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Mason’s hand spreads wide on the small of my back, his fingertips lightly pressing into the fabric of my jacket. I go liquid from both the sensation and the knowledge that it’s Mason putting his hand on my body. I love the way it feels. He’s guiding me. The move is intimate.

And even if it’s for a brief second, I feel like I’m his.

“Mr. Clark, congratulations on your Grand Prix win today,” the hostess says in English as soon as we approach the stand. French is the primary language in Monaco, but luckily for me, most people speak English, too, and many restaurants have menus available in English as well. I can speak a little bit of French, but I’m far from fluent.

“Thank you,“ Mason replies.

“Your table is ready,” she says, picking up two black menus. “Please follow me.”

She leads us to a table next to one of the picturesque windows, and I’m still buzzing from the fact that Mason’s hand remains on my back as he guides me through the restaurant. Once we reach the table, he removes it and pulls out a chair for me.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat.

Mason takes the seat across from me. Big wineglasses are set upon the table, along with water glasses, and the hostess says our waiter will be with us shortly. I reach for the black linen napkin and drape it across my lap. Mason picks up his napkin, but suddenly stops, his eyes zeroed in on me.

“What?” I ask.

“You have chocolate right here,” he says, tapping the left corner of his mouth with his index finger.

Oh my God. First, I spat on him, and now I am sitting here with chocolate on my face?

I decide I don’t want to think about where this train of thought is going.

“Here?” I ask, dabbing one corner of my mouth.

“No, other side,” he says. “My left, your right.”

I carefully dab my right corner, and Mason shakes his head.

“Let me get a mirror,” I say.

But before I can even open my clutch, Mason reaches across the table and slowly drags his index finger along the inner corner of my mouth. I feel his rough skin sweep across my lip, and everything in me burns from the sexy sensation. It takes all my willpower to fight the urge to lick his finger, the move is that hot.

“Got it,” he says.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. I shiver when I catch it.

Suddenly, I don’t know how I’m going to be able to survive a dinner with Mason without causing my crush on him to go from a kindling fire to a full-on raging inferno by the end of the night.

Chapter Seven

“Cheers to your win today,” I say, lifting my glass of champagne.

Mason picks up his pilsner of non-alcoholic lager, and we tap our glasses together. “Thank you,” he says, taking a sip.

I drink my champagne, enjoying the crisp bubbly, and can’t help but notice how the drink’s effervescence matches my mood. I’m dressed up. I’m in a posh, sexy restaurant that serves delicious Asian fusion food.

And I’m with Mason Clark.

I study Mason as he looks down at his menu. My eyes drift from his face to his tanned neck, thick and muscular, built to withstand G-forces, then flick over the black necklace adorning it. My pulse speeds up as I imagine what it would be like to run my fingertips over those corded muscles.

“See anything you like?” Mason asks, looking up at me.

I shift my attention to his face. The intriguing dark eyes. The stubble shading his jawline. His full lips.

“Many things,” I say, reaching for my champagne and taking another sip.