Even when we walk into the restaurant, the thought is still knocking around in my brain like one of those medieval, spiked maces. As if the entire concept of going on a date with Lavinia wasn’t fraught enough, the fact she didn’t even realize it was a date just makes it…
Fuck fuck fuck.
Unbearable.
“Let’s not make a big deal about this,” she says for the third time.
The dress is shiny and tight, her breasts peeking out the top, and she keeps plucking at the straps, inching them just a little higher on her shoulders. My eyes snap to the jiggle of her tits every time she does, cock threatening to swell with the idea of slipping the straps off, watching as the fabric catches on her nipples before finally falling away, revealing her soft, supple, flushed–
My eyes dart up, and I can’t even imagine how harried I must look, desperate to plant my eyes anywhere else. It’s been an inner battle all night, but I no longer try to shove it away, willing the waves of my inner ocean to calm. I accept it, acknowledge it, let it pass.
I want to fuck her so badly, it hurts.
Despite the fidgeting, she wears the dress like a second skin, her shoulder blades elegant beneath the spaghetti straps as she stands tall.
Except for the fact she can’t stop trying to smooth things over.
“We were all tired and everything was crazy. Obviously, you asked me out–like, obviously.” She gives me a tense grin. This might be the most I’ve ever heard her talk about something that wasn’t related to her kitten or her hatred of jogging. “I just got my wires mixed up.”
“Lavinia.” The hostess is walking toward us. I keep my voice low.
“Yes?”
“No offense, but please shut up.”
Her eyebrows rise, shocked. “Rude.” But then her lips twitch, some of the tension shattering with her ruby-red smirk.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “That was harsh.”
We both let out a nervous laugh.
I pretend like I’m not remembering what she looked like riding my brother’s dick.
“No. You’re right. I’m finished.” She toys with the beaded fringe on the bottom of her skirt. It hangs like a curtain, shouting, ‘pull me up and come to the show.’
The hostess arrives, giving me a nod. “Your table is ready, Mr. Perilini.”
“Thank God,” I mumble, gesturing for Lavinia to go ahead of me. It’s a mistake. Every step sends that fringe swaying back and forth and my cock reacts predictably. Like a feral animal trying to escape a cage. I place my palm on the small of her back, not leading so much as allowing myself one small indulgence of her heat.
Accept. Acknowledge. Let it pass.
When I step in front of her to pull out her chair, she pauses, an odd look coming over her face. It’s gone just as quickly as it came. “So how’d you score a last-minute reservation at Stock and Barrel?” she asks, lowering herself into the seat.
“I have my ways.” Carefully, I push the chair back to the table. So far, despite the utter humiliation and the fact I want to rut her like a goddamn dog, I’ve managed to tick off every box in the gentleman playbook. Flowers. Holding the door for her. Taking her hand to help her out of the SUV. Walking closer to the street.
“I hear the waiting list is months long.” She freezes, eyes snapping to mine. “Wait. Unless it wasn’t last minute. Have you been planning this for a long time?”
I take a second to interpret the confusion in her eyes. I could lie. If I’d planned this during my week away, then it would have been a statement. A gesture. An apology. She might appreciate knowing I’d had the forethought, because yeah, of-fucking-course that’s what a guy does when he’s messed up.
I tell the truth instead.
“My mom is the owner’s therapist,” I explain, draping my coat over the back of the chair and taking the seat across from her. The table is next to the wide windows that overlook the water. It’s small, suffocatingly intimate, and with my large frame, not at all unlike sitting at a child’s play table. I tuck my limbs in close to avoid knocking anything over. One wrong move and my shirt cuff could catch fire on the centerpiece candle. “He told her that whenever she wanted a table, it was waiting.”
She reaches for the menu. It’s narrow, on thick cardstock, and offers a limited selection. According to my mother, that’s how fancy places work. “It’s cool that your mom has her own career,” Lavinia says, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “It’s very non-Royal. For a woman, I mean.”
I pick my menu up more for something to do with my hands than anything. My pops already told me what to order. “It’s one of the reasons my fathers decided to get out. Mom wanted to be a psychologist, not a Queen. They didn’t want to hold her back from her dream.”
Not that the comment from Remy’s father hasn’t taken root inside my mind.
“…for those two, it’s the secret. It’s the shame.”
My parents almost never talk about their time in West End, but I’ve never gotten the impression that there’s shame in their past. That my Pops lost the loyalty of his men. That my dad and him left not because they wanted to, but because they didn’t have a choice.
