She swallows.
“Be a good girl now and repeat after me: I deserve to be a partner because I’m Roxy fucking Moretti.”
Heat colors her cheeks pink, and her pupils dilate as she parts her lips, her tongue darting out. A pulse quickens in her throat.
Fuck. My. Life.
Some of our interactions slam into me and form a picture. A heady picture. She gets off on praise. My cock stiffens.
Under different circumstances, she would be the perfect woman for me.
She straightens her shoulders and gives me alopsided smile. “I deserve to be a partner because I’m Roxy fucking Moretti.”
“Well done, Thunder.”
Her breath hitches, and for a moment I forget everything else besides a visceral need to praise her more.
Not only because it makes me hard. But because she fucking deserves it, and clearly her family never bothered.
“Are you ready to order?” The server snaps me back to reality.
Roxy jumps like she was caught naked. “What do you recommend?”
We order. The steaks buy me time to get my shit together.
Roxy grunts. “It’s so hot in here.” She takes a generous sip of water, and then eviscerates my brain when she takes off the jacket.
The slopes of her tender shoulders glow under the ambient lighting, and I force myself to keep my eyes there. I lose that battle too fast, dropping my gaze. Her breasts swell out of the corset in two perfect half globes.
Fuck, if she lifts her arms, her nipples might peek out. It takes all my weakened willpower not to demand she put her jacket back on. It would certainly return the blood flow to mybrain.
And I wouldn’t need to kill all the other male patrons here.
“My eyes are up here, Stone.” Roxy straightens her shoulders, her corset-clad chest now completely on display.
So now she found her confidence, little minx. Goddammit, where the hell is the wine we ordered?
As if my thought summoned the sommelier, she appears with our bottle, and I rip it out of her hands.
“We’re good,” I tell her, and fill my glass. Damn my manners; this is an emergency.
The sommelier takes the bottle from me with an appalled look. I deserve it. She pours some wine for Roxy and leaves, shaking her head at me.
“I like your style,” I say as soon as I drain the glass, finding some semblance of equilibrium.
Roxy laughs. “You don’t need to flatter me.”
“It’s not flattery, Thunder. While I’m puzzled by some of your choices, you make them work.”
“Some of my choices?” she teases, leaning on her forearms, which only makes her cleavage more dangerous.
“Okay, most of them. Though tonight’s choice is testing my limits.”
“Behave yourself,” she warns, smirking. She is enjoying my apparent discomfort too much.
“I’m trying,” I groan, and she laughs.
And while the situation in my pants is still painfully inconvenient, her laugh breaks the tension somewhat. It feels good to make her laugh.
