Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Dominic
The bartender sets down my whiskey. Dark amber liquid over perfectly clear ice—simple, elegant, controlled. Just how I like things.
"You paying now or are you having dinner?" he asks, already wiping down the counter.
"Having dinner. You can add it to the bill." I take a drink, letting the burn settle into my chest, a warm counterpoint to the cold calculation that typically rules my days. That's when I see her walk in, and something fundamental shifts in my carefully ordered world.
She has no idea what I look like, but I'd recognize her anywhere.
Something about her pulled at me through the screen, and it's ten times stronger in person—a magnetic force that defies the logic I've built my life around.
I grab my drink, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the glass, and make my way across the restaurant with purpose.
She stands near the hostess station, fidgeting with the strap of a small purse, eyes darting around the room like a cautious fawn. Nervous. Beautiful. Christ, the pictures didn't do her justice—they couldn't possibly capture the living, breathing essence of her.
Light brown waves frame a heart-shaped face, falling just past her shoulders in a natural cascade I want to run my fingers through.
Her eyes—wide and uncertain—are a clear hazel, more green than brown under the restaurant lighting, revealing depths I could drown in.
Lips full, the bottom one caught between her teeth in a gesture so unconsciously sensual it makes my pulse quicken.
Her dress hugs curves that make my mouth go dry despite the whiskey—soft swells and dips that speak of femininity in its most authentic form.
Not the manufactured perfection I'm used to, but something softer, more real, more honest in its appeal.
The nose ring I'd seen in her photos catches the light—a tiny silver hoop that should look out of place with the elegance of her dress but somehow fits perfectly.
Like an unexpected design element that brings the whole concept together, adding interest to what would otherwise be too conventional.
The architect in me appreciates this juxtaposition, this small rebellion against the expected.
I reach her before she steps up to the hostess, my presence commanding attention without effort—a skill honed over years of professional necessity.
"Cherry?" I ask, though I know it's her. No doubt possible.
She looks up, those innocent eyes widening as they meet mine, surprise and something more primal flashing within their depths.
Her gaze tracks from my face down my body, then back up again, a flush rising to her cheeks when she realizes I've noticed her staring.
The color spreading across her skin is fascinating—a physical manifestation of emotions she can't hide.
She clears her throat. "Yes." One word, simple but steady.
I can't help but smile at her nervousness, the way she's taking inventory of me just as I am of her. Something about her obvious reaction is both endearing and arousing—authentic in a way I rarely encounter in my carefully controlled world.
"You want to sit at the bar or a table?" I ask. "I reserved a table." Always prepared, always planning ahead—the foundation of everything I do.
"A table's good." Her voice is soft but steady, a gentle counterpoint to my own deeper tone.
I approach the hostess, authority in every step. "Reservation for two, Dom."
"Yes, sir." She gathers menus. "Right this way."
I motion for Cherry to follow her, and she does, giving me a perfect view of her walking ahead.
The burgundy dress hugs every curve, accentuating the roundness of her ass with each step, the fabric shifting and clinging in ways that make it impossible not to watch.
My friends think I'm a tit man because of my previous women, but they couldn't be more wrong.
There's nothing I like more than a nice ass, and this girl has possibly the finest I've ever seen—a perfect balance of proportion that satisfies my eye for design.
I force my eyes away, reminding myself why I'm here.
I need to cancel this arrangement. It's inappropriate, she's too young, there are a thousand reasons this is a bad idea.
The logical, controlled part of my brain has enumerated them all.
I rehearsed what I'd say on the drive over.
A simple, respectful explanation of why this won't work, an apology for wasting her time, maybe even offer to pay for her inconvenience. Clean lines, no mess, no complications.
But watching her slide into the booth, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with slightly trembling fingers—revealing a delicate wrist and the gentle curve of her neck—I find those carefully prepared words evaporating like morning mist. Something about her pulls at me—not just physically, though God knows that's powerful enough to make my skin feel too tight for my body.
