13. Skye #2
We pull up to the restaurant five minutes early.
It’s a sleek, upscale spot tucked between two buildings that look too historic to be trendy. Reece steps out first and offers his hand to help me out. I take it because I want to. Because I like the way his fingers wrap around mine like they own them.
Inside, we’re led to a private dining room already filled with the low hum of conversation and the scent of filet mignon. The team is already seated—three men, two women. Reece introduces me simply as his new executive liaison, overseeing logistics and rollout strategy.
The dinner begins the way these things always do, handshakes, jokes about Boston traffic, and a round of wine poured by a server probably eager for a huge tip.
I smile, listen, engage. I lean into the conversation with practiced ease, deflecting one flirty comment with a laugh and redirecting another with a smart remark about numbers.
But I can feel Reece watching me. Not constantly. Not overtly. Just… in the spaces between. When I speak, his eyes linger on my mouth a beat too long. When I cross my legs, his jaw flexes. When someone makes a joke and I laugh, he doesn’t. He just watches.
By the time dessert arrives and the final rounds of wine have been poured, the clients thank us and head out for the night. And the second the last suit clears the room, Reece leans back in his chair, lifts his scotch to his lips, and meets my gaze like he’s just decided he’s done pretending.
He’s looking at me like he’s trying to decide if he wants to be the good guy or the man who ruins me tonight.
So I give him a little encouragement by reaching down and unbuttoning my blazer before easing it down my shoulders.
I place it on the chair next to me, then reach for my glass, tipping the last of my wine to my lips.
“So,” I say, voice light. “Do you miss it?”
His brow lifts just a notch. “Miss what?”
“Sex.”
He smirks, then he tilts his head, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “What makes you think I’d miss it?”
There’s something dangerous in the way he says it. Insinuating. Like he wants me to picture someone else in his bed, like he wants to see how I’ll react.
I arch a brow. “That supposed to be your way of saying you haven’t gone without?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a slow sip of scotch. I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Fine. When’s the last time you had sex?”
That gets him. Not a flinch, not even a blink, but the way he exhales tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
He doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t answer that either. Instead, he says, “Touch. That’s what I miss.”
I sit back, watching him. “Not the act?” I press. “Not the orgasms?”
His voice stays low. Steady. “It’s not just about getting off. Of course I miss that aspect but more than that…” His words trail off for a second. “It’s about the quiet after. The way someone’s breath changes. The weight of their body, the sweat, the need they create in your body for them.”
Jesus.
My heart’s pounding, and he hasn’t even moved. Hasn’t touched me. Hasn’t said a single thing that should make me this wet. I drag my nail along the base of my wineglass. “What kind of touch do you miss the most?”
His gaze flicks to my hand, then back to my face. “The kind that lingers.”
I hum, a low, thoughtful sound. “You like it slow, then.”
“I like it deliberate.”
He’s not flirting. He’s not teasing. He’s confessing. And I want more.
“So you haven’t had a one-night stand since your wife died?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like being touched by people who don’t fucking know me.”
I nod slowly. I can feel the tension building like a storm cloud between us. It’s in the air. The silence. The throb low in my belly that won’t go away no matter how deep I breathe. I want to ask him if I fucking know him. If I’ll be allowed to touch him.
He shifts in his chair, leg brushing mine beneath the table. It’s not an accident. “What about you?” he asks. “You miss it?”
“Yes,” I quickly confess. “I miss being kissed like I’m about to be undone.”
His lips part. Just a breath.
“I miss teeth on my neck. Hands gripping my hips. Someone who knows how to use their mouth without asking for directions.”
Reece adjusts in his seat like he’s too aware of his own body now.
“I miss not having to pretend I don’t want it,” I add. “I miss someone looking at me like they’ve waited all damn day to get inside me.”
His hand clenches around his glass. I know I’m pushing. I want to push.
“You ever think about?—”
“Yes.”
I blink. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and thick. “You were going to ask if I’ve thought about fucking you.” He studies me. His voice drops to something darker. “The answer is yes.”
I swallow. Hard.
“I think about it when you walk past my office and I see the gentle sway of your hips. When you wear your hair up, leaving your neck exposed. When you sit across from me in meetings and pretend you don’t know every man in the room is staring at your mouth.”
He pauses, his eyes settling on me like he’s waiting for me to break. “But I stare at your throat. Because that’s where I want to put my hand when you come.”
The air’s gone. Evaporated. I can't move. I can't even fake a comeback. He casually leans back in his seat, like he didn’t just rip the breath from my lungs.
“And you?” he asks calmly. “Do you ever think about what my hands would feel like between your thighs?”
“Yes.”
He exhales like the sound of my answer pulls the breath from his lungs.
I rest my hands on the table. “I think about your voice. What it would sound like when you’re close. I think about what you’d say when I’m begging you to come inside me.”
His jaw flexes. His breath comes slower now. Tighter.
“I think,” I add, my voice a whisper, “about what it would feel like to be completely at the mercy of a powerful man who never loses control… until me.”
“And I think, that if we don’t leave this room right now,” he says, standing up in a rush, “I’m going fuck you so thoroughly this entire restaurant is going to hear you scream my name.”
I stare at him as I stand up and take a step toward him. “And what happens if we leave?” I whisper.
His eyes drag up my body like a hungry wolf, his body towering, looming, the barely leashed hunger in his gaze burning hotter than anything he’s said all night. He reaches his hand out, brushing my hair away from my face.
“Then I’m going to ruin you so thoroughly, so deeply for any other man, my name will be burned into the back of your throat with how loud you scream it.”