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“Fuck,” he groans. “How about all of that, but on a table at Chez Aquitani?”
My ears prick up at the name of New Alderney’s most exclusive French restaurant.
“Do we have reservations?” I murmur into the kiss.
He squeezes my ass. “Those snobs wouldn’t let you work there as a cleaner. Now, they’ll grovel for you at the chef’s table.”
“You remember that?”
“How could I possibly forget the name of any asshole who hurt you? I want you walking into that restaurant like a queen.”
My heart skips.
This really is the mafia version of Pretty Woman, and Roman is doing the utmost to exceed my wildest dreams. When I first came to Beaumont City, looking for work, the restaurant manager threw me out like I was scum.
“Thank you.” I give him a peck on the lips. “And I want you to bend me over the table and have me for dessert.”
He grins, his eyes sparkling. “Emberly. You’re the only thing I ever want to eat.”
I stay on his lap all the way to the restaurant’s service entrance, where the same restaurant manager ushers us into an elegant dining room of dark wood floors, matching furniture, and white upholstery. Crystal pendant lights hang down from the ceiling, casting a dim light over a table set for two.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him of the time he threw me out, but I don’t want to ruin my high. I’ve sold two paintings, kicked the shit out of Lafayette, and have the sweetest, sexiest boyfriend. Things don’t get much better than tonight.
Roman orders the man to move the place settings together, so we’re sitting at corners to each other with our knees touching.
We eat oysters, lobster, and the most tender wagyu beef served with eggplant and fenugreek. Every mouthful is an explosion of flavor, but what I want most is Roman.
After the plates are cleared, our waiter comes in with the dessert menus. Roman orders a bottle of their finest sweet wine. I nearly choke when he informs us that it’s thirty thousand dollars excluding tax.
The waiter inclines his head and disappears through the door.
“You can’t be serious,” I hiss. “That’s too much.”
“We’re celebrating.” Roman takes my hand and brings my knuckles to his lips. “Tonight has been my second happiest night since leaving prison.”
“Which was your first?” I ask.
He casts me a side-long glance and smirks. “The one when you grabbed me by the lapels and kissed me.”
I lick my lips, my gaze dropping to his perfectly formed mouth. “If kissing me makes you so happy, I could do it again?”
“That’s the plan.” He kisses each knuckle, sending zips of sensation up my arm and into my chest.
My heart flutters. “What did I ever do to deserve a man like you? You’re perfect.”
“I’m no angel,” he says. “I’m a gangster, an extortionist, and a murderer. I take pleasure in other people’s pain.”
“Everyone has their faults,” I murmur. “But you make me feel alive.”
A knock sounds on the door, and the waiter steps in, holding a bottle of golden wine and two glasses.
“1865 Chateau d’Yquem,” he says with a hint of pride as he pulls out the cork.
“Take the glasses and brighten the lights,” Roman says. “We only need the bottle.”
His face falls, but he bows, murmuring, “As you wish, sir.”
“That will be all for the evening,” Roman says just before the door clicks shut.
