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“Such a pretty mouth.”
With my sense of sight removed, I can hear his shallow breathing, and knowing I have some effect on him, similar to what he has on me, is a heady feeling. I can’t recall a single other moment in my life when I’ve felt this desired.
He’s showing me passion while fully dressed in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and since he’s the one in control, I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed with knowing that any of the fifty people in the same room with us could be witnessing his seduction. If anything, it makes me even hotter for him.
My mouth opens slightly on a ragged inhale, and he doesn’t miss the opportunity to dip his digit inside half an inch. He groans, a low, deep in his belly sound when my tongue sneaks up to touch the tip. Would he make that same desperate sound if it were the tip of his cock on my lips? God, do I want to find out.
A nearby cough forces my eyes open, but Wren takes his time pulling his hand away from my mouth. I focus on wetting my lips as the waiter gives him a forced smile.
“Everything okay with your meal?”
Wren’s hand falls to my bare knee as he keeps his eyes on me.
“Do you want to try the sushi?”
“No,” I tell him, unsure of how he’ll respond.
I’ve read stories of people being forced to do things they don’t want, and as simple as trying a new food is, his reaction will play a huge part in where things are going with us.
“Do you have any preferences?” Wren is still a hundred percent focused on me, forcing the waiter to wait for both of us since his question regarding the food hasn’t been answered.
“Anything American,” I whisper, hoping he doesn’t see me as a child.
“A burger, maybe?” I give him a small smile and a slight dip of my head.
“No onions,” I add before he can pull his attention from me.
His grin is knowing, like he thinks there’s a reason I don’t want to ingest stinky foods. He’d be right. I don’t normally have a problem with onions. I mean, have you tasted the Pico de Gallo from Taco Bell?
“Cheese?” I nod again.
Wren doesn’t have to repeat my order because the waiter is so far up in our business, he heard every word.
“It’ll come from the kid’s menu,” the waiter informs us, his eyes darting around the room to sweep over the other patrons.
“That’s fine,” I tell him.
The warning is subtle, but Wren must understand it as I do. We’re in the middle of a family friendly restaurant, early enough in the evening to have children around. Our recent behavior is better suited for the dark, back corner of a bar not in the middle of dinnertime with multigenerational people around.
“I should’ve taken you somewhere else,” he says, reaching for his glass of water.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” I attempt to lower my head, hating that I’m causing problems.
His finger hitches under my chin, lifting it up so I can see his eyes before I even have the chance to look down at my clasped hands.
“You’re no trouble, Whitney. The trouble is keeping my hands off of you right now. My near inability to maintain distance is not your problem to worry over. I should have better control.”
A dominant man admitting to his own faults? Am I in an alternate universe right now? He’s too young to have this much insight.
“Tell me how you ended up with a filthy-talking bird,” I insist as a distraction from the way he’s staring at my mouth.
My lips still tingle from his touch, and if he keeps looking at me with such heat, I may explode, kids around us be damned.
He grins, the memory of it making his eyes sparkle.
“Breaking out the big guns already, huh?”
I can’t help but smile back at him. “I feel like there’s a huge story, one that doesn’t include a pet shop.”
He grins wider. “If I tell you about how Puff Daddy ended up in my care, I have to start much farther back and it includes an old lady, a pair of grooming clippers and a wooden bowl.”Chapter 17Wren
I was obsessed with this woman before I ever laid eyes on her in person. One coffee date and a sushi/cheeseburger dinner and I can say without a fucking shadow of a doubt that I’m falling for her.
The way we laughed over shared stories from our youths, the way she quizzed me on computer things, the easy way we’re able to speak to each other, all of it made me realize she’s the definition of perfection. My idea of perfection anyway.
The sexual tension between us has stayed just under the surface during the entire meal, through every story. I made a point to keep my distance, but I would nearly moan in appreciation when she’d throw her head back and laugh as her small hand landed on my forearm or on my shoulder. I hate that I’m in slacks and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. I want her skin to skin rather than living with just the heat of her touch through my clothes.
