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My heart pounds in my ears. I’m not sure, after everything else going on, that opening this by myself is the best idea.
But I do it anyway.
Demyen is leaning against the threshold archway, a bouquet of exotic flowers in his hand. “I’m here to pick up my breathtakingly beautiful date,” he murmurs as he looks me over.
“Well, I should go let her know you’re here.” I start to turn, then squeal with laughter when he tugs me into his arms and nibbles the curve of my neck.
“Naughty minx. I should bend you over my knee.”
“Buy me dinner first, and I’ll even let you pull my hair.”
Demyen rumbles his approval at my suggestion. But, ever the gentleman, he makes sure to hand me the beautiful bouquet with an elegant flourish. “For you,kiska.”
I breathe in their fragrance and smile. “They’re beautiful. Truly. Thank you.”
Do we reallyneeddinner?
Would it be uncouth of me to drag him to bed and ride him until we both scream each other’s names?
But then my stomach lets out a very embarrassing and very audible rumble. Demyen chuckles and holds the car door open for me; I’m grateful for the bouquet to hide my face.
Dinner it is, then.
The place he takes me to is a beautiful Russian restaurant owned by old friends of his family, a little off the beaten path. The menu is as thick as a book and the wine list even thicker, with silk tablecloths and candlelight adorning every table.
Demyen insisted on sitting next to me, instead of across from me, at our little table off in the darker corner of the room. “So we can talk,” was his explanation.
But his hand rubbing over my thigh suggests an entirely different motive.
I chose to wear a body-hugging dress that ends just above my knees for two reasons: one, it does show off my figure that I won’t be able to enjoy for several months once I enter the second trimester. And two, this is the desert. Even in the fall, things can get hot.
Things are definitely getting hot under the table.
He’s so cruel. He’s lightly stroking his fingertips along the inside of my thigh, just back and forth without applying any pressure. The tablecloth is luxuriously long and thick, so no one can see what he’s doing. Or that he’s doing anything at all.
“Would you like an appetizer?” he calmly asks me.
I clear my throat and sip my water. “I trust your judgment. Whatever you recommend.”
That smile twists into a knowing little smirk. “They have a delicious smoked salmon with mascarpone spread. Tastes great on their homemade rye bread.”
“Sounds good.” Really, I’m only able to register “delicious,” “spread” and “tastes great."
It’s not fair. Demyen looks like sex on legs and smells like seduction poured straight from the tap. The whole entire ride here, he had his hand between my thighs and my dress hiked up over my hips.
But I wasn’t allowed to come. Not yet. Not until he said so.
And then we were pulling into the parking lot. He calmly smoothed my dress back down, announced our arrival, licked his hand clean, and acted like he wasn’t just fingering me into whatmighthave been a heady orgasm.
I’ve been on edge ever since.
Right. On. The. Fucking. Edge.
“You look a little flush.” Demyen slowly drags his gaze over my face to the tops of my breasts. “Are you warm? Should I let the server know?—”
“No!” I grab his hand. Then remember we are in public, so I hush my tone. “No, I’m okay. Just… a little worked up, is all.”
By you. You and your damn magic fingers.
