by J. Daniels
“Yes.”
“With what? That sweet little cunt you were just trying to show me?”
I gape at him. Good Lord. Did he just say . . .
That accent, paired with anything even remotely filthy is enough to put me in the record books as the first woman in history to ever have an orgasm without any touching. I am now officially the wettest I have ever been in my entire life. No panties? What a dumbass decision. If I get up and there is a damp spot on this seat, I’m never showing my face around this man again.
He briefly looks at me. “Well?”
I shoot him a steely look. “You have no proof of that. Maybe I just remembered how much I liked holding your hand . . . with my hand, pervert. Okay? Maybe I miss it.”
He squeezes my thigh. “I think I’m going to keep it here. I like it here.”
I slump back against the seat like a child on the brink of a tantrum. “Fine. I like it there too, so . . . whatever. Do what you want. I don’t care.”
I drown out his laugh by cranking up the volume on the stereo again.
By the time we park and walk to the restaurant, everything south of my waist seems to be back in check. I’m no longer ready or willing to beg for some sort of physical contact. And fuck! I should be the one driving him crazy with lust. Teasing him. Making him so fucking hard he can’t see straight.
Well, the night is young, and I plan on regaining some of my feminine power and working him up. If he thinks he’s getting through this meal without getting an erection, he’s sorely mistaken.
Giovanni’s is a dimly lit restaurant in the heart of the city. I was right, I’ve never been here, and I think that’s because it is a lot fancier than any place I’m used to dining at. Mason checks us in under our reservation while I admire a piece of artwork on the wall. My nephew can manipulate a paint brush and create something similar. Three colors congregating in one messy swirl. I’m betting this thing costs more than the rent I couldn’t afford in my old apartment.
We’re seated at a table draped with a white, crisp linen by a large window. A small vase containing a beautiful arrangement of flowers sits in the center, which Mason quickly slides to the side so that we can see each other better.
I admire the mural painted on the ceiling. The chandelier lighting. The attire of the wait staff.
“This might be the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Are you trying to get laid?”
Mason glances up from his menu. I immediately lose the smirk when he doesn’t mirror my playfulness.
Shit.
A deep frown settles between his brows. He looks put off. “No. I thought it looked nice. I wanted to take you here the moment I saw it.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “I’m curious, Brooke. Do you always go out to eat with the expectation of sex afterwards? Do you never just sit and talk with someone? Learn about them?”
My face heats. I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees in this moment.
Hello, mouth? Let me introduce you to my foot. Go ahead and eat it. You’ll be doing me a solid favor.
I grab my menu and flip it open. My gaze lowers. “No. Of course not. I was just making a joke. I’ve never been anywhere this nice before. I think the atmosphere is making me nervous or something.”
Or, its you. The way you look at me. The things you say. That could be it.
He taps his menu against mine.
Our eyes meet, and the moment he smiles, maybe a bit apologetically, I forget all about my secret agenda to tease him and get him hard underneath this table. The way Mason is looking at me . . . it’s sweet, and candid, and maybe I’ve never had a man take me to dinner without the expectation of sex, but I don’t want to admit that, and I’m also bizarrely happy Mason isn’t doing this for that same reason. I no longer want to take away from the conversation or anything else this dinner will entail.
And I also don’t want to think about how strangely okay I am with that revelation.
He jerks his chin, motioning for me to pick out my dish.
I resume looking at the menu, really focusing in on the words in front of me for the first time since I opened it. Everything is in Italian. Even the drinks.
What the . . .
My gaze travels the length of the menu, right, then back to the left. My eyes narrow. I lean closer. I have no idea what I’m reading. Well, not reading. Reading implies understanding, and that’s definitely not what’s happening here. It’s more of a guessing game, really. Maybe when the waiter arrives I can just point to the cheapest entrée and hope for the best?
Mason must sense my confusion. I’m sure it’s obvious, I’m close to flipping this thing upside down and taking a go at it that way. Or pulling up Google translations on my iPhone. But before I have a chance to do any of that, my menu is stripped out of my hands.
“Hey,” I protest.
Mason smiles, almost wickedly, folding the menu in front of him. “What do you like? Pasta? Seafood? Do you want a chicken dish?”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Um . . . yeah, sure, I like pasta and seafood. I like pretty much anything except for eggplant.”
The waiter arrives at our table. I sit back in my chair and watch, stunned, as Mason, who up until this moment was already killing me with his accent, fires off our orders in perfect Italian.
Holy. Fuck.
There’s no stutter, no uncertain pause as he trips over a word or two. It’s beautifully fluent, hot as Hell, and I’m melting in my seat at this surprising man across from me.
Seriously? Is there anything he’s not amazing at?
Yoga. Being a decent person. Consuming large quantities of treats and still managing to look like a sex God.
The waiter steps away. I pry my mouth off the floor.
“You’re not really playing fair,” I say after I collect myself.
Mason looks at me thoughtfully, concealing his possible understanding of what I’m referring to. “What do you mean?”
“You just completely blew me away by speaking Italian. I was not expecting that.”
He limply shrugs.
No big deal. Mastering a language is apparently second nature to this guy.
