Page 10 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

Chapter 4

The car takesme straight to Renew, located in a refurbished brownstone in the South End. Though the street is narrow, unassuming, and mostly residential, several chauffeured cars like mine idle outside the restaurant. The driver once again opens the door for me, and I only wobble slightly on my heels as I step out.

Inside the restaurant, the walls are dark, the restaurant lit only with exposed Edison bulbs casting the tables in a warm glow. The restaurant is crowded, but thick oriental rugs layered beneath the tables keep the conversations from bouncing around the room.

Everyone leans across flickering candlelight to speak in hushed tones to speak to their companions, as if everyone is participating in something elicit simply by ordering dinner.

I stop at the hostess stand, a sleek black pedestal with a single rose in a clear case perched atop it. “I’m meeting Jared King,” I say.

The hostess, a tall, lithe woman whose white blond hair is pulled into a high, severe ponytail, gazes at me with a question on her face, but it remains unasked. Instead she eyes me from my head to my toes as she cocks her head towards the back of the restaurant. I follow her. I want to stop her and say, Don’t worry, I have as much idea about what I’m doing here as you do. Or, Just wait, I’m probably just here to be fired, and then you can go home with him.

She leads me to a table is near a back window looking out onto a garden lit with tea lights and covered in early spring flowers. Jared is already seated, his gaze out the window, but when he hears me approach he turns and lasers his focus on me so fast I swear I feel the heat of it in my bones. I have to force myself not to wobble in my heels at the sight of him.

He stands from his seat while a maître d' appears and pulls out my chair. He looks tall and broad in his dark Armani suit — the only thing he wears, according to Boston Magazine. He didn’t shave, either because he was late at the office or because he somehow already knew my weakness for a strong jaw with a five o’clock shadow. Either way, it definitely gives him an upper hand with me.

My inner thighs quiver as I move to take my seat.

His eyes roam the length of my body, but his face betrays nothing. If he’s impressed with me, he doesn’t show it.

“Quinn,” he says simply by way of greeting.

“Mr. King,” I reply, because even though he’s seen my ass in the underwear I’m currently wearing, he’s still my boss.

We sit, and he leans forward on his elbows. “I think Jared will be fine.”

“Okay,” I say.

Okay?! Dammit, why can’t I be sophisticated?

Before I can open my mouth and say something else pedestrian, a waiter appears with leather-bound menus, but Jared waves him off, instead ordering an array of food that I assume is for both of us. Whether these items are actually on the menu or not, the waiter doesn’t say.

He simply nods.

He’s used to giving people what they want, which is good, because one thing I know about Jared King is that he’s used to getting what he wants. Jared orders a bottle of wine, something French and likely very expensive. He pronounces perfectly and sends my mind spinning as I think about the things his tongue could do.

Jesus, Quinn, calm down.

When the waiter disappears to put in our — his — order, Jared turns his focus back to me, and I’m instantly pinned to my chair.

“So Quinn,” he says in that deliciously gravelly voice, “tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

He pauses for a beat, never taking his eyes off mine. “Everything.”

I inhale sharply, feeling myself starting to get nervous. Ok, more nervous.

But the sommelier appears tableside with our wine bottle and a corkscrew. He uncorks the white with a satisfying hiss and pop, then pours Jared a taste.

Jared brings the glass to his nose and inhales deeply, leaving me imagining his breath on my bare skin, then expertly swirls the wine in the glass and takes a sip. He lets the wine rest on his tongue in a way that once again sets my mind to thoughts of the filthier persuasion, then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

How does this man make tasting wine into a sexual act?

Jared gives the sommelier a brief nod, and he proceeds to fill first my glass, then Jared’s. I reach for mine to take a sip — anything to calm my nerves — but Jared holds up his glass.

“To new experiences,” he says.

“To new experiences,” I repeat, the words feeling hot on my tongue. Then we clink glasses, and I take a long pull from my own. The wine is spicy and smoky and tastes expensive. It warms me immediately, like a cashmere blanket being pulled over my bare skin. I take another sip, and finally I feel ready to have a conversation with Jared King.