Page 11 of The Contract

Maybe it’s because he’s the only one who’s ever looked at me like Dante does. Intently. Almost … possessively.

That’s how he’s looking at me now, and my body prickles with awareness. Heat and pressure build in my groin. This is the fastest yet that I’ve reacted to him. Is it because of what he did to me last night, bending me over that couch? The way he touched me. The way he spanked me. Or is it because he looks so fucking hot in those clothes? Even his face is hotter. Less business, more man.

And yet there’s that very businesslike file folder. What the hell is that?

“Tristan,” he says intently. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Um …” I try to remember, but all I can think about is the way my name sounds in his deep, serious voice. Shit, I’m getting hard. Goddamn it.

“Never mind. You’re gonna eat with me.” He starts unloading the bag. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a few things.”

I’m so fucking off balance that I don’t know what to do. Then his dark eyes come up and meet mine. I don’t know why, but everything settles. I take a deep breath.

I say, “Just let me finish this.”

He nods and continues laying out the takeout containers. I retrieve my pen and finish the note I was writing for the cleaning crew.

Dante walks around the bar. He grabs two glasses and fills them at the sink like he’s done it before, reminding me that he’s friends with Rafael.

“You want anything else?” he asks.

“Ha. I still have a four hundred dollar drink to pay off.”

He makes a thoughtful sound that I can’t interpret then returns to the other side of the bar. He sits on one of the stools.

I stay where I am, wondering if I should leave. I know I implied that I would stay, but that was automatic. Some logical, sensible part of my brain is trying to kick in now. Even Saylor warned me about Dante, though that wasn’t necessary. I already know he’s dangerous. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him, and every moment since has further proved it.

The thing is … I don’t seem to care. I don’t want to leave. I’m angry with him about last night, but I actually don’t know whether I’m angry about what he did—or about what he didn’t do.

I’ve always known I’m kind of fucked up. I just didn’t know it was in this particular way.

But who cares? Because I have no one, I have no one to judge me.

I walk around the bar and take a stool beside him. “Holy shit,” I mutter, my mouth watering as I eye the takeout containers. I can only identify the sushi, but there are other things too.

Dante points with his chopsticks. “Sashimi. It’s raw fish, but it’s safe.” He points at the sushi. “All of those are cooked.” He points again. “Bento box.”

I reach for one of the cooked options. I’m not eating raw fish.

He chuckles. “Thought so.”

We eat mostly in silence, and I’m glad. I don’t really like small talk, and he obviously doesn’t either. And where would I start with someone like him anyway?

I ask what some of the things are. He tells me. I expect him to be condescending about it, like I’m such an uncultured moron, but he isn’t. I can’t figure him out. It’s like … he’s arrogant but not a snob. It’s weird.

My eyes keep going to the file folder. If he notices, he ignores it.

I’ve only ever had sushi from a bodega, and now I feel like what I’ve had in the past shouldn’t even have been called sushi. This is absolutely not the same thing. This is amazing. And so beautiful. I can’t believe how decorative every piece is, like a little work of art. I can’t imagine what it cost.

Dante slides a container toward me. There’s a fancy little bite of something in it.

“Isn’t that one of the raw ones?” I ask warily.

“Just try it, Tristan.”

I take a fortifying breath. Trying not to mess up the artful construction, I shovel up the bite with my fork. I gave up on the chopsticks after my second mangled piece of sushi. I pop the raw fish—raw fish!—into my mouth.

It’s … fine. It’s delicious. It practically melts.

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