Page 24 of Wicked S.O.B.

Has he stepped closer, or is the wall of heat I feel on my back from my own intensifying sexual hunger? “Then decide.”

“You think sating one appetite will blunt my need to pursue other…conquests? Make mecalmer, perhaps?”

Jesus, I hope not. I want all that bristling, seething power aimed at me. Aimedinsideme. “I just don’t want your lunch to go cold.”

He doesn’t respond for an age. “Very well. Go set the table, Elly.”

The breath I don’t recall holding punches out of me at his command. The trolley is moving in the direction of the dining table before I’m fully cognizant of putting thought into deed.

He follows. Stands silently at the head of the table and never once takes his eyes off me as I transfer plates, cutlery, and dishes from trolley to table. Unlike the times before when I reprised this role for real, he doesn’t question why there is only one place setting or ask me to set another one for myself. He simply places one hand on the table, his forefinger bouncing restlessly as he observes me.

When I’m done placing every utensil at the very precise angles he prefers them to be, he pulls back his chair. He doesn’t sit immediately, though. With almost balletic elegance, he frees the single button on his pinstriped jacket, shrugs out of it, and turns away to drape it over a spare chair.

The movement affords me a view of his broad back wrapped in his pristine ice-blue shirt and the silk-backed vest and, even better, his tight ass. When he turns around, he spears me with a sizzling gaze that tells me he feels the heat of my look. He chooses not to address my shameless ogling. Instead he returns to where I’m hovering next to the trolley. He pushes the silver cart to one side and pulls out the chair next to his.

“Sit down, Elly.”

I actually shiver at those three simple words. He catches the tail end of it and a pulse jumps in his cheek. I stagger forward on shaky feet and sink into the chair.

“Show me what you brought me.” A loaded question I would’ve attempted to smirk at had the setting been different. But I’m already on the edge. So I swallow and reach for the first dish.

The artistically rolled up ball of linguine in jumbo shrimp sauce is one of Quinn’s favorites. I might silently flip Chef Fancy Pants the bird each time I think of or lay eyes on him, but what he lacks in basic manners and human decency is more than made up for in his extreme talent in the kitchen. Although my appetite for food is buried deep beneath other more urgent appetites, my mouth faintly waters at the aroma that rises from the dish. Another domed dish reveals sliced focaccia bread resting on a warm mini griddle. Next to the dishes is a bottle of red wine aptly namedThe Devil’s Choice.

“Have you eaten, Elly?” Quinn asks in a low voice.

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

“That wasn’t what I asked. Lack of appetite and willfully skipping a meal are two separate things. Which is it?”

The dome wavers in my hand. He takes it from me and sets it down. Then he adjusts his fork before his left hand returns to rest on the table next to where my right hand is lying. So close. A flex of my pinky and our fingers would touch. I can’t look away from the elegance of his fingers. “I haven’t eaten…but don’t think I can eat anything.”

“Shall we test that theory?”

Before I can reply, he spoons a large helping of linguine onto his plate. With his right hand, he picks up his fork, expertly twists a length of pasta around the tines, and spears a plump shrimp. The offering is poised over the plate and his gaze returns to my face. “Come here, Elly.”

I look from his face to the fork, my senses completely haywire. “Mr. Blackwood…”

He stills for a moment before his jaw clenches tight. “You keep calling me that, using that helpless, greedy little voice, and your life is going to get very difficult,veryfast…Miss Smith.”

I swear I hear the giddy rush of blood through my veins. “I’ve heard the rumors. You terrify everyone around you, but I’m not scared of you, Mr. Blackwood.” Lie. I’m fucking terrified.

“I can tell. But you have no idea what this…disruption is doing to me. So I suggest you keep that gorgeous Cupid’s-bow mouth shut for now until I’m done feeding you.”

“But what about you? Are you going to eat?” I inquire in a breathless voice that belongs in a smoky bar in a film noir. Or a porn movie set. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“This isn’t a quid pro quo situation, but don’t worry about my appetite. You’re not leaving here until you getexactlywhat you came for. Open up, Elly. I won’t ask again.”

Eyes hooked by silver blue ones determined not to free me, I slowly open my mouth. He places the morsel on my tongue and watches me as I chew. I manage to swallow without choking or dribbling like an idiot down my white bib once I get a taste of the exquisite food.

As if he’s personally responsible for releasing it from lockdown, my appetite comes roaring back. He feeds me two more bites, before he lays the forks down and breaks a crust of bread. The taste of melted garlic and herbs is intensely heightened and I can’t help a tiny moan when he feeds me a bite of it.

His hand returns to the table. Closer than before but still not touching. I may have dreamed up this seduce-my-lover-at-work scenario, but Quinn has taken over and is fine-tuning it into a perfect torture session I may not live through. I’ve been in his office going on fifteen minutes, and save for the fork he’s feeding me with, not a single part of his body has touched mine. All the same, I feel owned, possessed to the last particle in my body.

“I can’t eat anymore,” I blurt when he starts to heap a second helping onto the plate. “Thank you.”

He carries on piling the food anyway, then picks up and pours the wine he’s been letting breathe for a few minutes. “Wine? Before you refuse, can I suggest that it might make the next stage after you’re done eating a little bearable? And also…it’s an excellent vintage.” He picks up the glass, takes a slow sniff of the bouquet before he holds that, too, against my lips.

Quinn Blackwood, mind-fuck expert. He’s fucking with me in the best and worst ways possible. I take the offered drink, letting the alcohol attempt to drench my jangling senses. All I get is an extra layer of fireworks to go with the explosions lighting up my bloodstream.

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