Then again, it wasn’t a week ago that Remy thought his father was just a lame, boring old real estate developer.
She stares at the menu, but sensing that she’s not really reading, I wonder, “Are you thinking about your own mom?”
She blinks up at me, the fog clearing from her eyes as she shrugs. “Or what our lives might have been like if my father had sacrificed his ambition the way yours did.”
Reasonably, I offer, “Abdicating has its own issues. My parents have had to look over their shoulders their entire lives. Career opportunities–the good ones–are hard to come by in Forsyth for an ex-Royal.” I take a sip of water. “And it’s one reason the Dukes are viewed as the lowest tier frat. Saul hasn’t been a failure as King, but he doesn’t have the bloodline. He has no heir, and it gives us weaker positioning. Like Nick said. It’s all about leverage.” My eyes meet hers. “We don’t have the luxury of losing. Ever.”
She tilts her head, something soft and pensive in her eyes. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? That people from good, strong, loving families are never the ones who take the crowns. It’s always the snakes and the rats.”
“Snakes eat rats,” I point out.
Lavinia’s red lips curl into a slow, knowing grin. “Bears eat both.”
My dick is instantly, unavoidably, fucking agonizingly hard. “Can I kiss you?” The request tumbles out with all the grace of a boulder, my voice dropping two octaves. I don’t actually mean to. It’s just the thought of Lavinia being on our side, becoming one of us, acknowledging our superiority–
My blood turns to hot fucking lava.
Accept. Acknowledge. Let it pass!
It’s only when she jolts back, smirk vanishing, that I realize how close we’ve been leaning over the table. Clearing her throat, she looks away. “No.”
Before I can do much more than stare at her dismally, the waiter arrives to take our drink order. “Whisky,” I say, voice a touch too gruff.
To my surprise, Lavinia looks up at the waiter and says, “Vodka tonic, please.”
“You don’t usually drink,” I say, once he leaves. Remy’s been trying to pump her full of illicit substances for weeks now, and Nick’s always down to offer her a beer, but I’ve never seen her take either of them up on it. Looking at the menu, I mutter, “Is the date going that badly?”
“God, no.” Her shoulders relax. I’m momentarily fixated on the way her eyelashes look until she ducks her head. “It’s been a long time since I didn’t need to have my wits about me to survive.”
Nodding, I say, “I know the feeling.”
“No, you don’t.” When she glances up, there’s a bitter heat in her eyes. “When you’re a prisoner being shuffled between shady men who could overpower you with a flick of their wrist, you learn that your only weapon is your mind. You have to keep it sharp at all times, because you never know when…” Her words trail off, but I see it. The same numbness I see in her eyes when she’s having a paralysis episode.
My chest feels as heavy as lead.
I drop the menu.
“Because you never know when some guy is going to break into your room and rough you up, right?” I remember that night in the Hideaway’s basement with such vivid clarity that sometimes I have to force myself not to call up the memory of being between her thighs. Only these days, it’s not her thighs I remember. It’s her wet eyelashes as I backhanded her cheek. The scorching fire of hatred in her eyes. The way she looked in that bed, like a wild, caged animal.
She tries to hide her wince, but I still see it. “That, or… something worse.”
Grimly, I say, “I doubt anything was worse than what we did to you.” I freeze, muscles tensing. “Unless someone else–”
“No,” she bursts, eyes wide. “No one ever–” A quick shake of her head. “But there was always the threat.”
An uncomfortable stillness settles over us, but I’m too lost in the twist of my thoughts to pay it much mind. Why didn’t I ever think to ask her that before? “I did it for Nick, you know.” I force myself to look her in the eye. “To become a Duke with him. To be his brother again. To watch his back. I didn’t know–”
I stop, knowing that any way I finish that sentence will sound selfish and callous.
I didn’t know I’d end up falling for you? As if that’d make it any better.
“I didn’t think about you at all, really.” My shrug is heavy, defeated. “You were just a Lucia back then. You were the enemy. You were a job.” Abruptly, I add, “I shouldn’t have hit you like that,” and it strikes me as the most ridiculous fucking thing, because really? Out of everything we did to her that night?
“I know.” She pulls her hands into her lap, suddenly looking very small.
“Christ,” I mutter. And then, “This date really is going that badly.”
She offers a strained smile. “Liquor is coming.”
