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Her gaze is back to where my hand meets her thigh, and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop a satisfied smile from consuming my mouth.
Oh yes, sweet Sophie. We are about to have some fun.
No doubt, when I do give in to the nearly irresistible urge to make her feel good, Sophie Sage will be dripping wet for me.
“How about some dinner, babe?”
“Dinner?” She furrows her brow “As in eating actual food?”
“Of course. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Uh…yeah…right. Food. Let’s eat some food,” she answers, and she has to clear what sounds like disappointment out of her voice.
I fucking love it.
Sure, disappointing her, of all people, isn’t my priority. But in order to give her the most intense pleasure possible, this state of confusion she’s currently experiencing needs to occur.
It’s a means to one hell of an orgasmic end.
I stand up from my barstool, pull my wallet out of my back pocket, and slide a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar to cover our tab. “Come on. I made a special reservation for us at The Palm Court.”
Last-minute reservations at The Palm Court are hard to come by, especially when you’re requesting for the chef to make the full Plaza Hotel in-room dining menu available to you, instead of the restaurant’s standard appetizers and small bites with afternoon tea or evening cocktails.
But my career has blessed me with lots of friends in high places.
“That sounds…great,” she answers like she’s not sure if she actually believes her words.
But I know it’s great.
In fact, it’s about to be mind-blowingly great.
Sophie
Jude has pulled out all the swanky stops tonight. From the posh drinks at The Champagne Bar to the very special, VIP-esque reservation at The Palm Court, he’s spared no expense in providing me with the kind of evening a lot of women would fantasize about.
You’d almost believe that this is, like, a date or something.
But…I know better than to misplace that kind of expectation on it for the sake of my comfort. The truth is, Jude’s a nice guy with nice tendencies. Just because we’re strictly messing around doesn’t mean he has to treat me like dirt. No, he’s making it pretty clear tonight—it’s entirely possible to fuck around and eat at the same time. And holy hell on a hot fudge sex sundae, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been this horny and turned on while eating filet mignon.
Honestly, the state of my arousal feels like it should be a sin, given the situation. I mean, this restaurant is about as fancy and upscale as you can get, and I’m just sitting here with wet panties and a persistent, throbbing ache between my thighs that makes me feel like I’m inadvertently scandalizing the waiter every time he stops by our table to make sure we’re enjoying our meal.
It’s insane. I feel insane.
But Jude appears completely unfazed.
I watch as he takes a bite of his steak, and I hate how my eyes fixate on his strong jaw and full lips with every chew. Or the way my gaze moves to the Adam’s apple at his neck when he swallows.
Why am I so turned on, yet he’s just sitting here, enjoying his meal like one of us isn’t about to have a spontaneous orgasm in the middle of dinner?
And why in the hell does he have to look so damn good, too?
If there’s one thing that’s a certainty, it’s that Jude Winslow can wear a suit. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, and black slacks, the man looks better than the filet mignon sitting before me. He isn’t just a tasty snack; he’s the whole damn meal. Six full courses, with the biggest, most delectable chocolate cake dessert at the end.
And I haven’t even started on his eyes or the way the dimmish lighting of this sophisticated restaurant only adds to the allure of them.
They are these crystal-clear, blue-as-the-sky eyes that hold secret promises of sex and sin and the kind of delicious acts that you fantasize about but never say out loud because they’re far too dirty.
But damn it all to hell, I’m starting to feel like I’m the only one who’s sitting here thinking about hot sex and going crazy with anticipation.
He told me to meet him tonight. In a dress. Surely that was for a reason…right? Normally, wearing a sexy dress around Jude Winslow ends with happy endings of a climax variety.
And what about the drinks at the bar? Good grief. The way his hands kept lingering on my thighs and my shoulders and brushing my hair behind my ear… Why in the hell did he keep doing that? Was he trying to push me off the horny ledge?
Gah. I have to get it together.
I yank my eyes away from their current fascination with his mouth and stare down at my plate, but my attention is immediately pulled straight back to him when he asks, “How’s the filet?”
