by Anna Zaires
“So you are hungry, after all?” Marcus asks, spearing a circle of calamari with his fork.
“For pizza? Always.” I bite into the slice and close my eyes, almost moaning out loud as the taste of gooey melted cheese and perfectly seasoned tomato sauce fills my mouth. Swallowing the bite, I open my eyes to lick the drop of sauce from my fingers—and pause at the hungry look on Marcus’s face.
“Want a slice?” I offer, realizing I’m being rude by hogging the entire pizza to myself. It’s a small one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share. Marcus is watching me eat so intently it’s as if he wants to devour me instead of the pizza.
“No, thanks.” His voice is slightly hoarse as he reaches for his glass of water. “You’re welcome to the calamari, though.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I bite into the pizza again. The taste is just as orgasmic as before, but I manage to keep my eyes open this time—and see Marcus’s jaw tighten as he watches me chew and swallow the bite.
He’s not eating; he’s just staring at me, and it makes me distinctly uncomfortable.
“You sure you don’t want some?” I ask after I swallow my third bite. “I’m happy to share, honestly.”
“No, I’m fine. Please, enjoy.” He picks up his fork again and starts eating the calamari. I decide that turnabout is fair play, so I openly watch him as he consumes his food. It’s amazing, but he somehow makes even the mundane act of eating seem powerfully masculine. The muscles in his jaw flex as he chews, and his throat works with each swallow, drawing my attention to the strong column of his neck. I’ve never thought of eating as a sexual act, but with Marcus, I find myself mesmerized by the way he brings each ring of calamari to his mouth and decimates it with his straight white teeth. My breathing speeds up, and the dampness in my underwear intensifies as I picture his mouth engaged in other, much dirtier activities.
To distract myself from the bizarre urge to lick a bread crumb off his lip, I focus on devouring my pizza. When only the crust remains, I look up.
“You never told me how your dinner with Emmeline went,” I say. “Did your matchmaker do a good job?”
Marcus puts down his fork and very deliberately finishes his calamari. “She did,” he says, patting his lips with a napkin.
“And?” I prompt when he doesn’t elaborate.
“And nothing.” His face is expressionless. “Emmeline fits certain criteria I have, that’s all.”
That’s all? The pizza in my stomach turns into a brick. “If she’s so perfect, then why—”
“Here you are. The squid ink risotto,” the waiter announces, placing the dish in the middle of the table with a flourish as a busboy clears off the remnants of the appetizers. I clamp my lips shut, forcing myself to stay silent as the waiter puts clean plates in front of each of us.
As soon as he’s gone, I open my mouth to resume my questioning, but Marcus shocks me by reaching across the table and covering my hand with his. His palm is dry and warm and so large I feel engulfed by the heat of it. My breath catches in my throat, and my heartbeat skyrockets further as he leans in, his blue eyes locked on my face.
“Emma, listen to me,” he says quietly. “Emmeline has nothing to do with this. I’ve only met her once, and there are no commitments of any kind between us. As you might’ve guessed, I’m attracted to you—very attracted—and if I’m not mistaken, you’re not completely indifferent to me either.” His thumb brushes across the pulse in my wrist, which is hammering wildly, corroborating his words. He must feel it too, because his eyes darken and his voice deepens, turning low and seductive as he murmurs, “Why don’t we just enjoy this meal and see where things go from here?”
I swallow thickly. I don’t know what to say, or even to think. A part of me is bizarrely hurt that this other woman fits some predetermined criteria of his, but what he’s saying makes sense too. One dinner doesn’t make her his girlfriend, any more than it gives me any rights over him. If anything, his honesty is a point in his favor; he could’ve lied about meeting Emmeline, and I would’ve been none the wiser. At the same time, I’m aware that I’m not thinking clearly, that his touch is heating me from within and turning my brain to mush.
“I, um…” Pulling my hand away, I fight to regain my composure. “I think you should eat your risotto. It’s probably getting cold.”
He regards me wryly, and I have a feeling he knows exactly how he’s affecting me. “Of course, the risotto. We don’t want it to get cold,” he says, and I let out a relieved breath as he reaches for the dish.
Scooping up a spoonful of risotto, he reaches for my plate.
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks.” I move the plate out of his reach. “It’s all yours.”
“You don’t want to try even a little?”
“I’m really full, thanks.” It’s a lie; my mouth is watering at the succulent-looking seafood in the risotto, but I don’t want to muddy the waters when it comes time to pay the check. “It’s all yours.”
After a moment of hesitation, he puts the risotto on his plate and digs into it with evident enjoyment. “Not a seafood fan?” he asks after the first bite, and I shrug in response. I love seafood, but if I admit that, my refusal to try Marcus’s dish will confuse him even more.
“I think it’s okay,” I say when he lifts his eyebrows, silently urging me to elaborate. “I’m pretty open to all foods, actually.”
“Ah, an omnivore. I like it.” He grins, showing those sexy cheek grooves, and I feel the magnetic pull again. It’s unfair that the best-looking guys are often the ones who are off limits, either because they’re assholes or because they’re gay. Marcus is definitely not the second, but the jury is still out on the first.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair to put a little distance between us. “What is your criteria? Do you have a list with all the qualities you want your future wife to possess?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Doesn’t everyone? Isn’t there something you’d want your future spouse to be? Some qualities you’d want him to have?”
