Chapter 7
Seven
Taylor
Dinner wasn’t anywhere I’d been before. The kind of place where the lighting was warm but sharp enough to make diamonds wink, where every glass shone like it belonged in a magazine spread. Crisp white linens. Silverware that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
The staff didn’t ask for his name—they greeted him with it. Smiles, bows, wine already breathing on the table like they’d been waiting for him.
I sank into the leather chair, trying not to look like I was in over my head. “So, what do you do?” I asked, curiosity slipping past my guard.
“Tech,” he said simply, swirling the wine as if he had all the time in the world. “Start-ups, software solutions... that kind of thing.”
I smiled, because I’d already guessed it. The vibe screamed money, brains, control. But the quiet security tucked in the corners? The way staff kept their eyes lowered, their movements precise? That was familiar in a way that scraped down my spine. Cameron-familiar.
Not enough to scare me off. But enough to make me wonder what kind of man sat across from me.
He leaned forward, resting his forearm on the table, dragon tattoos flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt. “You look like someone who doesn’t ask questions unless she really wants the answers.”
“Maybe I don’t,” I said, lifting my glass.
His lips curved slow, deliberate. “Then I’ll make sure the answers are worth it.”
The food arrived in courses I couldn’t even pronounce, but he narrated each one like a story, feeding me bites across the table.
At first, I laughed awkwardly, cheeks burning.
Then I laughed for real. He was funny. Quick.
The kind of man who could slide under your skin before you realized he was already there.
By the time dessert came, I was gone. Not drunk—tipsy maybe—but gone in the way his laugh sat warm in my chest. The way his eyes lingered like he was memorizing me.
He fed me a spoonful of something silky and rich—chocolate, espresso, heaven—and when I licked my lips, his gaze dipped for just a second too long.
The air between us changed. Shifted. Like the restaurant dimmed the lights just for us.
I should’ve leaned back. Kept it casual. But instead, I leaned in.
His hand brushed mine, fingers strong and steady, and it was ridiculous how electric it felt. I couldn’t breathe for a second. He noticed—I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes—but he didn’t call it out. He just let me sit in it. Let me want him.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered, and instantly hated how breathless I sounded.
“Only if you want me to be.” His voice was low, steady, but threaded with heat.
When we stood to leave, his hand found the small of my back like it had been there a thousand times before. Too easy. Too natural. I felt my body lean into it before my brain could protest. Outside, the night air was cool, but I was burning.
By the time we got back to the building, my guard was down, and my pulse was racing. “Wine?” he asked, tilting his head toward his door.
I hesitated, then nodded. His place smelled faintly of cedar and something warm—sandalwood, maybe. Candles flickered in the background, soft music curling in the air. He poured the wine, but I barely touched it.
“You cook in silence or with a soundtrack?” I asked, taking in the open kitchen, the knives aligned like a promise.
“Always music,” he said, handing me a glass. “Silence makes me think too much.”
“And this?” I tilted my head toward the speakers. “Intimidation playlist?”
“Seduction playlist,” he corrected, then smiled when I rolled my eyes. “Kidding. Mostly.”
I wandered to the counter. A wooden board held shards of dark chocolate, figs sliced open like secrets, and a small jar of honey. “You plate snacks like a man with a plan.”
“I am a man with a plan.” His gaze dipped to my mouth, quick, betraying. “But I can be persuaded to improvise.”
I smiled. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an invitation.”
We clinked glasses. I still didn’t drink. He watched the way I held the stem, thumb stroking the glass like it might give up its own heat. He set his wine down first.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, leaning on the island, forearms bare, ink disappearing into the sleeve like smoke.
“Tell me something true,” I said. “Not the LinkedIn version.”
He pretended to think. “I like sharp things. But I prefer slow things.”
My eyebrows quirked. “Explain.”
He picked up a fig and dipped it lightly in honey. “Knives need precision.” He lifted it to my lips, a question without words. “People need patience.”
I opened my mouth. He fed me the fig, and the honey hit first—amber and warm—followed by the ripe, dark sweetness that made my tongue press to the roof of my mouth. His eyes were on my face like he was cataloging every micro-expression. It was unfair.
“That’s... indecent,” I managed.
“Good,” he said softly.
He wiped a dot of honey from the corner of my lip with his thumb. Didn’t move away. The air grew tight. “You always feed your dates fruit like a Greek god,” I asked, “or is this special treatment?”
“Special,” he said, not blinking.
“Because I’m new?” I laughed.
“Because you’re you.” The music slid down a key. He took the glass from my hand and set it beside his. “You haven’t had a sip.”
“I don’t need it,” I said. It came out lower than I meant.
He came closer slowly, like he was approaching a skittish animal he meant to tame. The candlelight found the edge of his jaw, the gloss at his mouth. My back touched the island. He didn’t crowd—he hovered, letting me feel the heat from his body before he touched me at all.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, a breath from my lips.
I didn’t. I reached for the line of his shirt, smoothing it flat as if that was the answer. His fingers threaded lightly into my hair, testing, waiting. I nodded once.
“One minute we were talking,” I whispered, a smile sneaking in, “and the next...”
He finished the thought for me, mouth brushing mine with the gentlest pass, a promise disguised as a question. I answered with a real kiss—soft, then firmer when he caught my lower lip, when his hand at my waist drew me forward until there was no space left to negotiate.
