“Ford,” I admonish, but my tone is anything but scathing. Instead, it’s breathless and chock-full of awe. My mouth waters at the same time my heart skips a beat. Tearing my gaze from the dessert assortment, I glance in his direction to find his eyes on me. “What is it that you want?”
“You.”
It’s only one word, but it may as well be a million. My mouth goes dry as my body begins to buzz. What am I supposed to do with that statement? I shouldn’t be with him, Ican’t.
But what if I did it anyway?
Shutting out the voice of unreason in my head, I stride toward the table without responding. Reaching for a knife, I slice into the pink-frosted cake with ornate piping, hoping it’ll be strawberry-flavored. The moment I place the decadent bite on my tongue, my eyesfall closed, and I moan. It’s completely divine, one of the best strawberry cakes I’ve had; not too dry and the perfect amount of sweetness with a strawberry filling that I think contains strawberry jam.
“If I’d known you’d bethisexcited about sugar, I’d have brought you cake weeks ago.”
Ford steps up next to me, and I giggle, feeling happier than I should. In the back of my mind, I want to ask if he knew how much I liked dessert or if this was simply a coincidence, but I don’t. I’d rather bask in the delightful ease of the moment. “If this was here all along and you had me playingdartsfor an hour, I’m going to riot in the street. There will be smoke bombs and handmade signage, the works.”
He chuckles, his body brushing against mine as he reaches for a fudge brownie. “I couldn’t play all of my cards at once, doll.”
The term of endearment burrows itself in my brain, and as much as I want to tell myself it’s parasitic, I don’t think I can. “Did these come from Morton’s on M Street? I love that place.”
“I heard they have the best baked goods.” He’s right, they do, and they’re severely underrated, in my opinion.
“I can’t bake for shit, but I can cook,” he adds. “I’m more than a little decent at it, too.”
He’s cocky, but somehow, it works for him without making him seem like a total jerk. I smirk, swallowing a bite of rhubarb pie. “Is that on your résumé?”
“Just the one I’m using to try to get you to like me. Is it working?”
I blush, my cheeks filling with color, and I’m almost more stunned by that than I am the realization that itisworking. Saying no to him is becoming one of the hardest things I’ve done in a long time.
With only the truth on my tongue, I opt to smile in response. It’s less risky that way.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Julien?” Ford asks a few minutes later, wandering over to the brick retaining wall and watching the city lights sparkle.
With a slice of frosted black forest cake in hand, I lean my hip against the wall, my eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Are you guys dating?”
Julien’s the only client I’m ever seen in public with, so it makes sense that he thinks we’re dating. The rest of the world does as well.
“Julien and I are…friends.” It’s the safest answer, and it’s true, for the most part.
His mouth pulls into a soft smile. “Does that mean we can be friends, too?”
With a sigh, I shake my head as I lift the fork to my lips, suddenly wishing it was my abandoned martini downstairs. I’m going to need to switch back to gin if he’s going to keep up this line of questioning. “Ford, we can’t be friends.”
“Give me one reason.” His voice is smoke that threatens to choke me out.
One? How about a thousand?Starting with the fact that my heart feels like it’s lying on the chopping block, as well as the desire to tear each other’s clothes off looming in the distance, and ending with the reality that something about this evening is making me uneasy.
I could list every reason, but there’s only one that matters—to me. “Because I’m not friends with people I’m tempted to kneel for.”
His eyes flare as his lips mutate into a smug, satisfied grin that causes my pussy to clench and my nipples to tighten. The expression is the same one I give subs when they act out on purpose, jonesing for a punishment. It drips with the promise of pain and pleasure.
“You’ll make an exception for me,” he remarks casually, and I regret my declaration, mentally kicking myself for it. I should know better.Honesty is not always the best policy.
“I won’t,” I snap, but the statement has no real bite. The last of the chocolate and cherry flavors melt on my tongue as I set the plate down on the top of the brick wall next to me. Trying to tame my racing heart, I turn to face the vast city landscape.
“How do you choose your clients?” he asks eventually.
The question jars me out of my reverie, my eyes narrowing in response. Is he asking because he wants me to put himback on my own books, or for a different reason? I attempt to keep my voice steady and light. “Compatibility, gut instinct.”
