Page 79 of Deceived Wrath

Whether Cormac ordered ahead or that’s part of the service, I don’t know, but I’m not about to start asking questions because I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.

Cormac has made it perfectly clear up until now that what we do outside of work is purely physical. I am a way for him to scratch an itch without having to put in too much effort, and I was fine with that. Or, at least, I thought I was, until he decided to take me out for dinner.

Is this his way of saying thanks for the great sex, or is this a date?

Oh, my god.

What if it’s adate?

“Is everything okay?” Cormac snaps me back to the present.

I look over the menu. “Everything’s fine.”

Each entrée is more decadent-sounding than the last. I have no idea how I’m meant to decide.

Normally, I would look at the price to help me, but seeing as there are none, I’m left with no choice but to play Russian roulette with my wallet.

Suddenly, the fancy dinner doesn’t seem so romantic. Instead, I wonder if this is just another form of power play.

I set down my menu. “Did you choose this place on purpose, to teach me some sort of lesson?”

He hasn’t even bothered looking at his. His eyes have been glued on me from the moment we sat down. And not in a curious or concerned way. No.

Those dark eyes are practically blazing with need as he mentally undresses me.

Even with the low lighting, I know he can see the permanent blush staining my cheeks as I squirm in my seat. Having his undivided attention like this is making me nervous.

Or that might also be down to the fact that I’m sitting in a very expensive chair at a very expensive restaurant with no panties on.

I quickly snatch up my water glass and take a sip to try and cool myself down.

“Believe me, if I were trying to teach you a lesson, you would know about it,” Cormac murmurs.

I almost choke on my water.

Cormac might be a man of few words, but when he does speak, it never fails to leave me on the verge of falling to my knees, which I’m pretty sure is the point.

“The bill has already been taken care of, so you are free to order whatever you want.”

Of course, it has.

When the waiter comes to take our order, I settle on the burrata to start, followed by scallops with truffle risotto, making a point to smile when I hand the menu back because Cormac hasn’t even bothered to look the poor man in the eye.

“And for you, Mr. Sullivan?” the waiter asks.

“I’ll have the ribeye. I want it medium rare but leaning toward rare. Sear it hard on both sides and let it rest at least five minutes before plating. I want only salt to season, no pepper. And the edges need to be charred, not burned.”

The waiter’s smile doesn’t even flicker.

“Of course, sir.”

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh as the waiter walks away, but it doesn’t work. The sound escapes in a tiny, undignified snort, which I quickly try to cover by taking a drink of my champagne.

Cormac narrows his eyes at me. “Something funny?”

I hold up my hands, though the amusement keeps tugging at my mouth.

“No. Nothing. I just…didn’t know steak came with an instruction handbook.”