“Umm…” Isabelle slowly breathes, doubling the tension teeming between us. “A side of salad is fine.”
Positive a side of salad won’t award her the energy I plan to exert from her tonight, I hand her menu back to the waiter while saying. “She’ll have the 16-ounce steak with a baked potato and a side salad. I’ll have the same.”
Isabelle’s mouth falls open. “I’m still full from lunch. That’s why I ordered a salad.”
I arch a brow, calling out her lie. “The half a club sandwich and few slices of pear you ate at lunch weren’t adequate enough to skip dinner.” I stop before I disclose just how vigilant my watch can be when jealousy heats my motives.
Colby maintained a distance between Isabelle and himself today. It wasn’t his choice. Cormack kept him busy discussing the possibility of him utilizing a piece of land their grandfather purchased years before his death on the West Coast for a business he’s endeavoring to get off the ground, but the instant their meeting was over, he started sniffing around Isabelle again.
That’s why Cormack bundled Harlow and Isabelle up for an early dinner. He knows Colby is tenacious when it comes to winning, but it has nothing on what I am willing to give up to make Isabelle mine.
The reason behind Isabelle’s frugalness is unearthed when she mummers, “I can’t afford two hundred dollars for a piece of steak.”
Some of the redness on her cheeks shifts from shame to lust when I lean into her side and whisper, “How fast can you run in those heels?” I give her a second to settle her erratic breathing before suggesting, “We either run before the bill arrives or wash dishes with Roberto for the next week.”
I’m so entranced by Isabelle’s smile, I fail to realize I disclosed Roberto’s true identity until Isabelle mentions him during her reply. “I’ll be sure to kick off these bad boys before our dessert arrives.” As she clicks her black pumps together, her brows furrow. “Hold on, how do you know his name is Roberto?”
I sling my arm around the back of my chair before tugging on a springy curl cascading down her back. “This is pretty. Did you do something different?”
My endeavor to deflect her attention from Roberto to me has the effect I’m aiming for when she smiles and nods. “Harlow curled the ends.”
While running my eyes over her glossy locks and faultless face, I murmur, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replies sheepishly, her tone a unique mix of yearning and suspicion.
Hating that I’m tainting our rare one-on-one time with lies, I be the most honest I’ve ever been. I share stories of my childhood, Nick’s rise to infamy, and my excitement about becoming an uncle in a few weeks.
Decisions I made in haste mean I’ll never have children of my own, so I feel an odd kinship with Nick’s son even with him still being in the womb. I plan to spoil him as I will Callie once I’ve plucked her from the murky undertones of the Russian mafia.
With the words flowing as freely between Isabelle and me as bottles of wine and aromatic food, hours pass as if they’re seconds. After the way we left things, I thought I’d be itching to get her alone, but to my surprise, having her seated across from me fully clothed is as arousing as when she stroked my dick on the back of the WaveRunner.
Isabelle has an intellect not many women can compete with. She’s empathetic, kind, and her personality is more than intriguing. She’s genuinely interested in what I have to say, and I find myself just as attentive in hearing her opinion on the matters we discuss.
I’ve never had this type of communication with a woman before. Ophelia and I spoke, but it was juvenile and childish. It was never as in-depth and personal as my conversation with Isabelle the past two hours. Her beauty captivates me, but her intelligence will keep my astuteness enslaved for far longer than her looks.
I begin to wonder if it will be the same for Isabelle with me when I order our dessert in my family’s native tongue. She squirms in her seat even more than when I run my index finger up a portion of the silky-smooth skin on her thigh.
The change in dynamics is heard in my voice when I disclose, “My nonna was Italian. She taught me to speak Italian fluently by the time I was eight.”
A glossy sheen forms over Isabelle’s eyes before she asks, “Are you close to your nonna?”
I place my hand over the rim of her recently filled wine glass before she can take a sip, then shake my head. “No, she passed away five years ago.” After loosening her rueful clutch on her wine glass, I return it to the table.
“I’m sorry,” she sympathizes as her confused gaze bounces between her wine glass and me.
I endeavor to eliminate her bewilderment by announcing, “You’ve already had three glasses.”
Sparks of a woman who holds herself with pride flare through her eyes when she responds, “Yes, and I told you I don’t have a problem with my drinking.”
“You don’t have a problem, but I do.” I lean in close to ensure my words are only for her ears. “I don’tconversewith drunk women.” The air shifts between us, but Isabelle still appears lost, forcing me to divulge, “I don’t conversesexuallywith drunk women.”
As her tempting scent spurs uncontrollable recklessness from me, her eyes shoot between the waitress arriving with our dessert and me. After several long seconds of deliberation, she accepts the plate the waitress is holding out for her. Her movements are as unpredictable as the fiery warmth that inflates my cock when I place my hand high on her thigh.
When her tiramisu remains untouched even with everyone else digging into their dessert, I ask, “Are you not hungry?”
The thrill of the hunt scorches my veins when she murmurs, “I am hungry…” she locks her lust-hazed eyes with mine, leaving no misgivings to her reply when she adds, “… just not for food.”
As the urge to finally claim her as mine congeals my blood, I toss a bundle of bills onto the table, pluck Isabelle from her seat, farewell Harlow and Cormack with a grunted nod, then race Isabelle to the front of the restaurant.
