Chapter 15 #2
“You go first,” Marcus says, grinning, and I all but melt into a puddle on my seat.
He has the best smile, all strong white teeth and sexy grooves in his lean cheeks.
It softens his hard features and warms his cool blue eyes, taking him from intimidatingly good-looking to panty-wetting hot.
It’s not an exaggeration, either, because I actually feel my underwear getting damp.
If I had my vibrator right now, it would take me less than two minutes to come. Maybe three minutes, tops.
God, Emma, get your mind out of the gutter.
Fighting a blush that threatens to color my face again, I say, “I was just going to ask if you ever ended up connecting with Emmeline. You know, the woman you were supposed to meet that night?”
Marcus’s smile fades. “I did, yes.”
“Oh?” My chest constricts for some reason. “And what happened?”
He shrugs. “We ended up having dinner. How about you? Did you ever meet up with Mark?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, the tightness in my chest intensifying as I recall Kendall’s warning. “I think he must’ve been upset by what happened, because he never responded to my apology email.”
“I see.” Marcus takes a sip of water. His gaze is inscrutable as he studies me over the rim of his glass. “Are you disappointed by that? Who was this Mark guy, anyway?”
“Just someone from a dating app,” I say. Marcus is clearly trying to keep the focus on me, but with Kendall’s words ringing in my ears, I’m not so easily deterred. “What about this Emmeline of yours?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. “Who was she, and how did your dinner go?”
“She was also from something like a dating app,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His face is expressionless, and that, combined with his lack of reply to my second question, makes me even more curious about the topic.
“What’s ‘something like a dating app?’” I ask, reaching for my own water glass. I was just joking with Kendall about drilling Marcus, but some instinct is telling me to pursue this.
“A matchmaker,” he says bluntly.
I choke on a sip of water. Coughing, I sputter out, “A what?”
“A matchmaker,” he repeats, his blue gaze chilly again. “It’s not that different from a dating site or app, just more personalized and exclusive.”
“Right.” I gulp down more water to hide my shock.
I hadn’t really thought about why Marcus was supposed to meet a woman he didn’t know.
I’d just sort of assumed he’d been set up on a blind date by a friend, or that he has a casual profile on a dating app, like I do.
Lots of people do that these days; online dating is no longer just for losers.
A matchmaker, however, is a different matter.
A matchmaker implies he wants something serious—and possibly quite particular.
“Are you, um…” Crap, how do I phrase it without freaking him out? “Are you looking to get married or something?”
“Of course.” His expression cools further. “Isn’t that the very definition of the service a matchmaker provides?”
“Well, yes…” I know I sound like an idiot, but I can’t help it.
I’ve never known the male of the species to seek out a relationship with the goal of marriage.
From what I’ve seen, if a guy proposes, it’s because he either wants to please his girlfriend, or he’s met the right person and realizes it’s the logical next step.
I’m sure there are men who want marriage for the sake of marriage, but I’ve never come across such a creature personally.
Even my super-clingy ex in college didn’t think much of the institution; he just wanted us to be together all the time.
Of course, my experience is with guys in their teens and twenties.
Marcus is thirty-five—a man in his prime, not a boy still trying to find himself.
Before I can come up with something clever to say, the waiter brings our appetizers.
He places both the pizza and the calamari in the middle of the table, likely assuming we’re going to share them.
Saliva pools in my mouth at the delicious smell.
I wait impatiently until the waiter leaves, and then I grab a slice of the pizza, nearly burning my fingertips in the process.
“So you are hungry, after all?” Marcus asks, spearing a circle of calamari with his fork.
“For pizza? Always.” I bite into the slice and close my eyes, almost moaning out loud as the taste of gooey melted cheese and perfectly seasoned tomato sauce fills my mouth. Swallowing the bite, I open my eyes to lick the drop of sauce from my fingers—and pause at the hungry look on Marcus’s face.
“Want a slice?” I offer, realizing I’m being rude by hogging the entire pizza to myself. It’s a small one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share. Marcus is watching me eat so intently it’s as if he wants to devour me instead of the pizza.
