Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
SILAS
Halfway through buttoning my shirt, I stop. Something doesn’t sit right.
Velvet will be in full swing tonight. I can already envision the hum of bass, the smell of perfume and heat, the promise of release. Normally, that’d be enough to get me moving faster. But not tonight.
Tonight, the idea of going there, of touching Penelope in that space again, feels backward. Too small for what I actually want.
I don’t want her pressed up against a wall under red lights. I want her across a table, laughing, tipsy, flushed from wine instead of adrenaline. I want her to know I’m serious—about her, about this—whatever this ends up being.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and call her.
She answers after the second ring, voice warm, a little amused. “Hi, Silas.”
“Hey, Angel,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Listen, I’m not going to the club tonight. And I don’t think you should either.”
“Oh?” she teases. “Why’s that?”
“Because I want to take you out. Tonight, not tomorrow. I want to wine and dine you before I—” I grin into the phone, “—ruin your lipstick again.”
A laugh bubbles through the line, soft and sinful. “Such a gentleman. Will there still be ruining after the wine and dine? Because I could use a release.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Pick me up at eight. I’ll text you my address.”
Click.
A second later, the text hits my screen.
She lives just off campus in a brick building with peeling paint and ivy trying to eat the gutters.
The first-floor lights are on when I pull up.
She’s already outside, leaning against the doorframe like she’s been waiting, wrapped in a deep red coat and black heels that make her legs look endless.
Her hair’s twisted into a bun, a few curls loose around her face. When she smiles, my pulse stutters.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, pushing off the frame to meet me. “You clean up nice.”
“So do you.” My eyes drag over her before I remember how to breathe. “Ready to let me spoil you a little?”
“Depends on what spoiling entails.”
“Dinner. Wine. Maybe a dance. No safewords required.”
Her laugh fills the night, low and easy. “You’re really laying it on thick, huh?”
“Trying something new.”
“Being sweet?”
“Being honest.”
She studies me for a second, and the teasing fades from her face. “I think I like that.”
The drive to Ravenwood Estates is quiet, but not awkward. Just... charged. By the time we pull onto the long gravel drive, the sun’s slipping behind the trees, and the winery glows like it’s holding secrets.
Inside, everything smells like oak, wine, and candle wax. A hostess leads us to a small table by the window overlooking the vines, and it feels too perfect, too soft, too normal for two people who met the way we did.
We order flights—reds for me, whites for her—and something easy off the dinner menu. She studies the little tasting card as if it’s a test.
“It says this one has notes of leather and tobacco,” she murmurs. “Do people actually taste that?”
“Not unless they’re licking a cigar,” I say, making her laugh.
She tastes one and scrunches up her nose. “That one’s awful. It tastes like regret and church.”
“Maybe that’s what they were going for.”
We go through the list, comparing notes like we know what we’re doing. Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, she starts talking about her degree. Her plans. Her heart for kids who need someone steady.
I just watch her. The way she gestures with her hands when she’s passionate. The light in her eyes when she says the word help.
“I’m not surprised,” I say when she pauses.
“By what?”
“That you want to fix things. You have that energy.”
She tilts her head. “And what kind of energy do you have?”
“Chaos,” I admit, smirking.
She hums, swirling her glass. “Controlled chaos. There’s a difference.”
Our food comes, and conversation slips into an easy rhythm.
We talk about music, travel, dumb childhood stories.
She tells me about a time she tried to dye her hair purple in high school and ended up with green streaks.
I tell her about the time my cousin convinced me to jump off the shed roof into a kiddie pool.
By dessert, we’re both laughing too hard to pretend this is just dinner.
When the plates are cleared, I lean back and nod toward the wall of wine bottles near the register. “We should grab a couple to take home. Something to remember the night by.”
Her eyes light up. “You mean something to drink later when life’s being annoying?”
“Exactly that.”
We wander toward the display, the warm smell of oak and fruit wrapping around us. She runs her fingers over the labels, murmuring names under her breath like she’s reading spells.
“I liked that cranberry one,” she says, stopping in front of a row with deep ruby glass. “The sweet red? It tasted like Christmas.”
“Good choice,” I say, scanning the options. “I’m getting a couple of reds—this one, Black Harvest Reserve, has that smoky finish I liked. And maybe Ironwood Estate, the one with the dark cherry and pepper notes.”
