Chapter 6 Kensie
KENSIE
Ican’t shake the nerves ricocheting around my stomach as I make my way into the restaurant. They’ve been pretty much a constant since Grant texted me to set this up, and they’re only getting worse as the time to see him gets closer.
I have no idea how I’m going to face him after the way I acted the other night.
Bursting into tears on his lap after a scene that I specifically requested—practically begged for!
—was beyond embarrassing. And yes, he’d been pretty amazing about the whole thing, but still.
There’s been a part of me that wondered if he wouldn’t want to see me again.
So I was more than a little shocked when I got the text requesting my presence tonight. And even more shocked when he insisted on meeting at this restaurant instead of the club.
I’ve never seen him outside of Wyld. The very idea makes me feel jumpy.
I also can’t shake the worry that he’s planning to call things off and wants to do it in a neutral territory. I have no idea how I’ll react if that’s the case—I might just burst into tears in front of him for the second time.
Don’t be silly, I tell myself as I approach the hostess stand. You’ll be a big girl and control yourself, no matter what he has to say.
“Ms. Milton?” The hostess asks, voice warm, before I even open my mouth. “Mr. Anderson is already here. He asked me to bring you straight to him.”
“Oh,” I say, sounding stupid. But I’m caught off guard. He must have told the hostess what I looked like. I can’t deny the little shot of warmth the realization gives me. Just like Grant to make sure I wasn’t waiting around to be helped.
As your Dom, my entire job is to take care of you.
That’s what he said to me that night in the dungeon. The memory makes me feel as breathless as it did that night.
“If you’ll come this way,” the hostess says, and I shake myself out of the swirling, confusing mental spiral as I follow her into the dining area.
The restaurant is nice, clearly high-end with its art deco furnishings and unique light fixtures.
But it feels different from the places Fred would take me.
All of those fancy restaurants were clearly designed to see and be seen.
To show off and network. This place feels warmer, with the low lighting and soft jazz.
The cozy booths dotting the space allow for way more privacy than any place I’d been to with my ex.
Stop thinking about him, I order myself.
That demand gets a whole lot easier to follow when Grant stands up from the booth as we approach.
God, he’s good looking. You’d think I’d get used to it after everything we’ve done together, but I swear it hits me like a truck each time I see him.
Tall, broad, always well-dressed. His beard is trimmed a little neater than the last time I saw him, and he opted for a tie, which he usually forgoes at Wyld.
I have a sudden urge to grab him by that length of understated silk and pull him into a kiss.
Not what this is, I remind myself. He’s not your boyfriend, Kensie.
But that’s hard to really believe with the way he’s looking at me, those dark eyes seeming to drink me in. A slow smile tugs up his lips as his gaze dips down to assess my outfit.
“Gorgeous,” he mutters, more to himself.
Then he’s stepping out from the booth and placing his hands on my shoulders, pulling me closer.
My senses are immediately assaulted by the nearness of him—the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his big, sturdy body making me feel almost lightheaded.
He presses a kiss to the side of my head and I swear my knees go a little weak.
What the hell is going on?
He thanks the hostess and directs me into the booth with a hand at my waist. I expect him to take the spot across the table, but instead he slides in right next to me, close enough so his big muscular thigh is pressing against my leg.
“This dress is stunning,” he murmurs, gently running his fingers along the thin strap at my shoulder. “But I suppose anything would be stunning on you.”
The lightheaded feeling intensifies. This isn’t anything like our usual meetings. When we get together at Wyld to plan our next encounter, Grant is always focused, almost business-like. He asks me to divulge every detail I can think of for each fantasy, wanting to be sure he has it right.
He always gets it right.
“I ordered wine,” he says, sliding a glass of red my way. “A Bordeaux Cab. I think you’ll like it.”
I wonder if I should be annoyed that he ordered for me. I definitely used to be when Fred would do the same thing. But with Fred it was always a dig. I was too stupid to know anything about wine, too greedy and undisciplined to make healthy choices about my food.
The polar opposite to how it feels with Grant. Him having wine waiting just feels like one more way that he wants to take care of me.
And he’s right—it is delicious. Exactly what I would have wanted to order for myself.
When had he learned my tastes so well?
“I hope the restaurant is to your liking?” he asks.
