Chapter 8
EIGHT
DALLEN
“So that’s why I’m a lawyer and a very good one. Now,” I stop talking about myself, wanting to know more about this mysterious man whom I can’t stop thinking about. “Tell me what you do?”
“I’m in real estate.” His eyes dart yet again to something behind me.
I lean back in my chair, pretending to adjust my seat before I turn to look at what’s capturing his attention.
Nothing at the bar or the restaurant looks out of place.
There are people sitting at the bar drinking and talking, no doubt waiting for their tables to be ready, and those already dining.
What the hell is distracting him?
Maybe he isn’t as interested in me as I think he is.
I don’t say anything, merely watch him watch something else, and don’t ask anything more. I pick up my wine and finish it. Maybe I should leave. Maybe one-night stands that start off hot and heavy are as baseless as I fear they are.
Maybe he isn’t one of the nice guys.
Maybe there isn’t anything here except chemistry, because whether he’s ignoring me or not, distracted for some unknown reason, he’s hot as hell. And I still can’t get the orgasm he gave me—the first not brought on by myself—out of my head.
Still, that’s no basis to keep seeing someone. To date them just because they’re good in bed will never work out.
“Have you sold much?” I ask, attempting one last time to get his attention back.
I wait, and perhaps it’s the silence, the long stretch between our conversation, that makes his attention finally snap back to me.
“I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew.” He adjusts his tie and sips his wine. He glances at my glass, notes it’s empty, and reaches for the bottle to refill it without asking.
I don’t say anything. He seems the kind of guy who’s used to getting his way without asking, and I would like another glass if I’m going to stay. Although that’s still to be determined.
“I work for my family’s business and purchase the real estate that I believe may be a good investment for us, both here in the US and overseas.”
“Oh wow, that sounds more exciting than my job. Although I do travel a lot. I often fly out to London or Paris, as we have firms in both locations.”
He studies me intensely, and I feel my skin prickle with awareness. That delicious warmth settles in the pit of my stomach, and there it is again—that chemistry that wraps around us like a piece of string.
Isn’t that a thing? The red-string theory? Pretty sure it is…
Our main course, roasted duck with an orange-ginger glaze, is placed before us. The scent of the orange teases my senses, and I understand completely why there is such a waitlist to come dine here.
“This smells delicious. I can’t wait to devour it.”
Stephen growls as he picks up his fork and knife. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and I know to my very marshmallowy core he doesn’t mean the food, but me. Devour? Does he want to eat me that badly?
I bite my lip, unable to stop the memory of the last time he went down on me. My attention moves to his mouth as he chews his food. He has a very clever tongue, and he obviously enjoys women, or he wouldn’t do something so intimate to them.
Lucky for me, I guess.
Without a word, he moves to sit beside me, shifting his plate and glassware without raising an eyebrow elsewhere in the restaurant. He’s so close to me now. I can feel his heat and smell his cologne.
A faint clink of cutlery from nearby tables blends with a low hum of conversation.
I breathe deep. Damn, he smells good.
I start as his hand slips onto my thigh, squeezing my leg. I meet his gaze, and I can see nothing but determination burning in his brown eyes.
I look around, hoping the long, white tablecloth will hide anything Stephen has in store for me.
Having thought of nothing else but his hands on me the last half hour, even with his distraction, all I want is for him to touch me.
Feeling far bolder than I should, I reach below the table and slip my hand on top of his.
His are large, strong, and a little coarse.
Hands that don’t seem to suit the occupation he holds.
I move his hand upward, toward my weeping sex that wants nothing but to be touched, even here in the middle of this beautiful restaurant.
His eyes darken with hunger. I relish the sight of him looking at me in this way. Like I’m the only person in the world, the only person he desires.
“Naughty girl.”
His deep, gravelly voice whispered against my ear does things to me no one else ever has.
Makes me want to be what he wants, what he’d like.
What I’d like to be. “Only when around you,” I admit, not sure if I should be so vulnerable so soon into knowing this man, but we’ve already done more than most. I can’t see what the harm is.
He leans close and kisses my neck. It’s electric. I feel his warm mouth as if it’s kissing all over my body, and I’m helpless to stop him. I ache for him, want him with a need that’s fierce and strange, but wonderful, too.
“You smell so good,” he whispers. His hand presses against my sex. With nimble ease, he works his hand under my panties. We lock eyes, and he’s all wickedness. I love it. I want him to touch me, make me feel as good as I know he can.
“And wet. You want me, Dallen?”
I swallow, nodding. I do want him, but I fear if I speak right at this moment, others in the restaurant will hear—hear the need in my voice that may give away what Stephen is doing to me under the tablecloth.