She picks up another pale blush-colored with a soft gold label. “And this. Apple Blossom Rosé. It’s basically dessert in a bottle.”
“So, two for you, two for me?”
She smiles, the corner of her mouth tilting up. “You’re assuming I’m sharing.”
“Wasn’t expecting you to.”
We meet at the counter, our arms full of bottles. The clerk wraps them in paper, the kind that crinkles softly. The moment feels simple and domestic in a way that shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
She pulls out her wallet first, but I slide my card across the counter before she can blink.
“Silas,” she says, frowning, “you paid for everything else. I can buy my own take-home wine.”
“Yeah, that’s a no. I’m paying for this.”
“That’s not how equality works,” she mutters, crossing her arms.
“It’s how chivalry works.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t fight hard. “You’re impossible.”
“Only when I like someone.”
That makes her pause. Her cheeks flush just a little before she sighs and tucks her wallet away. “Fine. But next time, I’m paying.”
I grin, signing the receipt. “You can try.”
The clerk slides our bottles into paper bags. Penelope grabs hers and nudges my arm on the way out. “You’re going to regret this when I drink both of mine before the week’s over.”
“Guess I’ll just have to come over and help you finish them.”
She gives me a look over her shoulder, half teasing, half promise. “We’ll see about that.”
The drive back to her apartment feels like one long inhale I can’t let go of.
When we park, she turns toward me. “Thanks for tonight,” she says softly. “It was… nice.”
“Nice?” I tease.
Her lips twitch. “Okay, fine. It was really good.”
“Good enough for a second date?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Her grin turns sly. “Depends how the night ends.”
I step out, circle around to her side, and walk her to the door. The exterior light flickers as she unlocks it, and for a second, I almost believe this is where it ends—a polite goodnight, a slow burn for later. But the look she throws over her shoulder says she’s not done with me yet.
“Thinking about leaving me in the lobby?” she teases, voice low, playful.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I murmur, stepping closer. “Unless you tell me to.”
Her lips curve, dangerous and inviting. “Then don’t wait for an invitation.”
Her hand finds my collar, pulls me to her unit where she quickly unlocks her door. She pushes me inside, and the door clicks shut behind us.
I tilt her chin and kiss her—slow, steady, nothing like the club. She tastes like wine and something softer, something that feels like the start of trouble I don’t want to escape.
She leans into me, fingers curling in my shirt, tugging until the buttons strain. My hands find her waist, then her hips, feeling the small tremor that runs through her when I press closer.
Her laugh breaks between kisses. “You said you wanted to wine and dine me first.”
“I did.” I nip at her bottom lip, grinning. “We’ve handled the wine part.”
She slides her coat off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The sound of the fabric hitting the hardwood feels too loud in the quiet room. Her eyes are dark and steady when she looks up at me. “Still planning to leave?”
“Not a chance.”
I trace the line of her throat with my thumb, following it down to the edge of her dress.
She exhales, slow and shaky, like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
When I pull the zipper down, her skin warms beneath my fingertips.
The dress slips away, pooling around her ankles in a whisper of fabric.
She steps out of it and hooks her fingers into my belt loops, tugging until I follow her deeper into the apartment—past the couch, through the hallway, into the low light of her bedroom. Every movement feels like gravity, pulling us exactly where we’re supposed to go.
Her lips find my neck, my jaw, the space just below my ear that makes me forget everything else. I manage to get my shirt halfway off before she takes over, impatient, pushing it past my shoulders until it lands somewhere behind us.
She’s smiling now—small, wicked, confident. The same smile she wore the first night we met, only softer around the edges. Her fingers trace the waistband of my pants before she sinks slowly to her knees, eyes never leaving mine.
She smirks, fingertips dragging over my thighs.
My cock stands hard and proud, pre-cum weeping from the tip. She looks up at me, and I nearly come undone just from that; her dark-rimmed brown eyes staring up at me through her thick lashes. She’s giving me every ounce of fuck-me energy.
“Suck,” I tell her.
She bobs forward, wrapping a hand around my cock while her tongue circles the head. I groan, dropping my head back in pleasure. A gag leaves her, and she does a little gasp for air as she sinks down to my base, taking me to the back of her throat.