Page 45 of Wistful Whispers
I want her so badly my chest aches.
With the way my cock is reacting to her presence, the distance might as well be a mile.
She’s close enough so her perfume—rose layered over leather, delicate with an edge sharp enough to bleed —curls around me, embedding itself in my senses. I shouldn’t be thinking about how good she smells. Or how good she looks. The dress she’s wearing hugs every curve just right and the neckline dips enough to make me swallow hard.
She’s sin. Pure fucking sin.
Her suggestion to get dinner came out of the blue. My day in the lab sucked ass capped off by being forced to bare my soul in her conference room. I’m wrung out. Broken. Have been for months. The way she looked at me as if I were a kicked puppy makes me think she feels sorry for me.
I should be offended. Hell, let’s be honest, I’m happy to share a meal if it means another hour in her company.
Hunger aside, I’d prefer to spend the time burying myself balls deep inside of her.
She’s who you’ve been waiting for.
We reach the entrance of the restaurant. I hold the door open and she gives me a polite nod as she steps inside. There’s something uncertain in her expression, almost wary. Maybe she feels it too—the tension thrumming between us like an electric current. Or, she senses how attracted I am to her and is trying to be polite to let me down easy.
The hostess leads us to a booth in the back, dimly lit and tucked away from the rest of the restaurant. Probably a good thing, considering the way my body is betraying me around her. I’m pretty sure every diner saw the telltale bulge in my crotch as we made our way here.
Sitting across from her, it’s all I can do not to let my gaze linger on the way the soft lighting casts a golden hue over her skin. Or the way her full lips press together as she scans the menu.
Silence expands between us, thick and awkward. We’re not enemies anymore. We’re not friends either. She needs me to help her take down my mentor. It’s the only reason we’re in each other’s orbit. I sincerely doubt she’d be too impressed if she knew how many hours I’ve spent with my hand wrapped around my cock imagining fucking her tits…
Or how her ass would jiggle if I rammed into her from behind…
Watching my cum spill out of her pussy…
Christ. I need help.
The waiter brings us two glasses of wine Marcella requested from the hostess while I was lost in my own goddamn thoughts. I won’t touch it—I don’t drink, but I don’t have the energy to get into that particular conversation.
Instead, I order a porterhouse steak medium rare, a baked potato, a salad and a side of fries. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and let’s be real—I’m not a small guy.
Marcella only orders a dinner salad, and my brow furrows. “You’re not hungry?”
“Not really. I’m glad we’re here because it looks like you are.” She lifts a shoulder in an offhand gesture.
“No judgment—I’m not sure how you come to Seattle’s most famous steak restaurant and not indulge.” I tilt my head, studying her. “Your willpower is insane.”
Her lips press together, then she exhales and sets her menu down. “My family owns a Spanish restaurant in Tacoma, I grew up around food. It’s part of who I am. I’ve also spent my whole life being aware of my weight. When you grow up as a bigger girl, it’s…something you learn to manage.”
“Manage? How?” I frown, thinking about Caldwell’s inappropriate jabs at her.
“Ahh.” Her lips curve into a wry smile with no humor to it. “Control your food intake. Make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. People like to remind you if you don’t.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. “Bullshit.”
She blinks, like she wasn’t expecting my reaction and isn’t sure whether I believe her or empathize with her.
“People should mind their goddamn business. You’re beautiful,” I word vomit against my better judgment. Hell, it’s the truth. “If you want a steak, you should damn well eat a steak.”
Her mouth opens slightly, and for a second, she looks at me. Like she’s trying to figure me out. Then she shakes her head. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
“Not usually.” I look her directly in the eye.
Marcella exhales softly, tracing the rim of her wine glass with one manicured finger. “My dad has been slowly turning things over to my sister, Rosa. She went to culinary school, trained in Spain, and came back ready to take the restaurant to the next level.” A small, wistful smile tugs at her lips. “She’s implemented updated menus, wine pairings, a whole rebranding thing. My parents pretend to fight her on it, but they’re proud. You can see it every time she talks about some new dish she wants to introduce.”
I watch as she pauses, like she’s lost in a memory. “They all work together. My dad’s the face, my mom keeps everything running behind the scenes. My brother Lucas—” She shakes her head with a soft laugh. “He’s in real estate but helps with the books. The restaurant is his favorite place to bring clients. Says it helps close deals.”