“It’s just…” When I duck in closer to speak, she reaches out to move the candle, eyes fixed on the flame, even though her head is tilted to hear me. “I was thinking I’d bring you here and tell you I was wrong that night, at the party.” Beneath the table, my knee bumps hers and she flinches. Just barely, but enough to notice. I don’t let that stop me. Not yet. “And then that shit happened today with Bruce, and I was going to say… things have changed since I did that to you. For me, they have.” I wait a beat for a reaction, any semblance of understanding. When none comes, her eyes tracking off to the side, I sigh. “And now, I remember just how much I have to make up for, and it’s…” I take a long, bracing inhale. “It’s a lot.”
She fidgets with the candle, mouth twisting unhappily. “Too much work, huh?”
It’s a risk–I’ve stayed inside my lane so far–but I touch her. Resting my palm over her knuckles, I still the absentminded twirl of the candle. “I’d put in the work, Lavinia.” Waiting until she meets my gaze, I add, “Hell, I’d put in twice the work if it meant you’d look at me the way you used to. Remember, that day? When we were on the floor?”
“When you asked me to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes.” I was so high on it that I had to go for another run afterward just to wear my nerves back down. There’s a reason I pull my hand away, though, dragging my fingertips until the connection breaks. “But I don’t actually deserve you. Do I?”
Lavinia watches me closely, carefully, and when her lips part on the crest of an inhale, I just know she’s going to agree.
And then the goddamn waiter comes.
We break apart like two criminals being caught in the middle of some heinous act.
Nonplussed, he sets a glass down in front of us both. “Vodka tonic for the lady, and a whiskey for her gentleman.”
Lavinia sighs. “I’m not a Lady. But thank you.”
The whisky is dark amber, absurdly expensive, the kind of thing one might imagine was aged in the bosom of some luxurious villa, covered in silks, distilled with diamonds, tended to faithfully by generations of virgins, and blessed hourly with smudges of sacred ash on its barrel.
I down that shit in one tasteless gulp.
“You’re right.” Lavinia says, fingering her glass. “Things have changed. That’s what I was trying to say before.” She lifts the glass, meeting my eyes over the rim. “I’d never drink in front of someone I didn’t feel safe with.” Then she tips it back, holding my stare as she takes a long, indulgent sip. I watch, transfixed as she licks the taste of it from her lips. “I don’t know what you deserve, Sy. But I know what I deserve, and for once in my life, that’s all that matters to me.”
I don’t need that wry curve of her brow to drive home what I already know.
“You deserve to be safe.”
“Among other things,” she says, nodding. “Yeah, I think I do.”
I give the space beside her hand a longing tap. “I can… be that for you. I can keep you safe.” When I look up, there’s a warmth in her eyes that I’m surprised to see. It’s not quite what it was like before, that day she smiled at me and touched me, and looked flushed and sated and… happy. It’s not quite that.
But it’s a start.
Clearing my throat, I look back at the menu. “You deserve a good dinner, too.”
A loud voice carries from across the room, and I glance over, grimacing when I realize who the voice belongs to. “Fuck, I thought this place had standards.” Seriously, this night is doomed.
“What?” Lavinia looks over her shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“One of Ashby’s little carbon copy fuckboys,” I grumble, but before I have a chance to elaborate, he sees me, eyes hardening. Without missing a beat, he strides across the restaurant in my direction, all swagger and cocksure grin. The blonde on his arm is sent to follow the hostess with a hard slap to her ass before Wicker stops at my table. “Perilini. Surprised to see you here. Isn’t this restaurant a bit out of your price range?”
Wicker Ashby is a member of PNZ, the Prince’s frat, and one of Rufus Ashby’s spawns.
Not genetically.
My lip curls distastefully. “Ashby.” His eyes flick to Lavinia, but for once tonight, my manners fail. This douchebag doesn’t rate an introduction.
Unfortunately, he disagrees. “Whitaker Ashby–my friends call me Wicker. And you’re Lavinia Lucia,” he says, eyes raking over her. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” The perfect, sparkling grin he flashes her makes my chest flare hot and possessive. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“And why’s that?” Lavinia asks, sweetly.
“Because I wanted to see the caliber of pussy that Bruin thought was worth killing one of our men over.”
My jaw clenches and the urge to rise out of my seat and pummel this piece of trash is intense.
But no.
I’m not letting this asshole ruin my date.
Sounding bored, I say, “Yeah, you’re going to have to be more specific.” Even though I know perfectly well who he’s talking about. “Nick has a twitchy finger when it comes to the Duchess.”
