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Thirty
Camille
That he waschivalrous shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, but it did.
He opened doors for me, helped me out of the car. When I went to use the restroom, he got to his feet as well and aided me back into my seat.
The advantage of dating an older man, I supposed.
I’d never dated a younger man who’d do that, and Nyx, well, he’d never think to treat me like a lady.
Brennan did, though.
Even better, he acted as if I was a fire hydrant he had to piss on.
Most women might have disliked that, but I adored it. I loved the glares he shot at male patrons in the restaurant, I loved how he moved his chair so that we were in each other’s private space. I loved the hand he clamped to my thigh, and the way he stuck close to my side as if I was precious to him.
I loved it all.
And I wanted more.
I felt like a flower who’d been left to grow in a shady part of the garden, and who’d just been repotted in a sunny spot. As if, at long last, I could grow massive blooms, blossom how nature intended.
The best part?
This was now.
When he barely knew me.
What would he be like when we’d been together a while?
I almost shivered at the thought.
Of course, he noticed.
“Are you cold?”
I shook my head, watching him watch me in the mirror lining the elevator.
“Then why the shiver?” A filthy smirk creased his lips as he turned to me. “Thinking dirty thoughts?”
“Maybe,” I whispered, peering up at him, aware that I was encouraging him and wanting nothing more.
Somehow, I’d triggered this caveman-like response in him and I wasn’t about to stop.
With that in mind, I let my coat fall open, revealing the deep V of my blouse and the skirt I’d rucked up slightly so that it was short enough to raise eyebrows, never mind dicks.
I’d walked bare-assed naked, or almost, amid a crowd of rowdy bikers, so I wasn’t nervous or embarrassed, but I hadn’t known him long enough to be able to read him, or to predict his responses.
When his gaze dropped to my tits, I knew that I’d be wearing low necklines for the foreseeable future, if not forever. His nostrils flared at the sight, the bag the maître d’ handed him as we were leaving fell to the floor with a dull thunk, and he reached over, cupping one of them even as he was charging forward, tangling our legs together as he pushed me into the back wall.
His other hand dropped down to my thigh, and his fingers, callused and rough, snagged on the silk stockings I wore, before he found gold in the form of actual flesh.
“I didn’t realize you were wearing thigh-highs,” he rumbled, his eyes on my tits still.
His fingers worked the lacy top of the stockings as I told him, “I’m not.”
He froze, then his gaze drifted to mine. “You’re wearing garters?”