He runs his finger over the edge of his perfectly folded napkin. “I was a bored kid. My oldest sister visited Italy one summer, and I got into her language books she left behind. I spoke it better than she did by the time she got back.”
Our drinks arrive, and I gulp two mouthfuls of wine before I can ask my next question.
“You taught yourself another language? How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Mason, that’s insane,” I chuckle.
He snickers, picking his own glass up for a taste. “Is it?”
“Yes. Do you know what I was doing when I was fifteen? My entire world revolved around cheerleading and boys. I hated school. You couldn’t pay me to learn a language. That is . . .” I pause, leaning back in my seat.
Who is this guy?
“That’s amazing. You are amazing.”
He looks across the table, staring at me with an unreadable expression, stretching out the silence between us by holding up his finger when I open my mouth to speak.
My lips pinch together. I fidget with my hands in my lap, counting the seconds. I hate silence. I especially hate it when I have absolutely no idea what the other person is thinking.
And Mason is a vault right now. He’s not giving anything away.
Finally, after swallowing a mouthful of wine, he speaks. “Sorry. I have no idea what all you just said. I stopped listening after you mentioned something about you being a cheerleader. And then I spent all that time just now picturing it.”
Heat burns across my face. “Ah, you like that, do ya?”
He nods.
“I did it through college. I was an all-star.”
“Do you still have the uniform?” he asks above his glass.
Yes.
“Maybe.”
“You should wear it for me som
etime.”
YES.
“Maybe.”
Now Mason is the one smirking, but this smirk is dangerous. One hundred percent alluring. A hunter who doesn’t need to chase his prey. They come walking right over to him, ready to hand over their destiny without question. Without pause.
I would run at him. I am talking a full-blown sprint. There would be no walking in his direction.
“Do you like to camp?”
His rapid change of subject rips my mind out of the gutter. I had been thinking about sitting on that smirk of his.
I shake my head through a laugh. “Camp? Seriously? As in sleeping outdoors with bugs and wild animals? No showers. No toilets. Just you and nature? Is that what you’re talking about?”
He smiles. “That’s the textbook definition of camping, yes.”
“Then no. Not at all. But you know what I do like? Air conditioning. Civilization. Beds. I love beds.”
“Beds are good.”
I rest my chin on my hand. “Aren’t they? God, they’re so good. I’m not restricted to beds though. I can work with anything.”
Mason lifts an eyebrow.
I can go into detail, right now, about how I’d like to explore beds and anything with Mason, but his line of questioning intrigues me. Of course, he looks like Mr. Nature-lover. I’m sure he is very fond of camping. Hiking. Saving the world one rainforest at a time.
“Let me guess. You’re an avid camper.”
He takes another sip of his wine, then nods. “I enjoy it. I haven’t been since I lived out in Texas, but I would love to spend a weekend outdoors with you.”
Well, that’s completely unexpected. And insane.
I throw my head back with a laugh. Tears brim my eyes. “Sorry but . . . yeah, there’s no way I’m sleeping outside. It’s not happening. I don’t do bugs, Mason. I don’t have any desire to sleep on the ground where a snake can work it’s slimy way into my tent and strangle me to death.”
His eyes flash with amusement. “How big is this snake?”
Nice. Perfect set up.
I hesitate responding, tilting my head, watching as he catches up to my filthy mind. His eyes train on my lips, move lower down the line of my neck, then snap back up as if he’s just been awakened from a trance.
I love these moments when I catch him staring at me like this. As if he’s fighting the biggest temptation of his life by not touching me.
Fuck though, touch me! This doesn’t need to be a struggle for you!
He clears his throat. “You’d like it with me,” he states confidently. “I’d protect you from bugs and the snakes you don’t want around. Trust me. You’d have fun, yeah? We’d lay out under the stars. Share a sleeping bag.”
“I’m listening.”
“That interest you?”
“Sharing a sleeping bag? Tightly pressed together? Yes. Do you sleep naked?”
He doesn’t answer that question. Just slowly grins at me. “Do you?”
I match his expression, only, I can’t simply teeter the line of flirtation. I jump right over it.
I lean forward, running my hand down my leg, angling my body down the slightest bit until Mason takes notice of my cleavage. I play with the chain hanging around my neck, which just so happens to tickle between my breasts. He doesn’t remove his gaze, and my nipples quickly harden under his scrutiny. Then I slowly sit back, crossing my one leg over the other, waiting until he looks up at me before I leisurely raise my glass to my lips and taste my wine. His eyes flare with desire as my tongue licks the residue from the corner of my mouth.
The longer we stare at each other, the wetter I become.
I never realized how sexy silence can be. How hot I could get from unspoken words, or the idea of something as personal as someone’s sleeping habits.
Boxers, I decide. He looks like a boxers guy. No shirt. His lean body modestly concealed, stretching against the sheet.
I subtly tug at the bottom of my shirt below the table. My breasts swell. More skin is revealed.
Mason clears his throat.
I have no idea if he is growing hard in his jeans, until he drops a hand to his lap and inhales sharply through his nose.
My smile broadens. His disappears entirely.