Lavinia gives him a sympathetic nod. “It’s a real problem. There have been interventions and everything.”
Wicker’s gaze moves from her to me. “Forgive me. I forgot with all the hits you take to that big, fat skull of yours, your memory probably isn’t up to par. Maybe a name will jog it.” His grin turns hard and cold. “Felix Ashby.”
“Ah, right,” I say, staring mournfully into my empty glass. “Felix. Poor bastard. To be fair, he did insult the Duchess.”
“And mistreated his cat!” Lavinia snaps, as if that alone is worth a death sentence. I mean, for her, it just might be. She is Nicky’s girl, after all. “He was obviously a piece of shit.”
“What’s this about, Wicker?” I ask. “Come to issue a threat? A warning? Because you’re not the first one to threaten us this week. You’re not even the first one to threaten us today. We’re fresh out of fucks.”
Crisply, he replies, “Like I said, I just wanted to see what drove Nick to murder.” He props his hand on the back of my chair while his eyes rake over Lavinia. “The three of you did pluck her out of a whorehouse. She must be fantastic at head for Bruin to be so whipped. I’d have to test it myself to be sure.” Pitching his voice to a seductive purr, he adds, “How about you join me tonight, sweetie? Plenty of space for a pretty little slut like you beneath my table.”
“What did you just say?” My vision turns red so fast that it’s like a freight train slamming into my sternum. I get halfway to jolting to my feet before Lavinia’s hand lands on my arm.
“Generous offer,” she says, smiling icily, “but we all know there’s a reason Princesses are contractually obligated to fuck you guys.” Lavinia tilts her head toward me, like she’s–very loudly–telling me a secret. “The word around that whorehouse is that East End dick is like getting railed by a soft taco.”
Wicker isn’t one to get provoked easily. He just shrugs a shoulder, easy as you please. “Don’t confuse East End with its blood royalty. The rest of us get to choose our lays. Like your sister, for instance.” He lifts his hand, kissing the tips of his forefinger and thumb. “Delicious cunt. Begged me for more.”
Something in Lavinia’s eyes shuts down, and it makes the storm inside of my chest grow wider, angrier. “You never fucked my sister. I know for a fact.”
Wicker casts his eyes around the restaurant. “She here to say otherwise? Ah, that’s right.” He snaps his fingers, like he’s remembering something. “She’s gone. Probably deader than a doornail.”
“That’s enough,” I growl, noticing the eyes on us. “Felix fucked around and found out. Don’t act like a Prince wouldn’t do the same for his Princess. You know, assuming you had the pedigree to be a real Royal.”
He drags his eyes off Lavinia’s chest, and I see something flicker across his face. Anger? Offense? “The Princess would never be in a situation like that in the first place. At a hand-off?” He scoffs. “Our women are treated like queens from the day they’re chosen, not dragged around like dogs.”
He doesn’t mention what happens after that. But Lavinia doesn’t miss a beat.
“Until they can’t give you an heir, and you toss them to the gutter.” She snorts. “Yeah, I met your former Princess that night. Autumn is her name? Used up and discarded at twenty-one. That’s the dream, alright.”
“You don’t know anything about the inner workings of PNZ.” He straightens, expression inexplicably smug. His eyes dart over to where his girlfriend waits. “Gotta go.” He pauses and gives me a grin. “Pro tip, Perilini: Always get a booth. It’s the best way to get a handjob during dinner.” He pauses, doing that annoying finger snap again. “Probably still not enough cover for you, eh?”
He struts off, and I’m left plucking at my collar, the necktie feeling unbearably tight. It’s joined by the hard snare of my heartbeat, the hot rush of my blood, and tendons straining with the urge to take a running tackle at his retreating figure.
“I can’t do this,” I say, the feeling of suffocation surrounding me.
She tears her glare away from him, swinging an alarmed look my way. “Do what?”
“This date.” I yank at my tie, loosening it for air. It doesn’t help. My blood feels like a living thing, pulsing and energized. “This is a fucking disaster, Lavinia. You know it. I know it. Wicker-fuckboy-Ashby knows it.”
She blinks at me. “You want to leave?”
