Page 21 of His to Explore
Not what this is,I remind myself.He’s not your boyfriend, Kensie.
But that’s hard to really believe with the way he’s looking at me, those dark eyes seeming to drink me in. A slow smile tugs up his lips as his gaze dips down to assess my outfit.
“Gorgeous,” he mutters, more to himself. Then he’s stepping out from the booth and placing his hands on my shoulders, pulling me closer. My senses are immediately assaulted by the nearness of him—the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his big, sturdy body making me feel almost lightheaded. He presses a kiss to the side of my head and I swear my knees go a little weak.
What the hell is going on?
He thanks the hostess and directs me into the booth with a hand at my waist. I expect him to take the spot across the table, but instead he slides in right next to me, close enough so his big muscular thigh is pressing against my leg.
“This dress is stunning,” he murmurs, gently running his fingers along the thin strap at my shoulder. “But I suppose anything would be stunning on you.”
The lightheaded feeling intensifies. This isn’t anything like our usual meetings. When we get together at Wyld to plan our next encounter, Grant is always focused, almost business-like. He asks me to divulge every detail I can think of for each fantasy, wanting to be sure he has it right.
Healwaysgets it right.
“I ordered wine,” he says, sliding a glass of red my way. “A Bordeaux Cab. I think you’ll like it.”
I wonder if I should be annoyed that he ordered for me. I definitely used to be when Fred would do the same thing. But with Fred it was always a dig. I was too stupid to know anything about wine, too greedy and undisciplined to make healthy choices about my food.
The polar opposite to how it feels with Grant. Him having wine waiting just feels like one more way that he wants to take care of me.
And he’s right—it is delicious. Exactly what I would have wanted to order for myself.
When had he learned my tastes so well?
“I hope the restaurant is to your liking?” he asks.
I nod quickly, looking around. “It’s gorgeous. But it doesn’t feel too pretentious, you know?”
He grins. “Exactly why I like it. Also, the chef is amazing.” He studies my face for a moment. “It’s good to see you.”
“You saw me a few days ago,” I mumble, cheeks going hot. I could kick myself—why on earth would I bring up that night? If I had my way, Grant would forget it ever happened.
His hand lands on my thigh, pressure firm and warm. “It’salwaysgood to see you.”
My blush deepens. Why in the hell do I feel like a little giggly school girl right now? This man has seen me naked on more occasions that I can count. He’s done the naughtiest, most shocking things to me. So why am I feeling shy now, fully clothed and in a public restaurant?
“Did you want to talk about our next meeting?” I blurt out, wanting to get this back onto terms that make sense to me.
But Grant clenches his jaw, clearly displeased by my abrupt subject change.
“We will discuss that,” he says. “We have a lot to discuss, in fact. But first we’re going to enjoy some conversation while we share a meal.”
I realize I’m sitting up straighter. It’s that tone of his—how does he make his voice so authoritative? And why do I automatically start to obey him the moment he talks to me like that?
I’d done it that night in the dungeon, too. Blurting out my entire sob story just because his bossy ass told me to.
“So,” he says smoothly, reaching for his own glass. “Tell me about your day. Any headway on those idiot clients?”
I blink at him, feeling totally off-kilter. He wants to talk about my work? I’m honestly surprised he even remembered me mentioning those clients. That had been, what? Nearly two weeks ago?
He catches my gaze, staring deep into my eyes as he begins to rub my thigh. “What pieces have you offered them this week?”
I let out a shaky breath. As much as I want to sit here blinking at him like an idiot—or flat out ask him what, exactly, we’re doing here—I feel soothed by his touch. And compelled by his steady, dark gaze.
“We thought we had them last week,” I begin. “I suggested a Yamada—she’s a Japanese artist who’s up and coming enough that most of their snobby friends won’t have heard of her but expensive enough that they can show off.”
Grant grins. “So they can pretend they’re on the cutting edge of the art world?”
