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It's not just the snug dress. Or the pendant between her perfect tits. Or the flush of her cheeks.
I want to tear off her clothes and I want to ask about her day. Her year. Her life.
She wraps her fingers around the stem. Takes a long sip. Marks the glass with her lipstick.
"You like it?"
She nods. "I don't drink a lot of wine. Mostly whiskey with customers at work."
My skin crawls at the thought of some rich arsehole nagging her to share a shot. "The same place?"
She leans back in her seat. "You don't know?"
"Do you want me to?"
She traces the rim of her glass. "Does it matter what I want?"
Of course. "I went there looking for you."
Her eyes fill with surprise. "When?"
"A month ago. I went every night for a week straight. Eventually, the bartender recognized me. She asked if I was looking for you."
"Were you?"
"It didn't occur to me, but I was. I missed you." The words are awkward on my tongue. They're true. Too true. I have missed her. I shouldn't.
We spent a summer together. Then we parted. And I moved on.
I was engaged, for fuck's sake.
"You missed me?" Doubt spreads over her expression. "Really?"
"You haven't missed me?"
Her eyes move over me slowly. "I wasn't engaged to someone else."
"You've spent the last three years single?"
She picks up her glass. Takes another sip. "I haven't had a lot of time for dating. Though I imagine you already know that." Her throat tightens. Some mix of anger—who do I think I am, knowing her business—and grief.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Thank you." Her eyes go to the table. She stares at it, looking for something, not finding it. "I'm sorry your fiancée left."
"Are you?"
Her eyes trace a line across the table, up my deep blue tie, my jaw, lips, nose, eyes.
I let silence fall. Watch her study me. Look for cracks.
Are they there? The last year—
I'm not myself. I'm not the tough, in control, impossible to rattle man I used to be.
I need to get there. To find that person.
The man who is never distracted. Who isn't afraid of loss or vulnerability.
Who isn't afraid of anything.
The server interrupts us. With two plates. Shrimp arrabbiata.
Her favorite.
She shakes her head. Stifles a laugh. "You ordered for me?"
"You don't want it?"
"I do." She picks up her fork. Stabs a piece of penne. "But it's presumptuous."
"You didn't always mind."
"Things change."
They do. And I need to up my game if I'm going to convince her.
She still works that awful job. Laughing at bad jokes, letting men leer at her tits, trading on her youth and beauty.
They offer her cash for sex. They did three years ago. That wouldn't change just because she's cut her hair.
She needs money.
Has she ever said yes?
Some arsehole who sees her as a warm spot for his dick—
Who doesn't deserve her—
The thought makes my stomach turn.
But where do I get off? It's not like I spent the last year fucking women who saw into my soul.
And I have options.
She's broke. At risk of losing her apartment. Of not paying her sister's tuition. Of working this shitty job until she's too old to play the part of the pretty, young thing.
What then?
I don't like that future for her.
"Fuck." She groans over her pasta. "This is better than I remember."
My chest warms. Her bliss still satisfies me. It still fills me with an intense need to take care of her.
"Still presumptuous." She swallows another bite. "But really fucking good."
My eyes stay on her as she brings another forkful to her lips.
Her eyes close. Her brows soften.
For a moment, she's in that world of satisfaction.
Then her eyes blink open. Find mine.
"Are you going to eat? Or did you invite me here just to watch me?" She traces the stem of her wineglass. "That's kinky. Even for you."
"Even for me?"
She nods.
I take a bite. Let the spicy, tangy sauce overwhelm my taste buds. I haven't had arrabbiata in a long time.
It makes me think of her. And I can't think of her. I couldn't. It fucked with my head.
I chew. Swallow. Sip my wine. "Things change. Like you said."
"Have they?" She tries to keep her voice even, but she doesn't get there. When I don't respond, she continues. "Your tastes. Have they changed?"
Fuck.
I can't answer that.
It's been a long time since I've considered asking a woman to submit.
Right now, sitting across from her, watching her chest rise and fall with her breath, watching curiosity spread over her eyes—
I need it.
It's undeniable.
"You've racked up a reputation," she says. "But that isn't part of it." Her eyes pass over me slowly. Stop on my tie. "None of your friends have mentioned your penchant for rope. Or orders. Or pain."
My cock stirs. Blood rushes south. It's not what I need. I need to stay in control.
"Either you're asking women to sign NDAs, or…" She raises a brow, offering me the floor.
