Page 72 of French Martini

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“You like?”

“Jesus, kitten. How the fuck am I supposed to keep my hands off you all night?”

“Who said you have to?”

“I think laying you out on a table and ravaging you is probably frowned upon.” He rubs his growing bulge through the towel. “You look phenomenal.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I never wear a couture item twice. Sometimes I auction them off, but usually they just sit in my closet.”

Oakley nods, prowling towards me as his eyes heat. “Uh-huh.”

“How would you like to ruin this one later?”

His brow creases like he’s in pain. “I’m so addicted to you, kitten. You drive me crazy.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a hell yes.”

“You can smear my lipstick, mess up my hair, tear my clothes, whatever you want, big bear. You’ve more than earned it this week.”

He wets his lips as his eyes roam up and down my body. “Whateveryouwant, kitten. That’s my job.”

“You spoil me, Oakley.”

“I’ve barely scratched the surface, gorgeous. If you let me…” His words trail off, and I don’t think it’s necessary for him to finish.

I know he has feelings for me. The kind that scare me. The kind I never thought I’d have. What would happen if I could let down my guard and open my heart to him?

“Let me get the monkey suit on and then we can head down?”

I nod. “I’ll be in the sitting room.”

I fix myself my old standby, a dirty martini, but upon the first sip, I scrunch my nose up. I used to love this drink, but it tastes oddly bitter now. Is this some kind of brutal metaphor for my life or what?

All the way back in college, I initially chose the martini because I thought it made me seem classier than my peers. I was never a beer drinker, but I didn’t want to drink all the fruity concoctions that were popular back then—too worried about my weight and the opinions of other people.

It became my signature drink for so long because I convinced myself that high class people had things like that, but did it lead me to happiness?

I walk over to the kitchenette and dump the drink in the sink. From now on, I’m gonna drink whatever I want.

The door to the bedroom opens and Oakley steps out, and it’s my turn to gawk. Whoa. He cleans up nice, though if I’m honest, I prefer the loose towel.

“This alright?”

“You look amazing, Oak. Like the tall, sturdy drink of water you are.”

He smiles, tugging on the sleeves. “As long as you’re happy.”

“Well…” I glance at the clock on the wall as I pick up my clutch from the counter. “Showtime.”

“Let’s do this.”

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