Page 51 of The CEO Enemy

“Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?” he asks before facing the road again.

“Thank you, you clean up well yourself.” Sean is impeccably dressed in a form-fitting dark-gray suit, and his tie adds a touch of flair with its deep, rich shade of orange. There’s something about a man in a finely tailored suit that will always be sexy. Especially if that man has muscles that look like they were chiseled from stone, and the suit highlights every one of them, and I swear, he can probably flex the buttons off. At least he can in my fantasies, and oh, my God, do I have plenty of those running through my head on a daily basis.

Passing another car, he turns to me, rumbling, “Are you wearing panties tonight?”

OMG. Naughty. I’m wearing a thong. The dress is smooth, and it leaves no room for traditional undergarments. A thong was the only practical choice to ensure that no lines disrupted the silhouette of the dress along my hips.

“I’m wearing a thong,” I tell him.

“Take it off for me.”

“Sean!”

“We’re going to behave, relax,” he assures me with a wink. “I just like knowing you’re not.”

Okay, there definitely seems to be a pattern here. I do as he says (not hesitating all that much). In one swift motion, my fingers slide into my thong. I roll it down over my hips, pushing them past my calves and heels.

“Much better,” he praises while I open my little golden-beige purse to deposit it.

“Give it to me.” He holds out his hand, eyes back on the road.

“Sean?”

“I’ll give it back.”

I pass him my thong, and he smoothly tucks it into his side pocket before placing his hand on my knee. There’s definitely a pattern here. With just his left hand, he navigates the road, and the other rests casually. Just as he promised, he refrains from making any advances. It’s both tantalizing and scorching, scorching hot.

We pull up to the restaurant, and Sean gets out first. I barely have a chance to unbuckle my seatbelt before he has the door open for me and extends his arm. Feeling giddy and not even attempting to hide my pleased blushing, I accept, and we head into the restaurant arm in arm. With my dress being knee-length, I don’t have to worry of unintentionally making it into one of NYC’s infamous gossip magazines, gracing the pages under a “flashing” headline—ultimately ruining the charity article I had envisioned as a beacon of respectability.

The restaurant is small, as he mentioned before, but traditionally decorated. Ornate wooden carvings and vibrant Talavera tiles provide an elegant cultural touch, while elaborate wrought-iron chandeliers cast a warm glow. It’s evident a lot of love and pride has been put into the space. It’s equally evident that he comes here more than he lets on, because they know him on sight.

Judging by the ambiance and the impeccable appearance of the women around, I surmise that I may not be the sole attendee who’s opted for a thong-less approach, and Sean’s hand on my hip reminds me of his appreciation of this choice.

It feels delightfully naughty, with no one in the know.

We’re greeted like royalty and whisked away to the only empty table. The waiter arrives, and we give him our orders. Sean orders the nachos with extra guac, and I’ll try the tamales—without the avocados (they never made it to my list of favorites). Unlike the margarita I order.

When the waiter leaves, I say, “Don’t even think about kissing me after all that avocado.”

“I’ll make sure to rinse my mouth out first.”

“Good.” I take a thoughtful sip of water. “So aside from your love of Mexican cuisine, tell me something else I don’t know about you.”

Sean leans back in his seat, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in a while. “What do you want to know?”

“Something personal. Something fun.”

“Ask me a fun question,” he challenges.

The question pops into my head instantly. “Your middle name isn’t Peter by any chance, is it?”

He looks puzzled. “Actually, it is. Named after my grandfather.”

“No way!”

“Yep.”

“Oh, my gosh, just like Peter Parker!” I beam at him, intrigued. My chest rises, and I’m hoping my dress doesn’t reveal my perky nipples beneath the fabric. “You know, Spider-Man? Besides Mary Jane, he had a thing for a Jessica.”

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