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She opens her mouth, but her phone dings. She quickly grabs it out of her purse, her eyes wide. It must be her notifications because I tagged her in the oyster post.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You’re famous.”
She stares at her phone as it continues dinging.
“Turn off notifications,” I say, “or it’ll drive you bananas.”
She follows my advice and then tucks the phone back in her purse. Good. She’s not a social media addict. Or she’s choosing to focus on our dinner over Instagram. Either way, respect.
“You going to answer my question?” I ask.
“Sure. What question?”
“Do you enjoy your job?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning…?”
She shrugs. “I get to take pictures, which is what I love to do, but I’m not exactly photographing anything significant.”
“Addie trying on scarves isn’t going to make it into National Geographic,” I say. “You’re right about that.”
She shrugs again. “I’m making good contacts.”
“That’s true. Maybe you can become the official photographer for Bean There Done That. Getting those sprinkles of nutmeg just right on cappuccinos.”
No shrug this time. She goes slightly rigid. “Did you really ask me to dinner to diss my job?”
My comment was a poke at Addison, not Skye. I should apologize, but I’m not ready to be quite so accommodating. At least not yet. “That wasn’t my intention. I asked you to dinner because I really want to fuck you.”
Man, those words are true. Were and are and becoming even more so by the second. Already I imagine her nipples sore from my attention, her ass gloriously pink.
“How am I supposed to respond to that?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I stare at her, right into those big brown eyes. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t go after what I want.” The rasp in my voice surprises me. The need.
God, I want this woman in my bed. Underneath me, writhing, moaning. Tied down, blindfolded, at my mercy, as I tantalize her with my fingers, lips, and tongue.
And then I’m going to fuck her. Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before.
How am I supposed to respond to that? I haven’t yet answered her question.
So I do.
I raise one eyebrow. “You can tell me you’d like to fuck me, too.”
She’s trying not to squirm. Already I know her pussy is wet. I can tell when a woman wants me, and this woman wants me as much as I want her. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the tenseness of her body. It’s in the way I know she’s squeezing her thighs together to ease the ache in her core.
“Because you do,” I say. “Don’t try to deny it, Skye. I see it in your eyes.” I slurp an oyster and lick a dab of cocktail sauce from the corner of my mouth.
Delicious.
But not nearly as delicious as I know Skye Manning will be.
She bites her lip. “If I were to agree to this… Where?”
“My place.” Or my office. My car. Hell, a bathroom stall here at the Oyster House for all I care. I want Skye more than I’ve wanted any woman in recent—or distant—memory. I find myself holding my breath, waiting on her response as if it’s a lifeline.
