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When she chose a glass of house rosé and a bottle of sparkling water, he disappeared to give her some time to select her food.
My fingers spread wide to cover a large part of her thigh, before I asked, “What happened to the Mary Tyler Moore look?”
“That was to impress your parents, not you.”
The candid answer had me grinning. “So, I just needed to fuck you to get you to let your hair down, huh?”
“Takes a stick to remove a stick.”
“Out of your ass?” I arched my brow at her again. “I’ll be more than willing to shove something up there later on.”
“That a promise?” Camille questioned, her gaze meeting mine over the menu.
My hand clamped down on her thigh again. “You want to tease me by wearing short skirts, and skimpy tops,” I rasped, sitting up and whispering the words against her cheek, “go for it. I can take it. But you don’t dress like this when I’m not with you. Understood?” I kissed her there, where I’d let my words make their brand.
“Seeing as you’re the one I want to tease, where would the fun be in dressing like a slut if you’re not around?”
Heat sparked inside me, not just at her words, but at the fact she wasn’t cowering at mine, but fighting fire with fire.
Maybe it really had just taken a good fuck to get her to chill out?
Who the hell knew how a woman’s mind worked?
“Good point,” I rumbled, and maybe I was dumb to let her words appease me, but they did.
When a guy, evidently returning from the restroom, caught sight of Camille, I let him take his fill of her, before shooting him a death stare when he shot me a glance too.
Let himtryto take his fucking measure of me.
Asshole.
I couldn’t stop myself from pressing my lips to her shoulder, from letting my tongue peek out to trace a shape on the bony joint, before I murmured, “I can call you that, Camille, you can even think it, but no one will ever think that about you. Do you hear me?” She wasn’t a slut outside of our bedroom, and I’d kill any cunt who said otherwise. Because if she was, then so was I.
“You’re very bossy tonight,” she said breathily.
“I’m always bossy,” I rumbled. “Always.”
“Well, more so than usual,” she acquiesced, tensing up as I let my fingers trace the same shape my tongue had on her shoulder, but on her thigh instead.
If this was the human male version of pissing on my territory, then so be it.
And I’d do it every fucking time if it meant that I got to peer down that blouse of hers and to see those luscious tits while I ate Michelin-starred sushi.
Mine.
The word wouldn’t stop reverberating around my head.
Mine.
Maybe saying it out loud to Da changed shit for me—I’d never know for sure. But I’d already been feeling the pull of it, the sneaky tendrils of possessiveness that came when a woman wasn’t something just to bang but to keep too.
Akemi appeared again, a waiter at his back with her sparkling water and an iced tumbler, a frosted bottle of Shochu—Japanese vodka—with two shot glasses and a chilled rosé on a tray, his smile still in place as the server placed both on the table while the maître d’ waited on Camille’s order.
“That’s not enough,” I told her as she made her selections, knocking back a shot of vodka to take the edge off. That was all I’d be having of that seeing as I was driving, but Akemi would package up the bottle for me to take home.
The server took it away, and within seconds, a glass of Anahi, Japanese beer, replaced it.
“It’s plenty,” she argued, her gaze irritated as she shot me a look.
