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I remember how jealous she got when the two women I encountered at the restaurant last night called me over. There was a definite fire in her eyes.
I’m not used to a woman's possessiveness, well, not one I liked or approved of, anyway. Most women are trying to tie me down and make me into something I’m not, which I normally hate but I fucking dig it when she does it.
Imogen meets my eye as we sit, my hand touching the bare skin on her back and I wonder why she wore a fucking jumpsuit with a cut out at the back.
Granted, my hand is now under her jacket, and if we were farther in the back of the restaurant with a private table, I’d be undressing her and sucking on her tits until she screamed my name.
“Give her a moment to settle in,” Morgan chastises, appraising Imogen with a smile.
She’s a beautiful woman, but knowing that she’s pleasantly surprised by my little rose fills me with possessive pride.
“It’s gonna be one hell of a ride,” Johans puts in, raising his glass. “May as well get toasted now.”
I roll my eyes. “Might I remind you you’re still on work time, J.”
He gives me a sarcastic smile. “Still a slave driver even in Seattle, old boy.”
I give him a glare but he just laughs.
Finally, Doris comes racing through the restaurant.
I use the opportunity of distraction to lean over toward Imogen and say quietly, “Did you pick out something nice for me?” My hand slides onto her inner thigh as I keep my eyes toward Doris approaching.
“Y-yes,” she stammers.
“What color?”
“Red, Mr. Petrov.”
My eyebrows shoot up in response. Red? Is my girl feeling extra spicy tonight? I certainly hope so.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I slide my hand up farther, annoyed at the fact she’s wearing pants.
“Next time make it easier for me,” I mutter. “I can’t finger fuck you at the table like this.”
I hear her breath hitch as I smile warmly at Doris and remove my hand.
“Mr. Petrov?” I hear her murmur, as my eyes turn. When nobody is listening, she has this tone to her voice when she says my name. Like she’s saying Mr. President, Marilyn Monroe style.
“Yes, Imogen.”
“I forgot the panties,” she whispers.
My eyes go wide as she turns and smiles at Doris. I gape at her, having the last word.
All I’m left with is a cold shoulder and hard cock. A bad combination.
Round one, Imogen Jane Anderson.
Well played.
Chapter Seventeen
Khristian
I tap on the hood of the cab as Doris is safely bundled inside.
