Page 5 of Ravens
“So little trust.” He places his elbows on the table and leans in. “But if you insist . . .” His eyes crawl over me and then lock onto my gaze. “I’m going to be peeling you out of that dress in . . .” He glances at his watch. “About forty-five minutes.”
“There is such a thing as too much confidence.”
“Not when it’s warranted.”
The server appears and lays our plates on the table.
Thanking her, he checks his watch again. “Make that forty minutes, unless you were planning on dessert?”
It’s almost impossible not to smile at the audacity. The man likes to push it. I suppose there is something in that that I can appreciate, even if I can’t relate to it. I’ve spent years practicing not to be pushy or loud, to appear as if I lack confidence, to look harmless so that I am not a target. Maybe I’ve gotten toogood at it because I shouldn’t smile. I should throw my drink in his face and leave because that’s what a sane woman would do, I think. But I must be far from sane because he’s growing on me.
The meal continues pleasantly, and I make a show of it for the room, with genuine smiles and polite laughter when he says something clever. A lazy stroke of my fingers over my collarbone as I hold his gaze too long creates a tension that doesn’t need to be faked. I rub the side of his calf with my foot under the table, and it’s everything you’d expect to see between two people in love on a date.
What starts off as acting to convince whoever may be watching,ifanyone is watching, requires less and less acting on my part. By the time the server returns for our plates, I feel flush, and my breasts are gently swollen.
“A couple of espressos,” he asks the server and then settles his gaze back on me. “We’re going to need them.”
If I could groan right now, I would.
“You know, I think whiskey is a lot like wine,” he says out of the blue, and I furrow my brows in confusion. The server appears and slides little espresso cups onto the table with the billfold. “They both taste better, more interesting, on someone else’s tongue.”
Crossing my legs, I squeeze my thighs together as I pick up my espresso and sip it, trying to ignore him, but it’s impossible. I may be the meek wife, but he’s been coming at me hard enough all evening to warrant a little bit of edge from me.
I sigh as I set down the empty cup. “I guess I’ll be the judge of that.”
His eyes burn with something I can’t figure out, his jaw tensing slightly, and then I get up and walk out without him.
***
Back in the room, he finds me leaning against the desk with a glass of wine in my hand.
The door closes and locks as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it aside. “Is mywifeupset?”
The button on his collar falls open with a deft graze of his fingers, and then another and another as he approaches me and plucks the wineglass from my hand, setting it aside. I uncross my legs, and he wedges himself between my thighs and looks down at me.
“Your wife is an impatient woman,” I point out.
“We’ll have to work on that.” His fingers move across my chest, slipping under a strap and sliding it down my shoulder before moving across to the other. “Anticipation is half the game.”
Stepping away, he moves over to the bar and pours himself another drink. I swallow hard and carefully lift my wine back to my lips. My limbs want to tremble with that very anticipation, and keeping my composure is difficult when I want to rub myself against him like a fucking cat.
Taking a drink, he signals for me to turn around.
I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure I can handle this torture. I wasn’t lying—I’m impatient and a big fan of instant gratification. Finishing the wine, I set the glass aside and turn, placing my hands on the desk.
Stopping behind me, I can hear him taking another drink and then catch the glass descending in my periphery, softly thudding on the desk beside my hand. Pulling out my hairpins, he runs his hand roughly up the back of my head, giving my hair a squeeze before exhaling and gathering it to one side while his other hand travels down my back. My eyes drift closed.
Gently, he pulls my hips into his, and I straighten until my back hits his chest and I’m leaning into him, craving the touch of bare skin. A wave of goosebumps run over me when he tugs down the front of my dress to run his fingers over my lacy bra. The scent of whiskey on his breath mingles with a hint of cigar smoke, and the combination is heady. Whatever aftershave he’s wearing invades me as his cheek comes down beside mine and his thumb traces my jugular.
Grabbing my jaw, he turns my head, capturing my lips roughly and sweeping my tongue with his own. He was right; secondhand whiskeyisgood. I kiss him harder, and his weight shifts, pinning my thighs to the desk as he grabs my wrists and forces me forward, planting my hands on the wall.
I bite his lip, and he groans, rifling the dress up over my hips as he pulls back, leaving me panting. The soft popping sound of more buttons causes a shiver, and then the clasp of my bra gives way. I let it fall down my arms before replacing my hands on thewall, and the sound of his zipper makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
The heat of his skin on my back causes a tremor in my thigh as he lies against me for a second, and just when I think my panties are going to hit the floor, he yanks them to the side and kicks my feet wider apart.
“Fuck,” I breathe out as he presses against my entrance.
I’m soaked. The verbal foreplay was enough.
