Blaine nods with concern and understanding, his eyes trained on me. Dear Jesus. I grin meekly. It feels like there’s a spotlight directly over my head.
“I will send out some dishes for you to try,” he promises in his sexy accent.
“Thank you.” She turns up the charm, and Blaine dissolves right at her feet. “Definitely keep these coming out.” She wags her empty champagne flute. “We need ’em.”
“Will do.” He backs away from the table, but not without giving Sable a small, inconspicuous wink.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s going to end up in a hotel room,” I bust her chops. It’s only fair. I have to get my punches in where I can. It’s two against one at this table.
“Possibly,” Sable considers thoughtfully as she spies on Blaine walking toward the bar.
“He does work in the perfect location,” I remind her exactly where this garden oasis is perched.
“I’ll decide when and where Blaine gets access to my panties. Until then, we’re focusing on you.” She leans forward, ready for more juicy details. They are juicy, too. I’m trying not to dig up too many memories of last night, but they just keep flooding my brain. Flashes of feelings and images hitting me at any given moment. It’s like a movie reel of naked skin, hot sensations, and explicit pleasure. The twinge in my stomach has me reliving Damon’s touch. Has me reluctantly admitting to myself how much I enjoyed it.“Tell me you love it. Let me hear just once how much you love me inside you.”
“Liv?” Shyla waves her hand in front of my face. “Are you, like, having a dirty daydream right now?”
Holy shit, I think I was. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. “No, don’t be ridiculous.”
“You totally just spaced out on us,” she calls me out.
“I was just . . . I mean . . .” Where’s the waiter with more alcohol?
“You’re totally into him.” Sable reads me like a book.
“I’m not into him. It was one night. The last thing I need is Damon waltzing back into my life.”
“He might be a good distraction.” Sable runs her fingertip around the rim of her glass.
“No. That is the last thing I need. No distractions. I have the biggest show of my life coming up, and I need to be on my A game. I can’t fuck it up with a distraction. If this goes well, it could put my studio on the map.”
“Nothing is going to get fucked up if we have anything to say about it.” Shyla exudes confidence. They have been helping a bunch with the show space. And they know just how important this event is.
“So, you’re just never going to talk to him again?” Sable asks.
“Yes, that’s the plan,”
“That’s kind of cold.” She sits back in her chair and frowns.
“I’m sure he feels the same way. Damon’s reputation as a womanizer precedes him. What would he want with me?”
“Are you being serious right now?” Sable asks strictly. “What could he possibly want with a beautiful, smart, successful woman like you?”
That statement almost brings tears to my eyes. Never in a million years would I have expected Sable to see me like that. Sometimes I find myself still getting used to the new relationship we have forged.
“He’s a biker. He’s promiscuous. He doesn't want to settle down. He wants a good time,” I argue. “I have watched him and all the guys like him my whole life. So have you.” Case in point, our father. I wouldn’t be sitting here if he was a doting, faithful husband. And I don’t want to be chewed up and spit out like most of the women in the Squad’s lives.
“I’m not saying marry the guy, Liv. But you can definitely have some fun with him.”
“We had our fun. It’s over now. Booze, blow, and sex, the end,” I close the book on Damon La Rue.
“Fine.” Sable puts her hands up in surrender. “But at least tell us this.” She leans forward, glancing deviously at Shyla. “One. Two. Or three?”
Ay, Christ, I knew this question was inevitable. She’s talking about her sex scale. One being oral sex, two being vaginal, and three being anal. That’s the top tier, the “that’s how into this guy I am” level. Whenever they’re out at a club, scoping out guys, they’ll throw up one, two, or three fingers, a private conversation between them, and well, now me.
I sink a little in my chair from the unvoiced answer.
“Liv,” Shyla draws out my name.
