Chapter Twenty
Juliet
I considered seeing Elliot on campus, maybe making up some sweet little lie about needing his guidance, something to get me into his office and under his attention. But Elliot Sterling is too professional, too controlled, too goddamn poised for that.
A man like him wouldn’t risk his job for a student.
He has discipline.
Which means I need a better strategy.
I’ve watched him long enough to know he doesn’t make personal connections on campus. No playful side glances in the halls. No subtle touches as students leave his office. No extra-long sessions that might indicate anything unprofessional.
Which is good.
Because if he had a habit of messing around with students, I wouldn’t want him.
I’m not just another girl.
I’ve also kept an eye on the drab little woman in registration.
He flirts with her, but it’s not real.
He amuses himself with her, indulges her little giggles and flustered smiles. But he’s never asked her out. They don’t exchange texts. They don’t call.
And trust me, I would know.
Her phone had zero messages from any men. Not a single one.
Which was honestly sad.
I didn’t expect otherwise, but I still returned it to the lost and found the same day. I’m kind like that.
But now?
Now it’s time for Elliot to notice me.
And it won’t be on campus, where he’s rigid and professional.
No.
He’s going to fall for me at his favorite restaurant.
My outfit is flawless.
Elegant, like he likes. But still me.
Soft pink satin, hugging my curves just right, the hem landing at that perfect, teasing length, long enough to be demure, short enough to make him wonder what’s underneath.
I already know how I’ll sit. Crossed legs, just so.
Just enough for my thigh highs to peek out.
A quiet, sophisticated little hello.
The stockings are sheer white, topped with delicate satin bows, the exact shade of my pink heels, dangerously high, cruelly beautiful.
I tested the hem of my dress, measured the way the pearls drape over my collarbone, resting just at the curve of my cleavage. A delicate invitation.
Everything is intentional.
The perfume is a warm, spiced vanilla.
Still sweet, but not girlish.
Layered. Complex.
Like a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
And then, of course, the books.
I take two.
One is Keats. Poetry. Because Elliot looks like the kind of man who reads poetry slowly, appreciating each word like a fine scotch. Noah’s book.
The other? Art Theory.
Something to show I’m serious about my studies. Something to prove I’m the type of woman who has depth. Who thinks.
That part is important.
I haven’t had time to study for next week’s test, I’ve been too busy studying him.
But I’ll ace it anyway.
I even booked a table right by the one he always eats at.
It’s usually empty, but I don’t take chances with first impressions.
Elliot Sterling is a careful man, I need to be just as careful.
I’m just about to head out when Orion steps in front of me, arms crossed, smirking.
“He’s done for,” he says. His voice is low, gravel-thick. He rakes his eyes over me like he’s already imagining tearing this dress off later. “You are so fucking hot.”
Noah chuckles from behind us. “So this is Elliot edition?” He leans in the doorway, grinning, eyes drifting over every detail. “Orion isn’t wrong. It’s pretty fucking hot.” His gaze lazily trails down my legs. “Can we have this outfit even if he doesn’t come along?”
I grin, trailing my nails down Orion’s chest before I step around him. “First of all, he’s mine.” I press a soft kiss to Orion’s jaw, then turn to Noah, tugging his shirt playfully. “And second, I’d never deny either of you anything.” I wink and slip past them. “Behave. I’ll be late.”
Monday nights are quiet the restaurant. That’s why I picked tonight. I don’t want to chance getting lost in a crowd. I want his eyes on me.
And he’s already here.
Of course he is.
I spot him instantly. Seated at his usual table, absorbed in his meal, his posture effortless but composed, the kind of man who doesn’t need to hunch over his plate or rush through his food.
I know he noticed me the second I stepped inside.
Not because he looked right away.
No.
Because men like Elliot take their time.
I move toward my table, taking slow, measured steps, letting the satin of my dress skim over my thighs, the soft sway just enough to catch attention.
He doesn’t stare.
But I feel it.
The slight shift of his gaze.
The way he flicks his eyes down to his book just a second too late, like he doesn’t want to be caught.
I talk to the host in a low, sweet murmur, just loud enough for Elliot to hear if he’s listening. “I’m sure he’s just held up. I’ll start without him.”
The host nods and pulls out my chair, and I slide into it smoothly.
Elliot doesn’t look up right away.
But I know he’s aware of me.
I let my fingers trace the stem of my water glass, slow and absentminded, flipping open my art theory book as if I’m actually reading.
I glance up.
He’s watching me.
Just a flicker. Just a moment.
And then he turns a page, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.
Oh.
Oh, I like this game.
I watch him between bites.
Not staring. Just studying.
The way he cuts his food, precise but unhurried. The way he reads while he eats, taking thoughtful bites, actually tasting his meal.
A man of discipline.
Of control.
But beneath that? I can see it, the potential for ruin.
I imagine him unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves, loosening his tie after a long day.
I imagine him scoffing at the idea of losing himself.
And I imagine myself proving him wrong.
We glance up at the same time.
Our eyes meet.
Heat licks up my spine.
I let a small, slow smile touch my lips before dropping my gaze, picking at my food with careful, dainty little bites.
I want him to wonder about me. I want him to ask himself who I’m waiting for.
If I’ve been stood up. If I’ll leave here alone.
I finish my meal at the same time he does, the last bite melting on my tongue as I push my plate aside, dabbing my napkin against my lips.
The waiter approaches. “Dessert?” he asks.
I glance at Elliot’s table.
He hasn’t asked for the check yet.
He’s not leaving.
