Page 11 of Reckless Desire

She purses her lips, making me unreasonably excited about kissing that mouth later. Hopefully. It’s full and red without lipstick. I wonder how she tastes. Perhaps a bit of sweet and sour, just like her mood.

What’s wrong with me? I have never fantasized about a client before. And she might not even be a client because she still looks like she’s ready to bolt.

“His plots are pure mind fuck. His writing is such a joy. Simple, yet—”

“Powerful,” we both say at the same time.

A hint of a smile brightens Sydney’s face and my cock twitches. I really hope she decides to go through with this and unwrap her birthday present.

And if she does, I hope to God one taste will be enough.

ChapterFour

Sydney

Iordered a ridiculous amount of food. We haven’t even finished the appetizers sampler and I’m already full. We’ve been sitting here for two hours already. Just nibbling and talking, waving away the servers who are impatiently circling around our table.

Where did the time go? I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun. Not crazy, laugh-out-loud fun, but a stimulating, thought-provoking conversation that is playful and flirtatious at the same time.

This is the best date I’ve had in a while. Perhaps ever. We’ve covered so many topics, and after the initial awkwardness the energy has flowed so effortlessly I don’t want the dinner to end. It’s good that I ordered so much.

The only cloud hanging above us is the nagging reality of what this is. It’s not an actual date.

Hunter is clearly very good at his job. Most—or all—of his clients are willing participants and he doesn’t need to put them at ease. Yet, he managed not only to relax me, but to move me past the dread. I’m enjoying myself. I haven’t enjoyed myself in forever.

I keep reminding myself it’s his job. He might be telling me lies for all I know. He’s getting paid to make this a pleasant experience for me. It makes me wonder how good the other half of the night would be. I mean, his body is impressive, even dressed up. My heart pulses with anticipation and heat spreads up my neck at the idea. Jesus, I need to stop thinking about this.

“If you had a time machine, which time period would you go to?” Hunter asks and gestures to the server to refill our glasses.

I cover mine. After all the margaritas and two glasses of champagne already, even with all the food, I need to stop drinking. A clear mind is what will save me tonight. Save me from what? Or rather, who? From Hunter? From myself?

“How many trips would I have?”

“For the purposes of this conversation, one trip.”

In the dimmed lights of the dining room, the silver in his eyes is darker. His irises change color as he speaks.

Sometimes they are gray and sometime the speckles of whiskey shine through, giving them a distinct glint. I’m drawn to them. There is more behind them than a playboy who sells his body for money.

“I think I’d go back to the nineteen twenties and thirties, the decade in between the two wars. The glamour of the era, Art Deco, Hemingway, Picasso, Modigliani. Everything fascinates me about that time period. Well, not the financial crisis and the suffering related to that. But being rich back then and possibly in Paris. I’d love that.” Nobody’s ever asked me that.

“Interesting.” He studies me intently, his eyes like hot coals on my skin.

“Don’t tell me it’s your favorite period?” We have already discovered seven things we have in common. If he says yes now, I’m going to take it as a confirmation he’s just saying what I want to hear. My theory isn’t bulletproof because he answered at least half of the questions before me, but I’m sticking to it. I need to tame my interest in him.

“No, but when you describe it I want to time travel there.”

Those eyes, fanned with those thick lashes, are going to be the death of me. And why isn’t the air conditioning working here? It’s like we’re seated next to a furnace. A bead of sweat rolls between my breasts and I want to use the napkin to pat myself, but I resist.

“And I love that you traveled outside your lifetime,” he continues. “Usually people want to travel to fix their past or find out what’s in their future.” He spreads foie gras on a piece of toast and takes a bite, all the while never moving his eyes away from me.

If his voice is silk, his gaze on me is like fur—hot and decadent. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced so many physical reactions to a simple smile or look.

I’m unreasonably pleased he liked my answer. But he obviously asks the same question often. We’ve been playing twenty questions, and while I’m having fun he is following a scenario he’s probably played out too many times.

I call the waiter to clear the appetizers. If Hunter notices my change of mood, he doesn’t let me see it.

We have been connecting and we haven’t touched on any personal topics. We didn’t talk about our families or work—well, my work. That’s not what this is about. He doesn’t need to get to know me. Yet I let myself fantasize it’s real.

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