I will so fucking take advantage.
“That’s perfect, then.” I run my fingertips gently down her spine. “Because I like control.”
I watch her chest heave when I put a little more pressure on her, watch how her pupils dilate.
“What kind of control?” she whispers.
I bring my mouth to her ear as we hear people approaching, laughter and the click of heels. “Everything.”
I release her and take her hand, strolling past the couple that walks next to us. Her hand is a little clammy. Nerves? Or something else?
A brisk wind kicks up, and I instinctively put my arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the cold as we head inside.
“Ooh,” she breathes, when I take her inside.
I don’t know if she’s tasted the finer side of things. Even growing up a rich girl, she’s been so sheltered.
“Have you ever been here before?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. Light strains of jazz play in the background. Tonight’s the live music night, and I know she likes jazz. The smell of roasted garlic and freshly-baked bread makes my stomach churn with hunger. It’s dark and elegant, with fresh flowers and formal attire, and one wall made entirely of translucent wine bottles.
“They grow micro greens right on the premises, bake their own bread, and import their ingredients straight from Italy. But they’re mostly known for their seared, marinated steak and hand-rolled pasta.”
“Mmm,” she says, rubbing her belly. “Okay, so that shortbread cookie seems like it was ages ago.”
I’m finding myself more and more attracted to her with every minute that passes, but if I let myself go there, if I weaken myself for even a minute, my plans are fucked.
“Sir?” I blink at a beautiful blonde waitress holding two menus in her hand. “Cowen, party of two?”
I nod, and offer my elbow to Bryn to take.
Thankfully, they take us to a secluded spot, a table in the back in a private alcove. No one will see us here. Though I'm not trying to hide, I would much prefer not having an audience.
I pull out the chair for her, admiring her sexy curves. She dolled herself up for this. I don't know much about what women do, but I know that breasts don't naturally almost fall out of a dress like that, she's got something pushing them up. I swallow hard. I imagine licking and biting them.
The stark white of her dress brings out the vivid beauty of her eyes, and as she tucks the chair under the table, I catch the faintest whiff of her perfume. Faintly floral, faintly spicy, fucking sexy.
I take my seat across from her. "Your wine menu, please.”
Bryn smiles. “Your entire drink menu, while you’re at it.” She gives me a teasing look. “You don’t need to drink wine on my behalf.”
“I like wine. Think I’m not refined enough?”
She shakes her head, her eyes dancing. The hostess smiles. “Yes, sir, right away.”
Bryn rolls her eyes. “She loved calling you ‘sir,’ did you see that?”
I chuckle. “What?”
She snorts. “It was like part of her entire act, falling all over herself seating you and calling you sir. She couldn’t care less about me.”
Is she jealous?
“I think she was just being polite. It’s what they do, how they earn their tips.” I lean across the table and brush my fingers across her neck. She loves it when I do that. “You, however, calling me ‘sir’ would be a completely different thing.”
Her eyes widen ever-so-slightly. “What happened to the jovial bloke who bought me cookies, and what have you done with him?”
I lean across the table. “You were the one that wore that dress.”
She looks down at herself, as if just realizing she’s wearing a provocative iridescent affair painted to her perfect figure.
“Oh, this little thing?” she says in a mock American southern accent. “I wear this one to buy groceries.”
I shake my head and lower my voice. “If you ever wear something like that to buy groceries again, I’ll take you across my knee to teach you better.”
Her voice is low and husky. She blinks. “Excuse me?” She swallows hard as I sit back up and shake my head.
“You heard me.”
The waiter comes over with the beverage menus and breadbasket. We order drinks and appetizers, and have gone through nearly an entire bottle of wine before our main entrees are served. Both the wine and conversation flow easily. She’s witty and smart, a clever lassie if ever I saw one.
She tries a few times to ask me questions, to find out more about me, but I steer the conversation back to talk of her and her shop.
“Does your father know you own it?”
A shadow crosses her features again, and this time doesn’t leave as quickly as the first. She finishes her glass of wine before she responds with a sigh.
“Aye. He does now.”
Her lips thin. I don’t pry.