“I guess,” I say after considering it for a moment. “I’d definitely want him to be nice and kind to animals… especially cats. I’d want him to love cats.”
“That’s it? Just nice and an animal lover?”
“Well, it would be good if he shared some of my interests, too. The more we have in common, the greater the odds that it’ll work out longer term.”
Marcus regards me with a curious smile. “You don’t believe in opposites attracting?”
“No—not in any sustainable way, at least,” I say as he reaches for more risotto. “I think two incompatible people can be physically attracted to each other, but for an enduring relationship to form, you need a stronger foundation. There must be shared values and beliefs, goals and interests… If you don’t have that, the relationship will be like a match: fragile and quick to burn out.”
His smile fades, his expression turning unusually serious. “You’re right. I couldn’t agree more.” He takes a sip of water before digging into his food again, and I watch in amazement as he polishes off a sizable portion of the risotto in record time.
“So you never told me what your criteria is,” I say when Marcus’s plate is almost clean. “Is it height, weight, eye color… education level?”
He puts down his fork, his gaze locking on my face. “Education is definitely important to me. So is intelligence, upbringing, and a certain amount of ambition. Obviously, I want to be attracted to her, but I’m also looking for a woman who’d be an asset at social functions, someone who’d be comfortable interacting with my existing and potential investors and wouldn’t mind doing so. And above all else, I want a wife who’d understand that a successful career requires sacrifices, that you have to work hard to get somewhere in life.”
I stare at him in fascination. His bluntness is both refreshing and off-putting. What he’s describing sounds more like a business partner than a love interest. For some reason, I picture the wife from House of Cards—the cool, elegant Clai
re who’s the female half of the scheming political power couple in that Netflix show. Marcus isn’t a politician, but his requirements seem similar. I don’t know what kinds of events he attends, but the fact that he refers to them as “social functions” implies they’re not backyard barbecues in Brooklyn.
“What about her personality and interests?” I ask, pushing away my dismay. I don’t know why I feel disappointed at Marcus’s revelations; it’s not as if I didn’t know we were utterly different. When he asked me out, I knew the dinner would be a one-off affair, and it shouldn’t upset me to learn that he wants a woman who’s my polar opposite. I’m no longer as socially awkward as I was in my teens, but I’m enough of an introvert that a casual gathering with friends can tire me out. Just the thought of some big formal event makes me want to break out in hives, and I wouldn’t know how to begin making small talk with those investors of his.
I can talk to strangers about books, but that’s about it.
“Personality and interests?” Marcus appears to give it some thought as the waiter clears off the dishes and sets a dessert menu in front of each of us. “Yes, obviously, those are important too. I’d want her to be level-headed and reasonable, not a hothead. Also honest. Honesty and loyalty are very important to me.”
“Me too,” I say, nodding. “I think trust is key in any relationship.”
Marcus smiles. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
“What about interests?” I ask. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“I don’t have a lot of that, but I suppose I like collecting things, and I’m also into fitness. I enjoy challenging myself physically, so I do a couple of marathons and triathlons every year, and I train in mixed martial arts when I can.”
“Oh, wow.” That explains his athletic build—and confirms my overall impression of him. Marcus is indeed an extreme Type A, the kind of man who accomplishes more in a week than most people do in a lifetime. “That’s hardcore.”
“What about you?” he asks as I glance down at the dessert menu, more out of habit than any real interest. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“I like books,” I say sheepishly, looking up to meet his gaze. I wish I could tell him I’m into something cool and sporty, like skiing or rock climbing, but walking is my exercise of choice. The only time I run is when I have to catch the train. “When I’m not editing books, I’m usually reading them,” I elaborate when he continues looking at me. “I also like TV shows and movies. You know, pretty normal stuff. Oh, and cats. I love my cats, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “I like books too, by the way. In fact—”
“Would you like some dessert?” the waiter asks, approaching our table, and I shake my head.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“None for me either, thank you,” Marcus tells the waiter.
“We’ll just take the check,” I say before he can slip away.
The waiter nods and disappears, and I turn to find Marcus watching me with a frown.
“In a hurry to leave?”
“No, but I figured you might be,” I say honestly. “Clearly, we don’t have a lot in common, and you’re a busy man, so…” My voice trails off as Marcus’s frown deepens.
“Emma, listen to me,” he begins, but before he can finish, the waiter returns and discreetly places a small black folder in the middle of the table. In a practiced move, I snatch up the folder and open it, quickly skimming the lines on the check to confirm that my portion is indeed what I expected.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks as I reach into my wallet and take out twenty-eight dollars—the cost of my pizza appetizer, plus tax and tip.
I look up to find his blue eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a hard line.
“I always pay for myself,” I explain, putting the money into the folder. “I don’t think it’s right for my date to pay for me when I’m perfectly capable of buying my own meal.” I start to move the folder back to the middle of the table, but Marcus reaches across the table and catches my hand.
