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Perfect response, little lamb. Perfect fucking response. “It means I wanted you, and I didn’t want anyone else to have you before I got a chance to introduce myself.” As his open mouth lifted into a shy smile, my dick throbbed as though he’d sucked it. Yes…he likes the idea as much as I do. That will make this fun indeed.
Then I asked the one question that would seal Jesse’s fate: “Is that okay with you?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Had Salvatore really just admitted to kicking me out of his club so he could have me to himself?
Holy…fucking…shit. The thought was so preposterous that I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, and as I sat there with my jaw on the ground, he said, “I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
Yeah, he had, but for the life of me, I didn’t know how to respond. It had been humiliating to be thrown out, and the walk home wasn’t something I wanted to relive either. But on the other hand…knowing the reason was because he couldn’t stand to see anyone else come near me? That set off all the damn butterflies in my stomach, and I couldn’t stop the smile that crossed my face.
“I guess I’m…flattered,” I said, as I kept my eyes on the napkin I’d been unconsciously folding at the edges.
“You guess?” The amusement in Salvatore’s voice had me looking up at him, and just as I’d expected, his lips had quirked up.
“No, I am…flattered, I mean. I guess I just don’t know what to say to that.” And then I asked the question that had been banging around in my skull since the day he’d asked me for coffee: “Why me?”
Salvatore stroked his chin. “I suppose you could say I have a…type.”
“So it is true,” I blurted out, and a crease formed between his eyebrows.
“What’s true?”
“Uh…” Shit, now I’ve gone and done it. I hadn’t meant to voice that thought, and now that it was out in the open, I wasn’t sure how he’d react.
“Jesse? If there’s something you want to know about me, you only need to ask.” There was a seductive edge to his invitation that had me spilling out the words I should’ve been too shy to say.
“You’re a”—I glanced around us to make sure no one was listening—“a dominant?”
“Yes,” he said, holding my stare. “And you’re a submissive.”
“What? No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am not. I don’t even know what that really means.”
“Stop talking.”
Shocked at the firm tone, I clamped my mouth shut, and then Salvatore hummed in the back of his throat, like he was pleased.
“Exactly,” he said, and then lifted his hand for the waitress.
I sat back in my seat, stunned. Was what he said true? Was I really a submissive? I hadn’t even thought twice when he’d given me an order, and what was more…I kind of liked it. There was something crazy hot about a man taking charge, and Salvatore was definitely a man who knew what he wanted. And he’d flat-out said that what he wanted was…me.
Beth approached the table again. “Have you gentlemen decided what you’d like?”
Salvatore smiled, his eyes on me. “I believe we have.” He held my gaze for a moment longer and then handed her the menu. “I hear your banana bread is sinful, so I’ll have that and an Americano.”
“It is the best,” she said, and then turned toward me. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the same, but an iced latte with a pump of vanilla, please.” Salvatore raised an eyebrow, and I remembered what Brayden had said the other night. Hell, he’s known as the Wolfe, for fuck’s sake. I doubt that means he’s into any vanilla shit. Maybe that went for coffee too?
As Beth left the table, I found myself once again caught up in the fierce stare of the man opposite me. It was like he was a hypnotist, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from him. He had an intensity about him that both aroused and intimidated me, but I knew myself well enough that nothing was going to make me get up and leave. If nothing else came from this coffee, at least I’d be able to look back and remember the way he watched me as though I was the only one on the planet.
Shifting in my seat a little, I decided it was time for me to ask the one question that was probably the most important. After all, how was I going to know if I didn’t ask, and like Salvatore had said when we sat down, I had questions I wanted answers to. First and foremost: “What do you want from me?”
I wasn’t sure if my directness caught him off guard, but as my words hovered between us, I wondered if I was prepared for the answer. He casually relaxed back into his seat and placed an arm along the back of it. As he tapped his fingers there, I watched them, over and over they drummed, and the blood rushing around my head had me worried I’d miss whatever he decided to say. But one thing I would soon learn about Salvatore Wolfe was that if he wanted you to hear him, he would make sure he was heard.
