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I started to ramble because that gaze was so unnerving. “Not that you have to. I just mean…I want you to know I’m here.”
As if he didn’t hear a word I said, he just stared. Eyes glued to my face with a level of attention I’d never received before, he studied me like he was too absorbed with the way my lips moved to take in anything else.
I lay beside him, tucked under the sheets, my thigh hiked over his hip with my arm against his chest. He ran hot, probably because he had muscle on top of muscle, so the sheets were down to his waist when they were pulled to my shoulder.
Every time I opened my eyes, he was staring at me.
Our faces were pressed close together on one pillow, and my fingertips rested against his chest, feeling the searing skin against my fingertips. Sometimes my palm glided to the area over his heart, feeling that strong and slow beat, like he could fall asleep.
But he never did.
No matter how comfortable we were, how tired he was from slamming his headboard into the wall, he never closed his eyes and drifted off. Wide awake and alert, he was more prepared for a run than sleep.
That look was intense and as deep as ever, even though we’d been wrapped up together for several hours at this point. The breaks in between were short because he never needed more than fifteen minutes to recharge and want me again. His desire was potent, and he was entirely focused on me.
The fire died down in the background, and instead of falling asleep so he could carry me, I decided to leave on my own. If I continued to fall asleep with my makeup on, it would cause a breakout, and I didn’t want that. I rose and scooted to the edge of the bed, my back to him. “So, you’re having dinner with the president?” I ran my fingers through my hair, and instead of sliding through silk, my fingers got stuck on the tangles and the sweat. “Is that like…the American president?”
“Yes.”
I waited for further elaboration. When it didn’t come, I got up and pulled on my clothes.
He eventually got up too, pulling on his boxers and standing tall in the bedroom, the fire blanketing him in a glow. With those dark eyes and that tightness in his jaw, he looked like he was part of the underworld, emerging from the flames in human form.
I came around the bed, sensing his chin turn as he watched me move past the fire. “Does this dinner include me?”
He stared for a long time before he walked up to me, his arm sliding around the small of my back and hugging me toward him, his chin dropping so he could actually look me in the face. His other hand went to my throat, getting a soft grip as his thumb brushed over my jawline. He turned my face slightly so he could press his face into my cheek. There was no kiss, just the closeness. “You’re my woman, chérie.” That was all he said before he silently excused himself to the bathroom. The shower turned on a moment later.
My eyes shifted back to the bed. The sheets were still warm. His scent was soaked into the fabric. My mind pictured me crawling back inside and refusing to leave. It was the closest thing I had to home.
But I left, walked down the stairs, washed off my makeup, and then crawled into the ice-cold bed.
Alone.
Fender drove us into the city.
I wore something Gilbert had picked out for me, a skintight black dress, high heels, jewelry, and an overcoat to fight off the cold. My hair was curled but elaborately pinned to one side, the strands coming down one shoulder to expose the bare skin of the opposite one. My styling skills had improved, but I wasn’t talented enough to pull that off, so Gilbert had someone do it for me. My makeup was done too, a striking smoky look that Fender appreciated the second he looked at me.
Fender handed over the car to the valet, and then he grabbed my hand, holding it aggressively as he guided me inside. It was the first time he’d ever grabbed me this way, his large hand encompassing mine almost completely.
When we stepped inside the restaurant, the staff immediately knew who he was but didn’t speak a word to him. The maître d’ came forward, gave a slight bow, and then indicated into the candlelit restaurant decorated in shades of rose gold, with crystal chandeliers. He led the way, bringing us farther into the restaurant and toward the rear where the windows were located.
The restaurant was a five-star Michelin-rated restaurant, so Fender was in a black blazer with a black shirt underneath, in dark dress pants and dress shoes. An expensive watch was on his wrist, and while I didn’t know much about jewelry, I imagined it was worth more than the restaurant itself.
