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She nods. “Yeah, of course. I love it here. I can have Alfred get me a cab later.”
That wasn’t convincing. “I won’t leave you if—”
She waves off my concerns. “Mary, go. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. But what do you know about this guy?”
“Enough to feel okay about this,” I say. “We’re just going to go for a slice or something. I won’t go anywhere private with him.”
“Okay.” Brenda gestures to her cosmo that’s still half full. “I won’t be long. I’m almost done. If you need anything, text me. If I don’t answer right away, it means I’m still here, so call Claude.”
“I will. Thanks, Bren.”
I’m really doing this. My stomach flutters—actually fucking flutters.
I haven’t been this attracted to a man in a long time. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I’m physically attracted to all the Doms I play with, of course. I have to be for the scene to be enjoyable. But Ronan… I’ve never seen anyone as gorgeous as he is. I’ve never hung on a man’s every word like I do with him.
I walk back to where he’s standing beside the table, waiting for me, his chest on display for everyone to ogle.
And boy, are they ogling.
Jennifer stands next to him, laughing flirtatiously and wiggling her bare tits.
“Oh,” she says when I return. “Hi, Blossom. Ronan here was apologizing to me again. I’ve been telling him not to worry.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Ronan says, stepping away from her and toward me.
“Looks like we’re leaving, Jen,” I say. “Brenda’s still at the bar. She’s staying.”
Jennifer moves her gaze to Ronan. “You’re leaving?”
“Don’t worry, lassie,” he says, this time in a practiced brogue. “We’ll be returnin’ as soon as the sun sets.”
I open my mouth to tell him that the sun has already set, but then I close it.
He’s clearly giving Jen some bizarre Scottish flirting. Or something.
Jennifer gives him a dazzling smile, her cheeks red, her breasts blushing, her nipples sticking out hard.
My own nipples are just as hard, and they’re protruding against the stretchy velvet of my little black dress.
But Ronan’s gaze isn’t on Jennifer’s bare breasts.
His gaze is on my face. Not my hard nipples, not my long bare legs.
On my face.
And God…that makes me want him all the more.
“Blossom,” he says, his tone warm but firm, “let’s go get that pizza.”
We walk to the exit, and I retrieve my black trench coat and my phone. Ronan grabs a hunter-green shirt and pulls it over his head. It looks like it’s made of cotton or linen, and its V-neck is closed with a leather tie. It has a billowy design and long sleeves that gather at the wrists. He doesn’t tuck it into his kilt, letting it hang loose. It looks sexy but comfortable.
“Do you have some pants to change into?” I ask.
“No.”
“I mean… You really want to go in your kilt?”
This is New York City. People dress all kinds of odd ways. But still, it isn’t every day you see a big, brawny man in a kilt and knee socks walking about at night.