There's a vulnerability mixed with quiet strength in the way she holds herself, in how she meets my gaze despite her obvious nerves.
Like a structure that appears delicate but is built on a foundation stronger than it appears.
I need to end this now before it begins. I know this with absolute certainty—the same certainty I apply to structural calculations and design specifications.
I slide into the booth across from her, my rehearsed speech forgotten, replaced by a hunger I haven't felt in years.
I study her, gaze lingering on the tattoo adorning her arm—a delicate swirl of artistic flowers.
The nose ring catches the light again, drawing my attention back to her face.
She doesn't look like a virgin. Everything about her—from the confident way she settled into the booth to the subtle defiance in that silver hoop—speaks of experience, of a life lived boldly.
The contradictions in her presence intrigue me despite myself—the innocence her auction profile claimed versus the quiet rebellion evident in her appearance.
But she looks so damn young. Too young. The kind of young that should have me walking away immediately.
I'd worry about her age if I wasn't certain Obsidian had thoroughly vetted her.
Their screening process is legendarily rigorous—it's one reason I maintain my membership despite rarely using it.
The verification protocols alone take weeks, with medical records, identity checks, and background verifications that would make government agencies jealous. Still, I can't help myself.
"How old are you?" I ask bluntly as soon as the hostess leaves us alone. The question comes out harder than intended, the architect in me needing precise measurements, exact specifications.
"Nineteen," she answers without hesitation, meeting my gaze directly. No flinching, no apology in those remarkable hazel eyes that shift between green and gold in the restaurant's dim lighting.
Ice water washes through my veins. Nineteen.
The exact same age as Harper. Christ. My daughter is somewhere right now, probably studying for finals or hanging out with friends her age.
Friends like the young woman sitting across from me.
The parallel makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest, a structural weakness I hadn't accounted for.
I clear my throat and down my remaining whiskey in one burning swallow, welcoming the scorching path it blazes down my throat. Anything to distract from the unwelcome awareness of her presence.
"I'm sorry, but this is not going to work," I say, setting the empty glass down with finality. The sound of crystal against wood feels like punctuation—period, end of discussion.
Confusion crosses her face, brows drawing together over those hazel eyes. "I'm sorry?" Her voice carries a note of genuine bewilderment, as if my rejection was the last thing she expected.
"You're too young for me," I state flatly, the words sour in my mouth. Necessary words, foundations for what should be an easy exit.
Before I can continue, she interrupts. "Did you expect a forty-year-old virgin?"
The question is so unexpected, so perfectly reasonable in its absurdity, that I almost laugh despite the fucked-up situation we're in. My lips twitch involuntarily, control slipping for just a moment. Her directness catches me off-guard—not many people challenge me so effortlessly.
The waiter chooses that precise moment to approach with a pitcher of ice water.
He fills both our glasses with practiced efficiency, then launches into a detailed description of the evening's specials—something about local sea bass and aged prime rib.
I hear none of it, my mind reeling with how to extract myself from this situation without humiliating either of us.
The foundation of my carefully constructed exit strategy is already showing cracks.
"Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" he finally asks, his scripted politeness a jarring contrast to the tension at our table.
"Just this water is fine," she says, offering him a smile that transforms her face into something even more beautiful.
The subtle change in her expression hits me like a physical force—softening her features, revealing a glimpse of genuine warmth that makes her youth all the more apparent and problematic.
He turns to me expectantly, pen poised over notepad.
"Another whiskey," I say, then turn my attention back to the young woman across from me. I need the buffer of alcohol between us, something to dull these unexpected edges.
When the waiter leaves, she takes a deliberate sip of her water, those eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass.
The simple movement shouldn't be erotic, but something about the way her lips meet the glass makes heat curl low in my stomach.
A fundamental, primal response I can't seem to control—like gravity, like pressure, like any other immutable force I work with daily.