Chapter 2 #2
In the bathroom, I twist and secure my hair up with pins, before trying to do my makeup passably without taking too long. I spritz some perfume sparingly and give myself a nod in the mirror.
The room door glides open as I come back out, and he holds up a gold band, sliding it onto my ring finger before guiding me out of the room.
The in-house restaurant looks busy, but we don’t have to wait for a table and are seated near an antique-looking fireplace. The hostess hands him the wine list and disappears.
“The Yanks are upping their game, it seems.” He rubs the back of my hand lightly with his thumb as he reads the menu. “Last time I was here, the woman was barely passable.”
That’s so fucking shallow, but I can’t say so. Arrogance is expected too. You need quite a bit of confidence to survive in our world. Still, as a woman, stupid remarks like that make me want to point a gun at him.
Instead, I smile and sigh. “I was going to say the same of the Brits. You’re the first passable one I’ve ever worked with.”
A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t look up. When the server comes over, he orders himself a whiskey, and me a pinot grigio without consulting me. The drinks come quickly, and he takes it upon himself to order my meal as well, before raising his glass in a toast.
“To making friends.”
“Or enemies.” I lift my glass and tip it toward his. “I prefer gin.”
“Yes, well”—he moves the whiskey slowly under his nose— “I prefer the taste of wine.”
I roll my lips together as I fight off the urge to blush, but I don’t entirely succeed.
This guy is smooth, and I hate that it’s effective.
God, in any other situation cockiness like this would make me walk out, but that isn’t an option, and somehow it doesn’t grind on me quite as hard coming from him.
His gaze remains on me as he tests the whiskey and then makes a short, satisfied hum.
This isn’t even a flirtation at this point.
He’s telling me exactly how this is going to go, or at least how he hopes it goes.
There is somewhere I want it to go too, which would be an easier pill to swallow if he wasn’t so sure of himself.
The last thing the guy who always gets the girl needs is to get another girl.
Am I petty enough to deny myself the pleasure, though?
Placing the short glass on the table, he leans back in his chair. “Whatever you’re thinking about me is right, I’m sure, but I’m also equally certain that you’re wrong about at least one thing.”
My composure doesn’t crack as I raise the wine to my lips. I’m trying not to give him anything to read on me, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he probably says these things on a regular basis.
I’m sure I’m right about everything I’m thinking about him, just like I’m sure that I’m basic enough to fall for this shit. I swear my life is becoming a merry-go-round of “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
Pushing his chair back, he excuses himself, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek that I coyly lean into as he passes. “You smell lovely, by the way. I’ll just be a moment.”
Then he disappears.
Even though I want to look over my shoulder and watch him go, I don’t.
We’re wading into a little power struggle that I’m planning to lose.
He knows it. I know it. The one thing I should promise myself is to at least make sure he briefs me on our objective before I lose my mind entirely, although it seems unlikely.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter to myself and signal the server, discreetly ordering a gin and soda.
A few minutes later, he settles back into his seat as I sip my gin.
“Tell me something real about yourself, dove.”
Humming and knowing a test when I see one, I tap my finger on the glass. “You first, sweetheart.”
“So little trust.” He places his elbows on the table and leans in. “But if you insist . . .” His eyes crawl over me and then lock onto my gaze. “I’m going to be peeling you out of that dress in . . .” He glances at his watch. “About forty-five minutes.”
“There is such a thing as too much confidence.”
“Not when it’s warranted.”
The server appears and lays our plates on the table.
Thanking her, he checks his watch again. “Make that forty minutes, unless you were planning on dessert?”
It’s almost impossible not to smile at the audacity.
The man likes to push it. I suppose there is something in that that I can appreciate, even if I can’t relate to it.
I’ve spent years practicing not to be pushy or loud, to appear as if I lack confidence, to look harmless so that I am not a target.
Maybe I’ve gotten too good at it because I shouldn’t smile.
I should throw my drink in his face and leave because that’s what a sane woman would do, I think.
But I must be far from sane because he’s growing on me.
The meal continues pleasantly, and I make a show of it for the room, with genuine smiles and polite laughter when he says something clever.
A lazy stroke of my fingers over my collarbone as I hold his gaze too long creates a tension that doesn’t need to be faked.
I rub the side of his calf with my foot under the table, and it’s everything you’d expect to see between two people in love on a date.
What starts off as acting to convince whoever may be watching, if anyone is watching, requires less and less acting on my part. By the time the server returns for our plates, I feel flush, and my breasts are gently swollen.
“A couple of espressos,” he asks the server and then settles his gaze back on me. “We’re going to need them.”
If I could groan right now, I would.
“You know, I think whiskey is a lot like wine,” he says out of the blue, and I furrow my brows in confusion. The server appears and slides little espresso cups onto the table with the billfold. “They both taste better, more interesting, on someone else’s tongue.”
