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"Weakness and submission are not the same thing," he says, his voice low. "Submissive women are strong women, they just want someone who's stronger than them."
"And you think I'm strong?" I bluntly ask. "If I kneel at your feet, will I have to walk behind you too?"
Twenty-Four
"I like a woman who challenges me." James grins, and his eyes heavy with desire. He waits a few seconds before he speaks again, like he's weighing his options. "How about we finish this bottle and see where the night takes us?"
I nod and get off his lap to sit next to him and right my dress. I'm glad he suggested this. I stare up at the gold-tiled ceiling wondering what I'm doing and how I got myself in this predicament. He hands me my glass and I down it in one gulp. I hand it back to him for another.
"I feel like I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke," I say, sounding out of breath. He chuckles and refills my glass. I continue staring up in a daze, confused. "Honestly, James, my clients before you were total whack jobs. None of them left me so turned on the way you have, and none have declined me like that either. It's a hit to my ego," I joke. I turn to look at him but he's already studying me.
"You get turned on easily?" he asks, as he adjusts his bulge. He looks so fucking hot when he does that. It looks painful, though, so I'll have to try again to relieve that for him. It's why I'm here, after all.
"No, not too easily, unless I'm really drunk. Then I turn into a two-dollar hooker instead of a two-thousand dollar one." I pause, laughing at myself. Luckily James doesn't seem bothered by my crude humor and laughs with me. "I usually think too much and can't shut my brain off any other time. Plus, this isn't a regular nine-to-five job, so it's a little different for me." I pause again, wondering why I even said that. "How old are you?"
"How old do you think I am?"
"Early forties?"
"Fifty-two."
My brows raise in surprise. "You don't seem like a normal fifty-year-old."
His chuckle is robust and deep, and he brushes his free hand down his beard.
"How old are you?" he asks.
I debate lying as I take a sip of cognac, but figure there’s no harm in him knowing my age. "Twenty-one."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
His brows furrow like that number bothers him, but he doesn't push the topic. "Your real name isn't Valentina, is it?"
"Why are you here with me and not your wife?" I counter, blatantly eying his gold band.
His mouth twitches but it's his eyes that give him away. "Fair enough. I guess there are a few things we're both not willing to talk about." James takes a long pull on his glass. "You know what I do. I'm your typical New York bloodsucking, money-hungry lawyer. What do you do?"
"I told you. I’m a pastry chef."
"Oh, yeah? What's your favorite dessert, Valentina?"
I blank, hesitating for a moment to think. "Tiramisu."
"Liar."
I take a sip then lick my lips. "Macarons?" I offer, trying not to laugh.
He smiles and it warms my belly again. "Those are cookies," he states.
I lift my glass and toast to myself. "And I hear they're fabulous."
He's grinning from ear to ear now and I can't help but smile too. It's like everything he does is contagious, and I feel that pull in my chest again. He's fun to talk to.
"You've never had one?"
"Nope. I have a bad sweet tooth, but I've never had those."
