Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Skye
I barely keep it together as Dom shifts his leg, deliberately pressing it harder against mine.
Is he actually fucking with me right now?
With his daughter sitting right across from us?
My heart hammers so loudly in my chest I swear everyone in the restaurant must hear it, like a bass drum announcing my complete unraveling to the entire dining room.
"We'll take an order of oysters on the half shell to start, two glasses of Eroica Riesling, and an Old Fashioned," Dom tells the waiter, his voice perfectly steady.
Not a single tremor or hint that he's doing anything inappropriate.
Meanwhile, I'm melting into a puddle beneath the table, my nerves firing like lightning across every inch of skin where we connect.
"I'll be right back with the drinks and bread," the waiter says, walking away with a professional nod.
I quickly open my menu and start scanning it, desperate for a distraction from the solid heat of Dom's thigh against mine.
The heavy, expensive paper trembles slightly in my fingers as I try to focus on the words swimming before me.
After reading through the entire thing twice, I'm still completely lost. Everything sounds complicated and fancy, with ingredients I've never heard of—reductions and foams and things dusted with exotic spices.
"What are you guys getting?" I ask, glancing up and trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Everything looks so good."
Harper laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Dad always gets the same thing."
"I just know what I like," Dom says with a casual shrug, his leg still firmly pressed against mine, the pressure sending waves of heat through my body. His deep voice has this way of making simple statements sound loaded with meaning.
"No, you're just old and set in your ways," Harper shoots back with affectionate teasing, her green eyes sparkling with the easy comfort of their relationship.
"Same thing," Dom replies, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in that barely-there smile that does ridiculous things to my insides.
"What do you get?" I ask him, trying to sound normal while my skin feels like it's on fire.
"The ribeye," he answers simply, his dark eyes meeting mine for a brief, electric moment. "If there's steak, that's what I'm getting." The way he says it—so definitive, so assured—makes me wonder how he applies that certainty to other areas of his life.
I turn to Harper, hoping my face doesn't betray the riot happening inside me, the confusing mix of panic and pleasure. "What about you, Harp?"
"I think I'm going with the miso glazed Chilean sea bass," she says, then leans forward conspiratorially, her freckles catching the low restaurant lighting. "But tell me what you're thinking. I've tried almost everything they have."
"How's the Maine lobster linguine?" I ask, zeroing in on something that sounds vaguely familiar amid the sea of intimidating culinary terms. My parents never took us to places like this—we were strictly a chain restaurant family on special occasions.
Her face lights up, beautiful and animated. "So good. You will love it. I was actually about to suggest that for you."
"Okay, I'll do that," I say, setting my menu down with relief at having made a decision.
Dom shifts again, adjusting his position so his thigh presses even more firmly against mine, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from making a sound that would definitely not be appropriate for this elegant setting.
"So how are Justin and Mom doing?" Harper asks, mercifully oblivious to the secret game of pressure and restraint happening beneath the pristine white tablecloth.
I grab my water glass, needing something to do with my hands before I do something stupid like grab Dom's thigh in return.
The cool glass is a stark contrast to how feverish I feel.
"They're good. I FaceTimed them the other night.
" I take a long, desperate sip before continuing, trying to focus on my family instead of the man beside me. "Mom got a lawyer."
"Ooo, really?" Harper perks up, her eyebrows rising with genuine interest. That's what I love about her—she actually cares about my family's drama.
"Yeah. They aren't really worried about payment. It's a friend kind of situation," I explain, trying to focus on the conversation and not on Dom's leg, the way the fabric of his expensive pants feels against my bare skin below my dress hem.
"That's so exciting," Harper says, her eyes bright with support. "I mean, not that she needs it, but I'm happy she has one."
"Me too," I nod, absentmindedly playing with my nose ring. "Hopefully they can get child support out of him at least. Maybe pay for Justin's school so Mom's not stretched so thin." My voice tightens a little thinking about Mom struggling while my father lives his new life.
Harper's expression darkens slightly, her natural protective instinct flaring. "Yep, I hope so. I still can't believe him. I mean, fine, the cheating—that's not a big shocker these days. But the fact that he's avoiding you guys? I just didn't expect that."
"Excuse me, the cheating was not fine when you're the one who walked in on him fucking his secretary," I blurt out, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth, suddenly remembering whose company I'm in. "Shit, sorry," I add, glancing at Dom with embarrassment heating my cheeks.
His expression hardens, jaw tightening in a way that transforms his handsome face into something dangerous. "Don't apologize to me. That's fucked up."
Harper and I both laugh, though mine has a bitter edge that I can't quite hide. "Oh, you have no idea. It left scars," I say, suddenly feeling exposed in ways that have nothing to do with physical contact.
"I can imagine," Dom says quietly, his tone genuinely sympathetic just as the waiter arrives with our drinks and a basket of fragrant artisan bread.
The warm press of his leg against mine suddenly feels different—less like a challenge and more like support, a steady presence when my family history makes me feel unsteady.
I reach for my wine glass, the pale gold liquid catching the light, needing it more than ever, wondering if this dinner can get any more complicated or if I'm already in way over my head.
I finish my glass of wine before the food even arrives—it's so good that I drink it too fast, the crisp Riesling disappearing in nervous sips while Dom's leg maintains its maddening pressure against mine.
The oysters are amazing—we devour them between snippets of conversation and bursts of laughter.
I'm feeling more relaxed now, the wine's gentle buzz softening the jagged edges of my anxiety as the waiter sets our plates in front of us with a flourish.