“Emma…” His grip on my fingers is gentle, but his eyes glint harshly as he says in an even tone, “I asked you to dinner, and I’m paying for it. End of story.”
My breathing speeds up at his touch, and it’s all I can do to say steadily, “I understand the custom, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. I prefer to pay my own way.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Why? A dinner doesn’t mean you owe me. You don’t have to sleep with me just because I’m paying for your pizza.”
The ache between my thighs returns as his words bring up the images from my dream. “I know that.” My words come out strangled. His palm is warm and strong, keeping my hand pinned in place with no effort, and I feel like I’m burning up from the heat inside me. “It’s just my dating policy, that’s all.”
He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine, and the rest of the restaurant fades away again. It’s as if we’re completely alone, the tension thrumming between us like an exposed wire. I feel caught, utterly powerless to break his spell as he leans in until his face is less than a foot from mine.
“This is not going to end here, kitten,” he says softly. “You know that, right? It doesn’t matter if you pay for your dinner or not, because we’re still going to end up in the same place.”
I can literally feel my panties getting soaked. “W-what place?”
“My bed.” His eyes glitter darker. “Or your bed—or a hotel bed if you prefer. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed. I’d fuck you on the table or the floor, or up against a wall. Just tell me when and where, and I will make it happen.”
My breath stops in my lungs. I’ve never been propositioned so bluntly, and certainly never in those terms. Most men try to couch their intent in terms of romance, or avoid talking about it at all. Certainly, my ex-boyfriend would’ve turned redder than my hair if those words had come out of his mouth. I should probably be insulted, but I’m too turned on to work up any real indignation. Something about his unapologetic crudeness intensifies the wet heat between my legs, turning my insides soft and liquid. I want exactly what he’s offering: him, thrusting into me… on the bed, the table, the floor… Even up against the wall, though I can’t quite picture it with the difference in our heights.
He’s all wrong for me, and I want him. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“I… I have to go.” My voice sounds choked as I yank my hand out of his grip and stand up, nearly turning over my chair in my haste to get away. Spinning around, I rush to the coat check like the coward that I am, the scenes he evoked playing in my mind like a graphic movie.
I almost have my coat when a big hand reaches past me, grabbing it before I can. I look up, my pulse accelerating further as I meet that cool blue gaze.
“Let me take you home,” Marcus says quietly, and I stare up at him, powerless to do anything else as he wraps the coat around my shoulders, his warm fingers brushing over my collarbone. My neck hurts from arching it back to hold his gaze, but I can’t look away from those magnetic eyes, can’t focus on anything but the dark, heated promise within them… and my own helpless response.
“I won’t pressure you to do anything you don’t want,” he promises softly, and I believe him.
Swallowing my heart back into my chest, I let him button up my coat and lead me out to the car.
16
Marcus
* * *
Emma is quiet during the short ride to her place, her gaze trained on the streets outside the window and her luscious little butt positioned as far away from me as the car’s width allows. I let her be, though the temptation to touch her, to remind her of the scorching chemistry between us, is nearly impossible to resist. But resist it I do, because I promised not to pressure her into something she’s not ready for.
It’s bad enough I came on to her like a barbarian, all my hard-earned social graces decimated by a toxic mix of lust and confused ang
er.
I asked her on a date, and she paid for herself.
She paid for her own fucking pizza.
Even now, I can’t believe she did that—or that I let her. It’s just that she caught me off-guard, grabbing the check so quickly and with so little hesitation. Normally, when a woman offers to split the bill or pay for her own portion, it’s done more as a courtesy gesture, a nod to the modern times and the women’s liberation movement. It’s a woman’s way of showing that she doesn’t really need a man to pay for her, though, of course, she’s secretly quite pleased if he doesn’t accept her half-hearted offer and pays anyway.
At least that’s how it was when I was a student and didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Once I started earning real money, the half-hearted offers petered out, and by the time I made my first ten million, I forgot what it was like to have my dates play that game. Women now just assume that I will pay, both because I’m a man and because I’m filthy rich, and I don’t mind. It’s as it should be: if I’m with a woman, I take care of her.
Not with Emma, though. She didn’t make that assumption—nor did it feel like a game with her. She didn’t offer to pay; she simply did it, plopping down her cash before I could so much as look at the check. She was deadly earnest about it, too. It wasn’t a joke; for whatever reason, it mattered to her.
I take a calming breath and try to talk myself into looking away from her delicate profile. She’s still gazing out the window, her small hands clenched tightly in her lap and her curls wild and unruly around her freckled face. I don’t understand her, and I don’t understand my reaction to her. I want to reach over and scoop her up, to put her on my lap so I can feel the soft curve of her shapely ass against my groin. I want to tangle my fingers in that wild mane of hair and arch her head back, so I can kiss the pale white flesh of her throat, taste the pulse throbbing underneath that translucent-looking skin.
How have I not realized before how sexy petite, lushly curved women can be? When she was standing there, at the coat check, looking up at me with those startled gray eyes, it was all I could do not to bend down and grab her. To just lift her and carry her off like the delicious little prize she is. No other woman has ever elicited that urge in me—and certainly not Emmeline, with her sleek, elegant beauty.