“There’s no reason to put us through it. I mean, look at us.” I wave my hand over the table. “We’re not even compatible–anywhere. We can’t communicate. We argue all the time. I can hardly touch you without you flinching. We can’t even fuck.” My voice clips off and I inhale, trying to calm the stampede of my heart. “I’ve busted my ass all night to be the kind of guy you deserve, but let’s face it. I’m not.” I stand, grabbing my jacket, and then I shrug it on so aggressively that I’m pretty sure I hear a rip. I reach for the wallet in my pocket to pay for the drinks, but there’s nothing there. It’s gone.
“Sy,” Lavinia says, face falling. “I know this has been a clusterfuck, but don’t—”
“Shit.” I pat my other pockets.
“What?” Her tone shifts to concern.
“My fucking wallet is gone.” Jesus. This is what I mean. Total disaster. Did I forget it? No. I put the valet ticket in there when we got out of the car. I bend, looking on the floor, under the tablecloth. Lavinia hops up, and my eyes flick behind her, where I see Wicker in his booth. His arms are extended along the back of the bench, a wide, smug grin plastered across his face.
I straighten. “Motherfucker.”
Before I even finish marching my way to his table, Wicker has the wallet held up, giving it a little wave. “Lose something, big guy?”
Anger swells in my chest, and I lunge. Lavinia’s hands grab at my jacket in a panicked attempt to hold me back, but we both know she’s too small to really do so. I hold back anyway, snatching the wallet from his hand with a sneer. “Gutless, petty theft. You’re definitely East End garbage.”
“And you’re poor,” he says, laughing obnoxiously. “It’s not like I’d really use your credit card. It’d get declined on appetizers alone.” His eyes shift to Lavinia, tongue sucking his teeth. “Date going badly, sweetie? It’s not too late to join me. If those bandages on your knees mean anything, I’m betting you know just how to pay your way.” He says to his date, “Tiff, scooch over a bit, make room for the Duchess.”
“That’s it,” Lavinia says, pushing past me. She grabs the drink in front of him and tosses it in his face.
Tiffany squeals, jolting to her feet. “My dress!”
“You bitch,” Wicker snarls, jumping up.
I slam a hand on his shoulder, shoving him back down, and then jerk back my elbow, preparing to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. “Don’t you fucking dare. If you think my brother has a hair trigger for the Duchess, then you should see how I react.”
Wicker’s face pales under his tan, and even though his glare doesn’t fall, I still see his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow. Tiffany whimpers, scooching around the booth in a futile attempt to escape.
“Ahem.”
A throat clears behind us, and slowly, I turn. A man dressed in a suit stands behind me, nervously hovering. I assume he’s the manager and right behind him is our alarmed looking waiter and what appears to be a security guard.
I don’t lower my arm, but I hold my fist, waiting.
“Mr. Perilini, it’s time for you to leave,” the man in the suit says in a quiet but firm voice. “Immediately, or I will call the police.”
Wicker’s lips tug into the smallest of smirks, and if Nick hadn’t just given that speech about putting the frat first, to hold ourselves to a higher public standard, I’d be ruining Wicker’s pretty face right about now.
But my stupid brother stepped up, which means I have to, also.
I drop my fist and release him, snagging my wallet in the process. “I’d tell you to meet me outside so we can settle this like real men, but we both know you’re too pussy to square up with me.”
“Sure,” he says, flicking his eyes to Tiffany who quickly re-glues to his side. “Whatever you say.”
Security doesn’t exactly throw us out. We were leaving in the first place. But we still get an obnoxious escort, the guard nodding to the valet to get our car ASAP. The kid bolts, and I walk over to the brick column next to the valet stand and lean back, sighing.
Closing my eyes, I hope I’ll wake up anywhere else.
Lavinia’s heels click on the paved sidewalk, and I feel her staring at me. Without opening my eyes, I say, “I’m just not used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“Losing.” I glance over at her. It’s painful to see her. She’s so fucking beautiful. So strong. So… everything. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. Lavinia Lucia is the perfect girl for me. “Every round I go with you, I end up losing.”
She tilts her head, brows pulled together. “When are the three of you going to realize I’m not some prize you can win?”
There’s some irony there, given that she literally was our prize for Nick winning his fight against Perez. But I don’t argue, because I understand the basic premise of it. We won her body, her title, and the right to call her ours.
Nothing else.
“This was a nice gesture and all, but just out of curiosity,” she says, eyes cast down to the knot of my tie. “Are you ever going to actually say the words?”
I know what she wants to hear. It’s the reason I wanted to take her out to begin with. The Hideaway. The locker room. That night in my parents’ basement. I could apologize for all of that and it’d be easy. Things were different between us then. She knows it. She has to know it.
