling.”

I don’t appreciate the tone, but I step away from the table and take the call, ending it as quickly as I can. When I return and slide back into the chair, I offer a tight smile. “Sorry about that. Vendors just do not take no for an answer sometimes, huh?”

Theo doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t even blink.

The air thins. My skin heats under his unyielding stare and I shift in my seat.

“From now on,” he says quietly, “when you’re with me, you don’t answer your phone.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“When you’re with me,” he repeats, slower now, sharper, “you’re with me. Understood?”

“You can’t be serious?” God help me—my body reacts anyway. A traitorous warmth gathers low, my thighs pressing together beneath the table as I wonder what other lines he thinks he gets to cross.

Something is very wrong with me.

“Now,” he says, leaning back, crossing his arms, all commanding presence and contained threat, “are you expecting any other calls? Are you working with other clients?”

I shake my head. “You’re my only client. Sydney wants all my attention on you.”

I want all my attention on you.

Because, eventually, Theo will slip. He has to. And when it happens, I’ll be right here collecting every bit of evidence to show Annabelle.

He seems satisfied by my answer and as if the past few minutes didn’t happen, he picks up a fork again and resumes eating. “Okay, let’s try the raspberry one now,” he says.

I bite my tongue and let it slide, reminding myself of the end goal. I pick up my fork, cut a neat corner from the cake, and slip it into my mouth. “Mmmm…” Tart raspberry, smooth soft filling, a salted kiss from the almond frosting melts onto my tongue. “This right here, is a ten out of ten.” Like the lady I was raised to be, I dive in for one more heaping scoop. “God, that’s delicious.”

The corner of Theo’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “It must be. I think the whole city heard your moan.”

I clap my hand over my mouth. “Stop. That’s so embarrassing.”

“Never be embarrassed to be loud about the things that give you pleasure.” Why does he keep saying things like that? “Like delicious raspberry cake,” he adds, breaking the spell—thank Christ—and takes another bite.

The words still land, though. Because the men I’ve been with have always found fault in me—in how loud I am, how much space I take up, how easily I say the wrong thing.

The last guy I dated told me to be quiet while we were having sex. Quiet. Not as part of anything playful or intentional, like recklessly sneaking a quickie in a public place while making sure we don’t get caught. We were alone, in the privacy of my own home—mine, not even his—and he wanted me to tone myself down.

Maybe someday I’ll find someone who’ll embrace and celebrate every part of me.

“I’ve been told I can be… too loud… sometimes,” I say, hesitantly, “so, thank you.”

He pauses for a split-second, then resumes eating, reaching over to refill my wine as if nothing’s changed. But the seconds stretch, and heat crawls up my spine as mortification settles in. Why did I tell him that? It’s wildly unprofessional. Reckless. I’ve never spoken to a client like this.

And yet, Theo is disarmingly easy to talk to when he’s not being a dick. Which makes no sense, given our history.

I down a healthy glug of wine, pretending I’m not painfully aware of how awkward this suddenly feels.

“No one should make you feel small, ever,” he says quietly. The leather chair squeaks under his large frame as he reaches over and lays his hand on mine. The touch is charged and electric and the palm cocooning my hand sends ripples roaring through me. God, those hands. They could clasp around my neck, limit my air, give me that mouthwatering, intoxicating asphyxiation that I want to experience so fucking bad with someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who understands bodies, and can read me, and my pulse and knows how much pressure is enough, but not too much. What would they feel like, everywhere? My tits, my ass, my pussy? My nipples tighten as I picture those hands landing a hard smack on my ass.