Not yet.
I smile. “Yes,” I say. “Two.”
The waiter’s brows lift, just slightly.
I lift my book and pretend to read again. “I know he’ll be here.”
When the waiter disappears, I take a slow, indulgent sip of water.
Elliot’s book lowers. His eyes settle on me.
Checkmate.
The waiter sets the two desserts down, one in front of me, the other across the table.
An empty seat.
A silent invitation.
I pick up my spoon and dip it into the creamy decadence, closing my eyes just for a second as I take the first taste.
When I open them, Elliot is still watching me.
I tilt my head, glance at the empty seat, then back at him.
One heartbeat.
Two.
He sets his book down.
Slides his chair back.
And stands.
My pulse skips.
I school my features, keeping my expression composed, even as my entire body thrums with satisfaction.
He steps toward my table.
Pauses.
“Would you like some company?” he asks, voice deep, silk and smoke.
I lift my spoon, tapping it once against my lips, considering. Then I gesture toward the dessert across from me, my voice soft, warm, triumphant. “Yes.”
Elliot moves with slow, measured steps as he rounds the table, pulling out the chair across from me.
I watch his fingers as they brush over the linen napkin, unfolding it with practiced ease before settling it in his lap.
He doesn’t rush.
The kind of man who’s never had to raise his voice to command a room.
The kind of man who could tell me to kneel, and I would.
I swallow, shifting slightly in my seat, pressing my thighs together as he lifts his spoon and dips it into the dessert I ordered for him.
“Was this for me?” he asks, voice smooth, effortless.
I blink. My thoughts had wandered too far, too fast.
“Oh,” I murmur, soft, sweet. Innocent. I let my gaze flick to the untouched dessert in front of him before meeting his eyes again, playing it coy. “You looked like you might indulge.”
His lips curve slightly. It’s not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile.
Just enough to make my stomach tighten.
He lifts the spoon to his lips, takes a slow, thoughtful bite.
And I watch.
The way his tongue flicks out just slightly, the way his lips part, the way his throat works as he swallows.
Oh. Oh.
I imagine that mouth against my skin.
I imagine him pressing me against the desk in his office, cool wood beneath my palms, his fingers curling around the back of my neck as he tilts my chin up, making me look at him.
You want this? he would murmur. You want to be a good girl for me?
And I would breathe, Yes, sir.
He clears his throat.
I blink, heart skipping, breath catching.
He’s watching me.
Oh, God.
I press my fingers to my lips, feigning shyness, letting my lashes flutter just slightly.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I got lost in thought.”
His eyes gleam, sharp, knowing. “About?”
I could tell him. Tell him how I want him pinning me to the bed, so he can see how perfectly I belong beneath him.
But instead, I tilt my head and say, “You.”
Elliot’s spoon pauses. His lips twitch, his gaze skimming over me, like he’s piecing me together, bit by bit, layer by layer. Like he’s undressing me in his mind.
Oh, love, I’ve already undressed you in mine.
“And what about me,” he says, voice steady, “Has you so deep in thought?”
I let my fingers trace the rim of my wine glass, letting my eyes flick down to the Keats book beside me, playing with it, tilting it slightly.
“I suppose I was wondering what your favorite poem might be,” I say softly.
A pause.
Then, just as I planned, his gaze drops to the book.
It’s a subtle thing, but I see it.
I see the way his fingers tighten slightly around the spoon.
How his breath is just a little slower.
He noticed. He sees that I have good taste.
He hums low in his throat, setting his spoon down, lacing his fingers together. “A woman who reads Keats?” he muses.
I smile, soft, sweet. “A woman who enjoys poetry.”
“Mm.” His fingers tap slowly against the linen of his napkin, like he’s considering me, deciding what to do with me.
I hope he takes his time.
I want him to think about it.
Because when he finally makes his move?
I want it to wreck him.
“I like ‘To Autumn,’” he says finally.
Of course.
He would pick the one about control, about endings, about knowing when to let go.
I bet he thinks he’s so disciplined.
I imagine him sitting at his desk, rolling up his sleeves, the top button of his crisp white dress shirt undone, flipping through a book, dismissing every woman in his life because none of them were worth his time.
Oh, Elliot.
I will be worth your time.
“That’s a good one,” I say softly. “Though I always liked ‘Bright Star.’”
His head tilts slightly, considering. “Eternal love?”
A small, slow smile curves my lips. “Something that never fades,” I murmur.
And for a brief moment, just a flicker, I see it.
A shift in his eyes.
A pause.
A hesitation.
Like he’s not used to being studied.
Like he’s not used to someone being just as deliberate as him.
And I want to purr.
He lifts his spoon again, takes another slow bite.
I wonder what his tongue would feel like against my nipple.
If he’d be methodical about it, teasing me until I begged.
Or if he’d snap, pressing me into the mattress, pushing my thighs apart, ruining me with slow, deep strokes.
Heat pools low in my belly.
I tilt my head slightly, watching as he chews, swallows, licks his lips.
I bite back a whimper.
“You’re not eating your dessert,” he says, voice smooth.
I blink down at my bowl, my pulse fluttering.
Oh. Right.
Food.
I give a soft little laugh, picking up my spoon, dipping into the dessert. “I was distracted,” I say.
Elliot hums, low and indulgent. “I tend to have that effect.”
Oh.
Oh.
A dangerous smile tugs at my lips.
I lift my spoon.
Lick it slowly.
Watch his eyes darken.
And think…
Oh, love.
You have no idea what you’ve just started.