I nod quickly, looking around. “It’s gorgeous. But it doesn’t feel too pretentious, you know?”
He grins. “Exactly why I like it. Also, the chef is amazing.” He studies my face for a moment. “It’s good to see you.”
“You saw me a few days ago,” I mumble, cheeks going hot. I could kick myself—why on earth would I bring up that night? If I had my way, Grant would forget it ever happened.
His hand lands on my thigh, pressure firm and warm. “It’s always good to see you.”
My blush deepens. Why in the hell do I feel like a little giggly school girl right now? This man has seen me naked on more occasions that I can count. He’s done the naughtiest, most shocking things to me. So why am I feeling shy now, fully clothed and in a public restaurant?
“Did you want to talk about our next meeting?” I blurt out, wanting to get this back onto terms that make sense to me.
But Grant clenches his jaw, clearly displeased by my abrupt subject change.
“We will discuss that,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss, in fact. But first we’re going to enjoy some conversation while we share a meal.”
I realize I’m sitting up straighter. It’s that tone of his—how does he make his voice so authoritative? And why do I automatically start to obey him the moment he talks to me like that?
I’d done it that night in the dungeon, too. Blurting out my entire sob story just because his bossy ass told me to.
“So,” he says smoothly, reaching for his own glass. “Tell me about your day. Any headway on those idiot clients?”
I blink at him, feeling totally off-kilter. He wants to talk about my work? I’m honestly surprised he even remembered me mentioning those clients. That had been, what? Nearly two weeks ago?
He catches my gaze, staring deep into my eyes as he begins to rub my thigh. “What pieces have you offered them this week?”
I let out a shaky breath. As much as I want to sit here blinking at him like an idiot—or flat out ask him what, exactly, we’re doing here—I feel soothed by his touch. And compelled by his steady, dark gaze.
“We thought we had them last week,” I begin. “I suggested a Yamada—she’s a Japanese artist who’s up and coming enough that most of their snobby friends won’t have heard of her but expensive enough that they can show off.”
Grant grins. “So they can pretend they’re on the cutting edge of the art world?”
“Exactly. Oh, you’ve never heard of Full-o-shit?” I put on a snooty accent. “He’s highly regarded. That painting has already doubled in value.”
He laughs and I realize I’m grinning too. Grant is a lot easier to talk to about everyday things than I realized.
We continue to chat comfortably until the waiter appears with our plates. I raise an eyebrow at Grant when I realize he not only ordered wine, but my entire meal.
He doesn’t look the slightest bit sheepish. In fact, his returning grin is confident enough to border on arrogance. “Chef’s Bourguignon is amazing. You’ll love it.” He squeezes my thigh. “And if you don’t, you can request anything else you want.”
I should argue with him, but the way his hand feels on my leg lulls me into warm compliance. And he’s right—the Beef Bourguignon is amazing.
As we eat, he asks me more questions about my work and about Gemma. When I ask him what he’s been working on, I half expect him to deflect. Fred had never talked to me about his work—I was way too stupid to understand things like finance and stocks.
But Grant seems perfectly comfortable telling me about his clients and the work he’s doing for them.
I have to struggle not to let my jaw drop when he mentions some sums. I knew he was one of the most successful hedge fund managers on the east coast, but numbers like that are more than I could even conceive.
And way more than anything Fred has ever accomplished. Not that it’s a competition or anything.
“What’s that smirk for?” Grant asks. Of course he noticed.
I shrug. “Just thinking about how smug my ex was about his investments. He was dealing with peanuts compared to you.”
There’s a barely imperceptible flash in his eye at my words, but he tamps it down quickly and changes the subject.
It’s not until our plates are empty that I realize we’ve been chatting this whole time without a single mention of the club or our arrangement. And it hasn’t even felt weird.
It’s been nice, actually.
“So,” he says, after the waiter has come to take our dessert order and clear our plates. “I wanted to discuss some things with you.”
Here we go, I think, my stomach dropping. Is this the part where he tells me the arrangement is no longer working for him? Had dinner just been a consolation prize so he could let me down easily?
“Specifically, I want to discuss some things that I’d like to change.”
My beautiful dinner turns to lead in my stomach and I wish I hadn’t eaten so much. Throwing up in a restaurant this nice would be mortifying.
“What kind of things?” I manage to whisper.