Page 5 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
The waiter appears, and I order us a bottle of wine before she has a chance to protest. She watches me, interested yet not entirely impressed.
“I don’t remember agreeing to wine,” she teases.
I lean back, smirking. “It wouldn’t be a proper dinner without decent wine,” I point out.
She scoffs, amusement sparking in her eyes. “You’re very confident.”
I tilt my head. “Shouldn’t I be?”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and fuck, I’m already too invested. I forget the conversation entirely until the wine arrives. I watch as she takes a sip, her lashes fluttering as she tastes it.
My cock twitches painfully at the sight.
This woman is going to be a problem.
The restaurant hums with a low murmur of voices, the soft clinking of silverware against plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from nearby tables. The lighting is dim, the flickering candlelight on each table casting a warm glow over polished glasses and half-eaten meals.
Even in all the hubbub of activity, the only thing I can focus on isher.She’s magnetic, sharp and bold.
I spend an hour cataloging every smirk, every glance, and every flick of her tongue as she eats. I wonder if she does it on purpose. If she knows what it does to me.
If she did, she would know how badly I want her, how I’m barely restraining myself from hauling her into my lap and devouring that teasing smile. Nor would she be sitting so damn comfortably. She’d probably run.
Then again, maybe she’d drag me off instead, desperate for a private corner where our desires could run wild. She did blush when I asked if she’d gotten her happy ending last night.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, letting the ice clink against the sides, but I don’t take another sip. I drum my fingers on the table, watching candlelight stroke the curve of her throat, the soft rise and fall of her chest.
She’s effortlessly beautiful. She’s not draped in excess, the way so many other patrons at this restaurant are. She’s comfortable in her own skin.
Her green eyes glint with amusement as she catches me looking.
“You’re staring,” she says, lifting her glass to her lips.
I smirk. “And you like it.”
She hums, tilting her head. “I don’tdislikeit.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, voice dropping just enough to make her pulse flutter at her throat. “You’re teasing me,malyshka.”
She mirrors my movement, resting her chin on her palm, her smirk widening. “And you can handle it, can’t you?”
“I can handle anything,” I say, my voice gravelly while my gaze drops to the cleavage she’s flaunting.
What I can’t do is sit here one more minute pretending I don’t already know how tonight ends. The waiter comes by with the bill. I grab it before she has a chance to reach for it.
She rolls her eyes, indignant. “I could’ve gotten that.”
I arch a brow. “I invited you here. You really do have low expectations, don’t you?”
She exhales, shaking her head as she drains the last of her wine. “You always get your way, don’t you?” she answers my question with one of her own.
I lean in, letting my voice drop even lower. “You have no idea.”
Her breath hitches, just for a second, but I catch it. Her pupils dilate. The air between us shifts, something darker curling in its place. For the past hour, the tension between us has been a slow burn. A tease. A back-and-forth game we’ve both been playing.
Now, it’s a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. She sets her empty wine glass down, her fingers trailing over the rim absentmindedly, but her focus is entirely on me. Her lips partlike she wants to say something, but no words come out. Because she knows. She can feel it too.
The restaurant is still bustling around us, waiters weaving through tables, the smell of expensive food lingering in the air. Yet it all fades into the background. We’re in our own little world, on the verge of something inevitable.
