Page 14 of Lorcan's Obsession

"You are the one getting distracted now, Tristen."

"Uhm, okay. You can call me Tris. I'm in my final year of law school and I work a couple of part-time jobs."

"All right, my friends call me Lor, or Loki, but I'm not fond of the latter."

I grinned mischievously. "I'll keep that in mind and use it when you are a bad boy."

Lorcan gave me a panty-melting smile and moved closer to me, stroking his fingertips along my arm.

"And what else do you plan on doing to me when I'm your bad boy?"

"If I answer that question, you’ll never finish that fancy bottle. Now, move back to your seat, and tell me something more personal."

“Very well. I had a toy poodle.”

“You? A toy poodle?”

“Mhm. The cutest little four-pound thing with a gleaming white frou-frou.”

“Hmm, I can picture you strolling on Rodeo Drive with a Louis Vuitton poodle handbag suspended on your arm.”

“No, no, not Louis V. It was Fendi.”

I laughed. It was mind-boggling to imagine this tall hunk walking around town with a cute little dog peeking through a window bag.

“Did you give her treats when she was a good girl?”

Lorcan narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I can give lots of treats. A lot. Of. Treats.”

Damn. He'd caught my innuendo. Raw sexual energy crackled between us. The fact that he had said he could be my bad boy made my center throb. I pressed my thighs together. We could leave now and rip each other’s clothes off before we reached the elevators. And while I was curious to hear more about the kind of treats he gave, I tracked us back to safer topics.

“What was the name of your poodle? Did you enjoy walks or runs together?”

“Her name was Lala. And my mom loved to take her for walks.”

“Loved?”

“Yeah. She passed on ten years ago.”

“I’m…I’m sorry to hear that, Lorcan.”

He gave a small nod and remained quiet, looking somewhere I couldn’t see.

"I imagine you miss her,” I remarked, discreetly trying to catch his eye.

"More than anything. Her name was Rioná. She loved to sing to me in Gaeilge every day. That's how I learned her native tongue.” He shook his head as if warring with the memories. “It's crazy that I haven't spoken it in a decade.” He knocked back the drink in his glass before continuing, “And, gods, I miss her waffles. She made the best waffles on this goddamn planet."

Anxiety pinpricked my skin. Our conversation had moved from fling chats into serious, personal date talks. I didn't do date talks. I had to change gears fast.

"And did you learn?"

"Learn what?"

"To make the waffles, duh."

He paused. Bemused. My plan was working.

"Uhm...yes, I know how to make them. Why?"

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