He glides one finger into my sex, and I clasp the table, spreading my legs and hoping no one can see. I am wet, so embarrassingly so that I doubt I’ll ever live down the shame, but I don’t push him away.
He fucks me with his hand before everyone in the restaurant and I’m powerless to stop him.
I don’t want to stop him. I want more. Thoughts of pushing him back in his chair, straddling his legs, and guiding him into me bombard my mind.
Of him picking me up, thrusting everything on the table to the floor, and eating me for his dinner instead of the meal we’ve come out for.
“Dallen? Is that you?”
The sound of my mother’s voice douses my desire instantly.
Stephen pulls back as if nothing untoward is happening and picks up his wine just as my mother walks over from near the door with several of her friends. Out for dinner themselves, no doubt to gossip and speak down on those who are unfortunate enough not to be as wealthy as they are.
“Mother.” I smile, although my body mourns the touch of Stephen. My mother glances at my date, and I see the moment she disapproves of my choice. Stephen stills beside me, and I know he’s discerning her dissatisfaction also.
“I didn’t know you had a date this evening, darling,” she says, watching Stephen.
“Ah, yes, surprising, I know…” I clear my throat. “Mother, this is Stephen. Stephen, this is my mother, Susan.”
“A pleasure,” he states and says nothing else.
My mother’s lips turn down in distaste as her gaze lingers on the tattoos on Stephen’s hands.
“Hmm, likewise,” she responds, her tone meaning the opposite. “Well, dear, I hope you have a lovely evening. Do ring me tomorrow. We should do lunch.”
I nod, smiling at her friends who are watching the exchange. “Yes, of course.” She moves on when a waiter notifies them their table is ready, and I take a deep, relieved breath that she’s gone.
“I didn’t put you down for a mummy’s girl. Mother?”
I don’t know if I like being put in such a box, and to be fair, I’ve never really thought about what I call my parents as sounding odd to others.
“Call it instinct, but I believe my mother will not approve of me calling her ‘Mom.’ My father, however, is happy to be called ‘Dad.’” He doesn’t say anything, and I feel the need to explain.
“She’s from a wealthy founding family of New York.
The term is common practice on her side of the family.
Formal speech is the only way they know how to communicate. ”
He doesn’t respond, merely sips his wine and finishes another glass. I wonder if it’s a turnoff hearing a woman calling their parent such a formal form of address. “Does it matter what I call my parents? You disapprove?”
“Your mother dislikes me, that is clear. It makes me wonder if this is worth pursuing if you’re the type of daughter who’ll do whatever the parent thinks best. I’m not ever going to be what’s best for you, no matter how much you may want me to be.
I’m not an untattooed banker from a good family with aristocratic roots. ”
I frown, fighting not to allow my rage to trigger me into a fiery exchange with Stephen.
“You’re being very judgmental, considering you barely know me or my relationship with my parents.
” Even if what he states is true up to a point, what does it matter that I obey rules?
Of course, I rely on my parents and their advice.
They are my only family after losing Daniel.
“It’s clear you’re a good girl until I fuck you in my car and take your virginity. Is this just sex for you? Not that I have an issue scratching your itch—you’re hot as fuck—but I won’t change to please anyone, and it’s pointless if that’s your intention.”
His bluntness steals my breath, and I look around, hoping no one hears us. I wave over a waiter, who comes immediately, and without waiting, I reach into my purse and hand him my card. “Please put the meal on me, thank you.”
Stephen leans back in his chair, and I can feel him staring at me. “You’re leaving?”
I scoff. “I’m certainly not staying.” I pick up my wine, hoping my hands don’t shake.
He is right in a lot of ways. I am na?ve and perhaps lean on my parents too much, care too much about what they think.
But to have that opinion shoved in my face isn’t what I want to hear—not five minutes after he’s been fingering me at the table.
I’m a lawyer. Of course, I’m not a criminal or a woman who changes partners as often as her panties. I’ve always struggled to put myself out there in an intimate way. He’s the first man I want, really desire, and to feel ridiculed isn’t what I expect after such a lovely meal together.
Hurt coils inside me, and I blink, fighting the tears that threaten.
The waiter returns, handing my card back. “Thank you,” I say before starting to collect my things. “It was nice meeting you, Stephen. A shame you think the way you do. We may have suited, no matter our differences in upbringing.”
I feel his gaze—hot and a little unhinged—on me as I pick up my bag. I push back my chair and start for the door. I hear his chair scrape, and before I reach the door, his arm is on the small of my back, pressing me in the direction he wants.
Not where I was heading.
Home.