Page 85 of Dangerous King
A soft giggle escapes me. Worded like that, the appetizer doesn't seem intimidating anymore; nothing really does, not when he's looking at me like that. His laugh rumbles low in his chest, smooth and sinful, and it twists something deep in my belly.
"Tonight is for you to relax. Eat. Smile," he says, pausing just long enough to make my pulse spike. Then his voice dips lower, darker. "And maybe let me spread those pretty thighs and taste you until you scream."
The fork slips slightly in my hand. My thighs clench under the table, and heat blooms across my skin like wildfire. I bite my lip, fighting the instinct to look away.
"That depends," I say, and I can hear the breathlessness in my own voice. "Are you always this persuasive?"
He leans back in his chair with the kind of quiet arrogance that makes my mouth go dry, lifting his wine glass like he's toasting something filthy and forbidden. "Only when I want something."
"And what do you want, Enrico?" I ask before I can lose my nerve. But I've been hiding for most of my life; now, I want to live. I want to live and experience it all.
His gaze pins me in place, all teasing is gone, his smirk too, replaced by a pure, raw hunger. I clench my thighs even tighter, crossing my ankles underneath the table to give myself some relief.
"You," he says. "Your mouth. Your cunt. Your everything. But for now…" His lips curve, slow and dangerous. "I'll start with thatshy little smile you keep trying to hide. We'll see how fast I can turn it into a scream."
Oh shit—oh no, did I just curse? Oh dang—I did it again. Dio mio, my mind is one big, flustered tornado. I can't stop the smile he asked for, it's already curving my lips. He thought to scare me off with his vulgar use of the wordcunt… Before meeting him, maybe even before the lake, it would have made me blush like a fire hydrant. Now… it only pools the strange wetness between my legs and awakens a pulse deep inside me. I should be horrified by him… by myself. But… I'm not.
The left side of his mouth curls up in an amused, almost arrogant expression. He knows exactly what his words just did to me. I can't help it, though. I keep staring at that mouth, remembering his fingers and… I shake my head, and my gaze flicks toward the skyline, just to gather myself. He watches me like he's memorizing the angles of my face.
"So," I say, needing to ground myself, "do you always bring girls here? Private balcony, skyline view, moody lighting. Seems like a well-used playbook."
He snorts into his wine. "This is the first time I've been here, actually."
I raise a brow.
"Seriously," he says. "Yes, I've taken women to dinners. Events. Parties. But this?" His thumb brushes along the back of my hand. "Not to a place like this. I don't need to impress anyone."
I tilt my head, suddenly nervous. "No?"
"No," he says, voice lower now. "This is a date that I planned to thank you. To show you what you deserve."
I'm not sure what to say to that. I'm not used to kindness dressed in power. To gentleness wrapped in steel. I swallow and glance down at my plate.
"You really don't have to thank me," I murmur.
"I know," he says. "But I want to."
I'm not sure if I'm touched, offended, or hurt. He's confusing the hell out of me. Did he really only bring me here because he feels… gratitude? What about—and here I blush again—me,spreading my legs, as he so elaborately put it?
We eat slowly, plates arriving one after the other like a dream. Enrico tells me about a vineyard he bought in Tuscany, only to learn he hates the taste of his own wine. I tell him about the time I tried to sew my own prom dress and ended up accidentally stitching the armhole shut. By dessert, we're both laughing so hard that the server keeps pausing before approaching. When he sets the chocolate mousse down between us, Enrico picks up a spoon, scoops a bite, and lifts it toward me.
"You're serious?" I ask.
"Very."
I lean forward and take the bite. It's rich. Decadent. And very unfair.
"Now I know why you brought me here," I tease. "For the chocolate."
"Guilty," he murmurs, and brushes a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. He lets it linger there, just long enough to make my whole body burn.
"Enrico…" I whisper. My voice is trembling, but not in fear; it's from me, wanting him. Wanting him to do all those forbidden things he promised.
"Yes, Piccolina?" Contrary to mine, his voice is steady, velvety, and drenched in danger, and it wraps around me like a promise.
I don't answer right away. I can't. The words are there, lodged in my chest, heavy and hot and aching to be spoken. So I look at him instead, this man who makes me feel like I exist, like Imatter. Who makes mewantthings. The moment stretches between us, syrup-slow, thick with meaning. My pulse roars in my ears.
I call myself a little mouse, and that's enough to give me the courage to say part of what I want: "I don't want this night to end."