Everything looks absolutely incredible—my linguine with generous chunks of lobster glistening in the candlelight, Harper's perfectly glazed sea bass resting on a bed of something vibrant and green, and Dom's thick ribeye, seared to perfection with a crust that makes my mouth water instantly.
I can't help eyeing Harper's plate with unconcealed longing, and she catches me immediately.
"Girl, don't be shy. If you want a bite of mine, go for it," she says with that easy confidence I've always admired but never quite managed to replicate.
"I do," I admit, chewing my bottom lip. "It looks so yummy.
" I stretch across the table with my fork, reaching for her plate.
The fish falls apart beautifully as I scoop up a bite, flaking into perfect morsels.
"Oh god," I say when I taste it, the delicate miso flavor melting on my tongue and making my eyes flutter closed. "I hope mine's that good."
"Oh, it will be. And the potatoes are for everyone, so get some if you want," she offers, gesturing to a side dish of what looks like impossibly creamy garlic mashed potatoes that I hadn't even noticed in my food-induced trance.
"I might. First I need to tackle my pasta.
" I start winding glossy noodles around my fork, bringing it to my mouth and trying desperately not to slurp.
The combination of fresh pasta, buttery lobster, and fragrant herbs hits me all at once in an explosion of flavor, and before I can stop myself, a small, embarrassingly sensual moan escapes around the mouthful.
"Is everything this good?" I ask with my hand covering my mouth, mortified by my unintentional reaction but too blissed out on perfect pasta to truly care.
Harper laughs, clearly amused by my very public foodgasm. I turn to Dom, whose dark eyes seem to have intensified to near-black since I made that sound, his gaze locked on my face with an expression I can't quite decipher.
"Have you had this?" I ask him, gesturing to my plate with my fork, a strand of pasta dangling precariously.
"No," he says simply, his voice noticeably deeper than before, something rough around the edges that wasn't there moments ago.
I point to Harper's plate, feeling strangely bold. "Have you had that?"
He shakes his head, having just put a bite of steak in his mouth. The way his jaw works as he chews is distractingly attractive—the strong line of it moving rhythmically, the slight hollow in his cheeks. I find myself staring longer than is polite.
"Oh wow, so what have you tried?" I ask, genuinely curious about his apparently limited palate in this restaurant full of culinary wonders.
"The steaks," Harper answers for him, rolling her eyes affectionately across the table.
"And the macaroni. And the potatoes," he corrects her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in what might be the beginning of a smile.
"Oh no, sorry, I missed the sides," she says with a theatrical sigh and laugh, then pushes back her chair. "I need to pee. I'll be right back." She points at me with mock seriousness, eyes narrowing. "And my food better still be here."
"No promises," I tease, and as soon as she walks away, I steal another bite from her plate, unable to resist. The fish really is incredible—I might have food envy despite my perfect pasta.
Dom chuckles beside me, the sound low and warm like honey, vibrating through the small space between us. I twirl another bit of my pasta on my fork, making sure it's a perfect bite with a substantial chunk of lobster, and hold it up toward him impulsively.
"I'm good," he says, but something flickers in his eyes that contradicts his words entirely.
"Please," I beg, leaning closer to him, the wine making me bolder than I'd normally be, my inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous.
He groans but leans in and opens his mouth. I feed it to him, watching his lips close around my fork with an intensity that makes my stomach flip and heat pool low in my belly. I wait for his reaction, holding my breath without realizing it, suddenly desperate for his approval.
He nods while chewing and then, to my surprise, cuts a bite of his steak and holds his fork out for me.
The gesture feels strangely intimate as he feeds me, our eyes locked in a way that makes the restaurant around us fade into a blur of background noise.
As soon as the flavor hits my tongue—perfectly seasoned, impossibly tender beef with a hint of char from the grill—I can't help the appreciative moan that escapes my lips.
"You have to stop doing that," he says, his voice tight and controlled, almost strained.
"What?" I ask, genuinely confused, my mind still swimming in flavor.
"Moaning. You're making my dick hard," he says bluntly, his dark eyes intense on mine, burning with something that makes my skin tingle all over.
"Sorry," I mumble, heat flooding my cheeks and spreading down my neck. Then I spot Harper walking back through the tables toward us. "Quick, try a bite of hers before she gets here," I say impulsively, suddenly wanting to share this strange, secret moment with him.
He smiles—a real, full smile that transforms his face from handsome to breathtaking—and scoops up a bite of her fish, but she catches him in the act as she approaches.
"Hey!" she says, sliding into her seat with mock outrage. "Who are you and what did you do with my dad?"
Both Dom and I burst into laughter, the tension broken by her perfect timing, though the electricity between us still crackles just below the surface.
"It's good, right?" I ask him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear nervously.
"Yeah, it's good, but I really like yours," he says, his eyes meeting mine with meaning that makes my pulse jump and my thighs press together unconsciously.
"Wait, you tried hers too? How did you get him to try something else?" Harper asks, genuine surprise coloring her voice as she looks between us.
I shrug, trying to appear casual when everything about this dinner feels charged with an invisible current. "I just asked."
"She's nicer than you," Dom jokes, and Harper tosses her straw wrapper at him with practiced aim.
"I would be mad, but she really is," Harper says with a laugh, completely unaware of what just passed between her father and me, or how his simple, blunt words about my moaning have left me flustered and aroused in ways I've never experienced before.