The wine sat untouched. The music knew better than to interrupt. And the candles kept their secrets. Slow at first, almost testing, and then deeper, hungrier, like he’d been holding back for weeks.
By the time we reached his bedroom, we weren’t walking so much as stumbling into each other—his mouth dragging mine down into a kiss that felt like it could bruise.
Jiro’s hands were everywhere—skimming my waist, gripping my ass, sliding under my dress like he had a map and was determined to find every place that made me gasp.
The dress came off in one impatient pull. His mouth was on my neck, tongue hot, teeth grazing skin before sucking just enough to make my knees shake. My bra was gone next—one flick, one tug—and his palms closed around my breasts like he’d been thinking about them all damn day.
I arched into him, and he groaned, low and rough. “I knew you’d feel like this,” he said, thumb brushing over my nipple. “Perfect.”
His shirt hit the floor, and I got a full view of him—lean muscle, a stomach cut into hard planes, the kind of body that told me he took his time on himself but didn’t live in a gym. A man who knew how to use his strength, not just pose with it.
He pressed me to the bed, his mouth tracing a hot line down my chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand worked the other. I felt it everywhere—between my legs, in my spine, in the way my breath came short and shaky.
Then his hand was sliding down my stomach, under my panties, fingers finding my pussy and stroking like he already knew exactly what I needed. “Fuck...” The word tore out of me before I could catch it.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, rubbing my clit slowly, then circling harder until my hips rolled up to meet him. “Good girl. Let me hear you.”
I did. Every drag of his fingers, every time he pressed right where I needed, I gave him my voice. My orgasm came hard, sharp, pulling me tight before snapping me apart. I clutched at his shoulders, trying to catch my breath, and he kissed me like he was claiming the sound of it.
He stripped me completely, kissed the inside of my thighs until I was trembling again, then covered me with his body. I felt him—thick, hard, the blunt head of him nudging where I was still aching—and he sank in slow, watching my face like he wanted to burn it into memory.
“Shit,” I gasped, nails digging into his back.
“That’s it,” he groaned, bottoming out. “Take all of me.”
He set a rhythm that was deep and deliberate, hips rolling, the stretch of him making me bite my lip to keep from screaming.
But he didn’t let me hide—he caught my chin, made me look at him, and it was too much.
The way he stared at me, like I was the only thing worth looking at, had me unraveling all over again.
When I came, I dragged him with me, his curse breaking against my mouth as he thrust hard, spilling into me. We stayed like that—breathing into each other, skin slick and hot—long after the aftershocks faded.
And still, that tiny flicker of unease curled in my gut. The way he seemed to anticipate me, the subtle sweep of his gaze, the quiet security I’d noticed earlier—it was a different world from Cameron’s, but the shadow of it lingered, warm and dangerous, as he held me through the night.
I must’ve drifted because when I opened my eyes, the room was quiet and dim, the candlelight low and syrupy. Jiro was already watching me, propped on one elbow like he’d been memorizing the curve of my mouth while I slept.
“Hi,” I breathed.
He smiled like I’d just said something important. His fingers traced a lazy line from my collarbone to the dip of my waist, not asking for anything, just... reminding my body it belonged to heat.
“I’m not finished with you,” he said softly.
The kiss started like a secret and turned into a decision.
He took his time this round—no rush, no proving—just slow, certain hunger.
His palm slid beneath my thigh and hooked it over his hip; the change in angle sent a bright, quiet shock through me.
He felt it, too—his breath caught, his mouth breaking on a quiet curse that sounded like my name.
He held my gaze the whole time. No performance. Just us. The rhythm he set wasn’t frantic anymore. It was decadent. Patient. He’d ease me right to the edge and pull me back with a kiss to my jaw, a murmur against my ear, the press of his hand in mine like he was anchoring me there.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “I want all of it.”
I did. My body softened, then tightened around each slow stroke, a steady climb that made everything louder—the slip of our skin, the small, helpless sounds I couldn’t swallow, the way his voice dropped when he told me how good I felt, how he wasn’t going anywhere.
When I finally broke, it wasn’t a snap—it was a melt. Like sugar over flame. He followed a heartbeat later, head tucked into my neck, a rough sound leaving him as he held me through it.
We stayed tangled, slick with sweat and candlelight, his thumb drawing circles on my wrist until my pulse settled under his touch.
He shifted to his back, and I rolled with him, cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
He kissed my hairline. Nothing wild. Just a quiet, steady promise in the press of his mouth.
“Stay,” he murmured.
I should’ve gone. I knew I should’ve. But the room was warm, and his hand felt right on the small of my back, and the roses still scented the air like a dare. I closed my eyes.
“Okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Later—much later—I tiptoed back to my apartment with my heels in my hand and a smile I couldn’t hide, leaning against my own door like it might hold me up while the night replayed in flashes: his mouth, his voice, his patience, the way he didn’t look away.
I could still taste him. And I knew—clear as breath in the cool hallway—that this wasn’t a one-night storm I could just sleep off.
When I finally slipped back to my apartment, I leaned against my own door, eyes closed, trying to steady my breathing. And for the first time in a long time, my thoughts weren’t a mess—they were just one name.
Jiro.
What I did know was that somewhere across the city, Cameron already knew what happened.
And he was patient when he wanted to be. Dangerously patient.