Crossing my legs, I squeeze my thighs together as I pick up my espresso and sip it, trying to ignore him, but it’s impossible. I may be the meek wife, but he’s been coming at me hard enough all evening to warrant a little bit of edge from me.
I sigh as I set down the empty cup. “I guess I’ll be the judge of that.”
His eyes burn with something I can’t figure out, his jaw tensing slightly, and then I get up and walk out without him.
***
Back in the room, he finds me leaning against the desk with a glass of wine in my hand.
The door closes and locks as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it aside. “Is my wife upset?”
The button on his collar falls open with a deft graze of his fingers, and then another and another as he approaches me and plucks the wineglass from my hand, setting it aside. I uncross my legs, and he wedges himself between my thighs and looks down at me.
“Your wife is an impatient woman,” I point out.
“We’ll have to work on that.” His fingers move across my chest, slipping under a strap and sliding it down my shoulder before moving across to the other. “Anticipation is half the game.”
Stepping away, he moves over to the bar and pours himself another drink. I swallow hard and carefully lift my wine back to my lips. My limbs want to tremble with that very anticipation, and keeping my composure is difficult when I want to rub myself against him like a fucking cat.
Taking a drink, he signals for me to turn around.
I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure I can handle this torture. I wasn’t lying—I’m impatient and a big fan of instant gratification. Finishing the wine, I set the glass aside and turn, placing my hands on the desk.
Stopping behind me, I can hear him taking another drink and then catch the glass descending in my periphery, softly thudding on the desk beside my hand.
Pulling out my hairpins, he runs his hand roughly up the back of my head, giving my hair a squeeze before exhaling and gathering it to one side while his other hand travels down my back. My eyes drift closed.
Gently, he pulls my hips into his, and I straighten until my back hits his chest and I’m leaning into him, craving the touch of bare skin.
A wave of goosebumps run over me when he tugs down the front of my dress to run his fingers over my lacy bra.
The scent of whiskey on his breath mingles with a hint of cigar smoke, and the combination is heady.
Whatever aftershave he’s wearing invades me as his cheek comes down beside mine and his thumb traces my jugular.
Grabbing my jaw, he turns my head, capturing my lips roughly and sweeping my tongue with his own. He was right; secondhand whiskey is good. I kiss him harder, and his weight shifts, pinning my thighs to the desk as he grabs my wrists and forces me forward, planting my hands on the wall.
I bite his lip, and he groans, rifling the dress up over my hips as he pulls back, leaving me panting.
The soft popping sound of more buttons causes a shiver, and then the clasp of my bra gives way.
I let it fall down my arms before replacing my hands on the wall, and the sound of his zipper makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
The heat of his skin on my back causes a tremor in my thigh as he lies against me for a second, and just when I think my panties are going to hit the floor, he yanks them to the side and kicks my feet wider apart.
“Fuck,” I breathe out as he presses against my entrance.
I’m soaked. The verbal foreplay was enough.
Hands slide back up, squeezing my bare breasts before one grabs my throat. Teeth dig into my shoulder and then tug at my jaw, and I can feel his gaze on my face as he thrusts into me. My mouth pops open silently, breath stilling in my chest as he fills me.
“That’s good.” His mouth drags over my cheek, lips catching on my skin as it reaches my ear. “I’ve been picturing spreading you since I walked into this room.”
Half-clothed and fisting the dress about my waist to hold me in place, he thrusts powerfully, wringing little cries out of me between gasps of air. This is exactly what I wanted it to be—impersonal and rough, scratching an itch.
Knives of intense pleasure lash at me with each thrust, and I can’t subdue the shudder building deep down.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel like this so soon, but at the same time, I badly want to finish.
It isn’t for him—it’s for me, and I’ve never needed something so desperately.
My hands slide down the wall as the tension gathers low, and I moan. He grabs the back of my neck and pushes me down, my hands slapping the desk beneath my face before I hit it.
“You like that, don’t you?” He squeezes my nape, and I push into him harder. “Mm, of course you do.” His hand grips the back of my hair, and he slams into me.
I submit to the overwhelming electricity and tension gathering. When it breaks, he pulls my head back as it racks my body, and I moan loudly. He curses, groaning as he finishes with the same intensity he started with.
The strain from his grip on my hair disappears and I let my forehead fall to the desk while I take a few deep but hurried breaths.
It’s funny how you can begin a moment wanting something so badly nothing else matters, but once the moment passes, you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.
I shouldn’t have done this.
I press up off the desk when he steps away and pull my hem down before sliding the straps back up my arms. There is no salvaging my fucking dignity after that wanton display, but I try anyway, strutting to the bathroom without giving him a second look.