But just like that, the aura around him shifts. All signs of a man starving to throw me on top of this table and feast vanishes the second our plates arrive.
I glare at the waiter. Can you let the chef know his promptness is annoying?
He merely smiles at my silent instruction, murmurs something in Italian, and steps away.
I look down at the dish placed in front of me. Seafood pasta, with scallops and shrimp over a bed of linguini. Mason’s plate has a lobster tail, a generous cut of steak, and some greens on the side.
Everything looks incredible. I was set on climaxing before I dined but I suppose it can wait.
I twirl some pasta onto my fork and bring it up to my mouth.
“I always sleep naked, Brooke,” Mason mumbles quietly.
I nearly drop my fork.
Oh, you gorgeous bastard.
He laughs around his bite of steak as our eyes meet. He looks delighted, reveling in my reaction and clearly thinking he’s won this round.
Did I mention how much I love a little friendly competition?
I shoot him my sweetest, most innocent smile as my mind begins calculating my next move.
Silly man. You have no idea who you’re up against.
MASON
Dinner with Brooke is . . . interesting, to say the least.
I’ve never watched a woman so completely focused on my undoing before. So casually sexual with every little movement and shift of her body. Fucking brilliant, on her part. I’m finding it hard to concentrate, which I believe is her every intention. She’s had to repeat a question or two. My voice has grown a bit thick at times, leading me to tug at my already unbuttoned collar. I’ve thought about every way I could possibly get her off at this restaurant, how concealed I would be if I were to crawl under this table and feel her orgasm against my tongue. After thorough investigation of the white cloth stopping well off the floor, my horny arse remains planted in my chair.
What she’s doing, it’s calculated, and fucking torture not to react to. I can hide my erection but I can’t keep that bloody thing under control. Even the placement of her hands while I speak of my classes from earlier today is suggestive.
“I think I’ve established a good client base,” I tell her, tossing my napkin on the table. “I’m seeing some familiar faces come around now and pop in again. That’s encouraging. I was worried about that.”
Her fingers brush against the smooth dip between her collarbones, then trail lower, openly teasing the swell of her tits.
Fuck. What I wouldn’t give to bury my face in there.
She grins. “I don’t know why you were worried. I hate exercising and enjoyed your class. Not just the view either.”
Her voice remains completely neutral, friendly, delightfully engaged in this conversation. That’s the only thing about her that isn’t screaming for me to bend her over that chair she’s sitting in and fuck her senseless.
I discreetly adjust my cock, again. I’m surprised I’m still able to form coherent responses at this point. There can’t be much blood flow still heading to my brain.
“You should come to another one,” I suggest, keeping my hand in my lap, a smile tugging the corner of my mouth.
Her eyes dance with mischief. She drinks the last of her wine. “That’s a fantastic idea. I would love to come.”
And there’s that. So much for innocent banter. I walked her and my throbbing cock right into that one.
Brooke chuckles, arching her back to gather her hair over one shoulder, pressing her chest forward, watching me watch her, because unless this building caught on fire right now I’m not looking anywhere else.
“How old are you?”
My eyes snap up to hers. I almost laugh. She goes from suggesti
ng I get her off to verifying my age? How adorably odd.
“Twenty-nine. You?”
“Guess.”
This time, I do laugh, nodding at the waiter as he returns with my credit card and slip to sign. I shake my head. “I have seven sisters, Brooke. I know better than to guess a woman’s age, and I rather like my testicles. How about you just tell me.”
“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Aim low.”
“Sixteen.”
“What?” She clamps a hand to her mouth, muffling her laugher.
I sit back in my chair after signing the slip, watching the vibrant glow move over her cheeks as she slowly eases her hand away.
“Be serious.” She pinches her lips together, fighting the playful smile threatening.
I shrug, standing and offering her my hand. “You said guess. I did. Now, please fill me in on your actual age before I start feeling like a pedo.”
She allows me to help her to her feet and we move together through the restaurant. Her elbow gently connects with my side. “Mm. Nah. I rather like you squirmy and nervous like this. Shame on you for taking out a minor and shoving booze in her face.”
“Brooke,” I press.
“Really, Mason. What will my parents say?”
We step outside and I freeze on the footpath. She spins around to look at me.
I reach for my keys, shrugging. “All right then. I was planning on driving around and finding a dark spot so I could plant my face between your legs. But, I suppose that’s off now. I should get you home. It’s probably past your curfew and I’m not interested in finding out what prison is like.”
“Twenty-five.” She grabs my wrist, tugging me closer until we’re chest to chest, her breaths suddenly coming hurried. “I’m twenty-five. Legal. Very much a fan of dark spaces and heads between my legs. Yours, specifically. I’m sure it looks lovely down there.” Her body vibrates with a quick burst of laughter.
As I slide my hands to her hips, she keeps her head down, staring at my chest, my neck, almost bashfully trying to avoid my eyes while her hands tease the bottom of my shirt.
I like her like this, gentled, and what seems to be a bit unconventional for her. I like imagining that Brooke’s only been this way with me, and that maybe I make her feel a bit undone and out of sorts, unsure of what’s possibly happening between us.