Page 43 of Scorpion

“My come was dripping out of your pussy two days ago. I’d call this catching up.”

Lord, give me strength. Red flushes my skin, but I keep my composure, clutching the stem of the wineglass. “You never asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with you. What makes a date a date is both people agree and are aware it’s happening.”

Would I have agreed if he asked? Probably not. I’m sure I would have made some excuse about security risks with Goldchild, and beat around the bush about the real reason I’m resisting. I’m not ready—which, if I’m being truthful, I have no idea what that looks like.

“I wholeheartedly agree.” His lips tip to one side in a cocky smirk. “That’s why I haven’t labeled all the other times we’ve had dinner together as a ‘date,’ and why you were given prior warning this time. See, you’re even all dressed up for it.”

I blink. “You told me I was accompanying you to a date.”

“Point and case; I told you.” He smirks.

“You gave me this dress and told me to wear it.”

“Ah yes. You have never denied an order.”

“Within reason, I will. I was assuming I was getting appropriately dressed for an occasion within my job description.”

Mathijs arches a brow. “Are you implying that I could get a bag packed and you’d hop on a plane and accompany me to Costa Rica? Bikinis, short skirts, and summer dresses.”

No. That’s definitely not what I’m implying. Outside of a professional setting at least. “So long as the correct security measures are in place and every detail is planned appropriately.”

He sighs. “You’re no fun. Where’s your spontaneity?”

“Your impulsiveness and recklessness have left you without a full security detail.”

“Untrue.” He sips his wine and nods toward my purse. “You’re armed.”

“Am I your guard or your date?”

“You’re murderous, and stunning. You could be neither of those things and still kill a man with your bare hands. So take your pick. Either way, you’re coming home with me tonight.”

I huff. “We live on the same property, Mathijs. It doesn’t count.”

The waiter returns with our food and we thank him. I quietly dig into the meal I would have preferred takeout over. I subtly watch him chewing away like he’s deep in thought—which is never a good thing.

Back when we were younger, that look meant that he was about to stir trouble or say something he shouldn’t. Usually both.

I throw back more expensive wine that’s completely wasted on me, only to freeze when he pushes his cutlery to the side so the space in front of him is bare.

Definitely not good.

“Perhaps I’ll explain this a different way—and you’ll have to excuse my language,” he says with an air of professionalism I’m unused to. “I am about to eat a four-hundred-dollar, world-renowned meal, when I’d rather have you splayed out on the table with my head between your thighs because I am utterly ravished. We were never done. We were always meant to come back to each other. So you can decide whether you’re here for work or pleasure; just know that the latter will be on the table tonight.” He nods to my plate. “So, Lieverd, eat. I have no intention of ordering dessert.”

I’m at a loss for words. A blaze of fire scorches a path across my skin. An ache forms between my legs at the memory of having him inside of me. Knowing that a repeat of those events is on the menu only drenches me to the point I have to shift in my seat to get some much needed friction.

“Is that confidence, self-assurance, or blatant entitlement?” I manage to pull myself together to reply.

“I assure you, I understand the word no in twenty-three different languages. You want honesty, I’ll give you honesty. We have both come too far to speak in riddles. You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s how it was before, and how it is tonight, tomorrow, and every day after that. Now”—he pushes a small platter toward me—“are these oysters going to waste tonight?”

I don’t answer. My breath comes out harsh and uneven as I eye the food between us. Every rule of etiquette is telling me to say thank you, but for both of our sakes, we should stop it now. The last thing he needs is more baggage, and the last thing I need is to risk falling again when I don’t feel solid yet.

But I’m a selfish woman. Lying in that clearing with him inside me was the first time I felt truly alive. It was like I finally became one with my senses. I could smell the crisp air, hear the chipper of birds, and feel the damp earth beneath me. I wasn’t just aware of all of it—I appreciated life. I want that again. I’ll deal with the fallout that comes later. Tonight, I want a chance to feel human again.

I keep darting my eyes between the porcelain and Mathijs’s hypnotic green eyes. Before I can make a decision, Mathijs’s voice comes out, deep and filled with the type of dark desire that makes a woman fall onto her knees.

“Take out your gun, Zalak.”

My gaze snaps up to his. “What?”

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