“No, thanks.” His voice is slightly hoarse as he reaches for his glass of water. “You’re welcome to the calamari, though.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I bite into the pizza again. The taste is just as orgasmic as before, but I manage to keep my eyes open this time—and see Marcus’s jaw tighten as he watches me chew and swallow the bite.
He’s not eating; he’s just staring at me, and it makes me distinctly uncomfortable.
“You sure you don’t want some?” I ask after I swallow my third bite. “I’m happy to share, honestly.”
“No, I’m fine. Please, enjoy.” He picks up his fork again and starts eating the calamari.
I decide that turnabout is fair play, so I openly watch him as he consumes his food.
It’s amazing, but he somehow makes even the mundane act of eating seem powerfully masculine.
The muscles in his jaw flex as he chews, and his throat works with each swallow, drawing my attention to the strong column of his neck.
I’ve never thought of eating as a sexual act, but with Marcus, I find myself mesmerized by the way he brings each ring of calamari to his mouth and decimates it with his straight white teeth.
My breathing speeds up, and the dampness in my underwear intensifies as I picture his mouth engaged in other, much dirtier activities.
To distract myself from the bizarre urge to lick a bread crumb off his lip, I focus on devouring my pizza. When only the crust remains, I look up.
“You never told me how your dinner with Emmeline went,” I say. “Did your matchmaker do a good job?”
Marcus puts down his fork and very deliberately finishes his calamari. “She did,” he says, patting his lips with a napkin.
“And?” I prompt when he doesn’t elaborate.
“And nothing.” His face is expressionless. “Emmeline fits certain criteria I have, that’s all.”
That’s all? The pizza in my stomach turns into a brick. “If she’s so perfect, then why—”
“Here you are. The squid ink risotto,” the waiter announces, placing the dish in the middle of the table with a flourish as a busboy clears off the remnants of the appetizers. I clamp my lips shut, forcing myself to stay silent as the waiter puts clean plates in front of each of us.
As soon as he’s gone, I open my mouth to resume my questioning, but Marcus shocks me by reaching across the table and covering my hand with his.
His palm is dry and warm and so large I feel engulfed by the heat of it.
My breath catches in my throat, and my heartbeat skyrockets further as he leans in, his blue eyes locked on my face.
“Emma, listen to me,” he says quietly. “Emmeline has nothing to do with this. I’ve only met her once, and there are no commitments of any kind between us.
As you might’ve guessed, I’m attracted to you— very attracted—and if I’m not mistaken, you’re not completely indifferent to me either.
” His thumb brushes across the pulse in my wrist, which is hammering wildly, corroborating his words.
He must feel it too, because his eyes darken and his voice deepens, turning low and seductive as he murmurs, “Why don’t we just enjoy this meal and see where things go from here? ”
I swallow thickly. I don’t know what to say, or even to think.
A part of me is bizarrely hurt that this other woman fits some predetermined criteria of his, but what he’s saying makes sense too.
One dinner doesn’t make her his girlfriend, any more than it gives me any rights over him.
If anything, his honesty is a point in his favor; he could’ve lied about meeting Emmeline, and I would’ve been none the wiser.
At the same time, I’m aware that I’m not thinking clearly, that his touch is heating me from within and turning my brain to mush.
“I, um…” Pulling my hand away, I fight to regain my composure. “I think you should eat your risotto. It’s probably getting cold.”
He regards me wryly, and I have a feeling he knows exactly how he’s affecting me. “Of course, the risotto. We don’t want it to get cold,” he says, and I let out a relieved breath as he reaches for the dish.
Scooping up a spoonful of risotto, he reaches for my plate.
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks.” I move the plate out of his reach. “It’s all yours.”
“You don’t want to try even a little?”
“I’m really full, thanks.” It’s a lie; my mouth is watering at the succulent-looking seafood in the risotto, but I don’t want to muddy the waters when it comes time to pay the check. “It’s all yours.”
After a moment of hesitation, he puts the risotto on his plate and digs into it with evident enjoyment. “Not a seafood fan?” he asks after the first bite, and I shrug in response. I love seafood, but if I admit that, my refusal to try Marcus’s dish will confuse him even more.
“I think it’s okay,” I say when he lifts his eyebrows, silently urging me to elaborate. “I’m pretty open to all foods, actually.”