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Iget another steak into him and two bites of the chocolate Thomas Haas cake I had made for him. I consider that a win. We’re preparing to leave—I’ve called for the check—and he leans across the table. “When are you doing it, Elkington?”
“Doing what?”
“The kiss thing,” he whispers.
A sly smile graces my lips and hot alcohol fuels me. Has he been thinking about it? Sliding a hand across his jaw, I grip his face and press my lips to his glossed ones. He’s applied fresh lip gloss and he tastes like watermelon candy.
I want more.
My driver will pick us up—we won’t be taking an Uber like commoners—and I plan on making out with him in the backseat.
I want to taste my way down his neck, rip open that dress and suck on his nipples.
But fuck. We’ll be alone in the backseat. There’s no reason for him to kiss me in there—it’s now or never.
Yanking him out of his chair, I curl his right leg around me and kiss him again, but this time I angle my face and lick my tongue across his lips, begging for entry. When I get the smallest opening, I slide in and tangle with him, inhaling the spicy cologne he’s wearing, consuming him. God, the feminine taste of his candy lips combined with his masculine scent plays sinful havoc on my insides.
The kiss deepens. I know we’re riding the comfortable wave of champagne right now, but the hardness in my pants was there long before I took my first sip. I do blame the alcohol for the barrage of butterflies that break free. I want him. I’m desperate for him.
We pull away panting and staring.Holy fucking hell. What was that?
His strong skater’s leg slides down my body and he takes my hand. “C’mon, gorilla. That’s all you’re getting tonight.”
This fake relationship is going to give me the worst case of blue balls.
Once we have our jackets, I lead him to the limo. Someone will be by the restaurant to pick up the McLaren for me. We slide into the back seat, and I still can’t slow my racing heart. That wasn’t enough. I lean over, intent on mauling him, but he stops me.
“No.”
Fuck. That’s a hard no. I sequester myself to my side of the limo like a good gorilla.
He laughs. “Are you pouting?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t take it personally. We’re drunk. You think anyone saw us?” He winks because of course someone saw us. The whole world saw us. “Let’s piss off the Meyer-Leslie family group chat before the Meyer family group chat sends them that image.”
He opens The Gram and sure enough, there’s already a photo of us.
“Tried some Dom for the first time. I kinda liked it,” he speaks aloud as he types. “There.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t open your phone again.”
“Why?”
“Mercy’s going to tell you to come home, and I still have one more place to take you.”
He tosses his phone into his purse. “You do?”
“Yep.” I devour the delighted surprise on his face.Elkington shoots, he scores!
We pull up to Holt Renfrew downtown, and the driver pulls us over to a row of parking meters reserved for us. I turn to Logan. “Wait there,” I tell him.
“Jesus, calm down. I know about your weird rules.”
I walk around tohisside, which is and will always be his side because it’s the side that has the sidewalk, and open the door for him. Prepared for any admirers of RhettLo—our latest ship name—he extends his hand for me, rising as the scorpion prince he is.
“Thank you, baby,” he says.