But how can I erase what I did the night I left?
The pause lingers on, tinged with sadness, and it’s heavy with the feeling that this is do or die. A moment where something is either saved or broken.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “You want to know why I’ve never had a girlfriend before?”
Lavinia rolls her eyes, a flash of annoyance crossing her features. “I know you have intimacy problems, but–”
“No, I mean the real reason. The honest truth.” It has nothing to do with sex, and from the curious look she pins me with, she’s catching my drift. This isn’t something I’ve been able to admit to myself until recently. “My fathers were legends around here. The old guys up at the gym still talk about them sometimes. They were unstoppable forces, respected just as much as they were feared. And then… they fell for my mom.” It’s always been hard to reconcile the ruthless, tough, hotblooded fighters West End reveres with the two patient men who raised me. “You know better than anyone that you have to be hard as steel out here. The smallest sign of weakness and you get taken to the mat.”
Her face clears. “And caring about someone is a weakness.”
“I’ve seen it a million times with other guys. They get a girl, go soft. Even the fiercest fighters–real warriors–get all pussy-whipped and gooey. And I never really got it. Who would want that? I sure as fuck never did.” Pitching closer, I peer into her eyes, knowing she must hear the thread of confusion in my voice. “But the weird thing is? Now that I do want it, I don’t feel that way at all. You don’t make me soft. If anything, you make me want to fight harder. Better. Stronger.” My fingers brush against hers. “You’re more than a prize to me, Lavinia. To us. I wanted to bring you here tonight, to this stupid restaurant, in this stupid suit, with those stupid flowers, because I wanted to show you that I could be… worthy. Of you.”
“Sy.” The look she gives me is unbearable. Pity. “It’s just one date.”
I smile grimly. “I know. One date against months of evidence that I’m not worthy at all.” It was a bad idea. After all we’ve been through these past few days, this was too soon. Impatient. Impulsive. I guess I really am Nick’s brother. But there is one more thing I need her to know. “It’ll never happen again, Lavinia. I meant what I said back there. I’ll always keep you safe. From others, and from myself.” She searches my eyes with an intensity I’m not expecting, but am oddly grateful to see. Intrinsically, I know this is something she’s going to hold me to. “Even if you don’t want this.” I gesture between us. “Even if you don’t want me. I’ll still keep that promise.”
I don’t know what she finds in my eyes, but it makes her face soften, head canting to the side. “I already told you, didn’t I?” Her smile is small and edged with hurt, but it still makes my chest thump. “There are worse things than being Sy Perilini’s girl.” She jerks her chin toward the restaurant. “I could be poor Tiffany right now.”
I snort, real laughter rumbling around my chest. God, this woman. Knowing I have no right to, I nervously ask, “What does that mean? Are you… mine?”
She steps closer, raising her hand to grip my tie. Then, she arches an eyebrow. “That depends entirely on how this kiss goes.”
Slowly.
That’s how it goes.
I cup her cheek first, not just because I’ve seen Nick and Remy do it, but because I want to tip her face up to mine, brush my lips against hers, feel the hinge of her jaw shift as she parts her mouth.
After that it’s soft and warm and wet. The sharp edge of vodka and whisky lingers on our tongues, but all I taste is sweetness and a sense of urgency. When I slide my hand around to her lower back, tucking her body closer, something primal yawns itself awake inside of me. It wants to take. It wants to spin her around, shove her up against this pillar, and tear this sparkly dress off her.
Accept.
I lick into her mouth instead, biting back the guttural whine threatening to break free from the pit of my chest. Her hand tugs my tie, beckoning me closer, and it roars through me like a wildfire.
Acknowledge.
My dick throbs with want, so hard that I know she can feel it against her belly. But when I tangle my fingers into her hair, I don’t make a fist, pulling and fighting. I cradle the curve of her skull and think about that day on the floor. The way she looked at me. Her fingers against mine. The curl of her laughter.
Let it go.
When I pull away, I don’t go far, tipping my forehead against hers. I don’t open my eyes because I’m not ready to see her answer. I breathe in the scent of her instead, the warmth of her body against mine, the sensation of her fingers clutching my jacket.
If the world ended right now, I’d be okay.
“Pizza.” When I blink my eyes open, she’s staring back, mouth puckered into a thoughtful curve. “Way better first date food than this fancy crap, don’t you think?”
Grinning, I take her hand just as the car pulls around. “Only one way to find out.”
