Page 5 of Her Jealous Valentine

“And there you go again.” Olivia looks at me with a hooded gaze as she nibbles on the end of her cocktail’s straw. “Saying all the right things to make me melt.”

She smiles and takes a long sip from her drink. Better enjoy it while you can, you sexy little thing. There won’t be time for casual drinks once I’ve pumped you full of my seed.

Christ, calm down. Eager as you are, you’ll scare Olivia off.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I crook a brow and ease forward in my seat.

“It is, if you consider my normal skin tone isn’t sunburned red.” She crinkles her nose. I don’t know what it is about the cute gesture, but it makes me want to toss this table aside and throw myself into her even more than I wanted to before. Goddamn, what is this woman doing to me? “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you and all your crazy exes I’ll have to fight off with pitchforks.”

“For you to do that, there’d need to be an ex to fight.” I almost sound ashamed to admit it, but I’m genuinely not. “Until tonight, I haven’t been much of a dater.”

“Not even a naughty tango with a secretary on the sly?” Olivia’s eyes twinkle jokingly.

I shake my head. “Closest thing to a secretary I’ve gotten to is sitting right in front of me.”

She sucks in a deep breath, feigning shock. “Mr. Valentine, is that what you think this is? I’m shocked. Appalled. And more than a little intrigued.”

Olivia knows exactly what to say to send me over the fucking moon. She’s bubbly, fun, beautiful, and unapologetically herself.

She’s fucking amazing.

“Well, that could be arranged.” I jam two fingers into my glass, fish out a muddled cherry from the bottom, and pop it into my mouth. “Sooner than you’d think, I might add.”

I know the restaurant manager. If I had even the slightest belief Olivia was serious, I’d have cleared out the restaurant’s storeroom already.

“Excuse me, Mr. Valentine.” Our waiter, Tony, breaks my concentration on how fun it would be to indulge in something so scandalous. “Your desert is ready. Shall I bring it out?”

“Thanks, Tony. Yes, we’ll take it now,” I answer.

He shuffles off and returns a moment later with our dish in his hands. It’s a simple tart, at least at first glance. A thick pastry crust, red center, with a healthy application of whipped cream coating the top. Finally, but what might be most important, it seems, is a single spoon next to the pastry.

Tony, you scamp. The wingman I never asked for and probably don’t deserve.

We reach for the utensil in unison, and our fingers collide in an electrifying touch. Her soft skin against my rough hand is an instant reminder of how much I’ve missed spending my life chained to my office.

As our hands meet, so do our eyes. And for the first time all night, the playful smile on Olivia’s face shifts to something more akin to longing. Or maybe wanting.

God knows I feel it, too.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, whipping her hand back to her side of the table.

“For what?” I ask, basking in the tingling sensation her hand left against mine.

“I don’t really know.” Olivia raises her napkin above her face to hide away another bout of deepening red quickly replacing her otherwise neutral cheeks.

“It’s I who should do the apologizing,” I say, lifting the spoon and scooping a chunk of the tart onto it. “How dare I keep a lady from her treat?”

My knowledge about wooing is limited, but there are a few absolutes even I’m certain won’t steer me wrong. One is compliments. About the way she looks tonight. How perfect her outfit, hair, make-up, and all the rest are. The other is a moment like this.

The intimacy of feeding her from my hand. Watching as her eyes follow the spoon and her lips wrap around it. The soft hum of her enjoyment to the taste. How her eyes shift back to mine after she’s taken the bite, and while still enjoying it, they burn with lustful desire.

It’s fucking orgasmic.

“How is it?” I drop the spoon next to the tart and grab my napkin. Reaching over the table, I wipe away some of the whipped cream that landed on her lip.

And the look in her eye burns more intensely than before.

“Better than I imagined it would be.” She sounds nervous, as if she isn’t talking about the tart at all.

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