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And I’d been left to replay those hyper-pleasurable few minutes over and over in my mind and remind myself of my throbbing, enlarged clit that protested its neglect every time I turned and rubbed it the wrong way in my jeans.
My body is still reeling from lack of fulfillment. I dart Kohl a dark look. It’s probably how he’d planned it. I swallow, my heartbeat suddenly beating that tempo in my throat again. He guides me to a dark town car up ahead.
A driver gets out as we approach and whips around to the passenger side to open the door for us. Evan indicates that I should enter the limo before him, and I scoot over as far as I can, afraid to sit too close to him. As I glide across the sleek leather seat, my senses are bombarded by that fresh new car smell. By the time he enters, I’m practically plastered to the far window. He throws me a glance and then looks away, a smile curving his sexy mouth.
“I don’t bite, Madeline—at least not yet.”
That same heat floods me at his words, and I’m reminded of how much I’d wanted him to bite my nipple when he’d had his hot mouth wrapped around it earlier. And that quote of his, about that higher plane of ecstasy achieved by “exchange of pleasure, pain and power.” I can’t stop thinking—and wondering—what he means by that. I realize that I’m way naive and inexperienced compared to him.
As if remembering that molten pleasure of their own accord, my nipples immediately tighten under my dress and I’m thankful that the satin of the bodice is too thick to reveal that to him. But when his gaze settles on my chest, I realize that my own quick breathing has given me away. Heat crawls up my neck—another dead giveaway, damnit.
Instead of trying anything, though, he simply takes my hand and pulls it into his lap. Turning it upward, he traces an idle pattern into my palm. It tingles, sensitive to his touch.
“Have you been thinking about me, Madeline?” he asks, his tone low and sexy with that British accent that heats my blood. “I’ve been thinking about you. I had a board meeting today and all I could think about was the delicious taste of your soft nipples.”
He’s hard. I can see his erection straining eagerly against the crotch of his pants.
He turns his head and presses his hot mouth to my ear. “There’s so much more to taste. I’m sure it will be every bit as delicious as the sampling I’ve already had. More so…”
Then he brushes his lips across my forehead. “I’m very much looking forward to spending the evening with you. Who knows what we’ll get up to?”
Chapter 12
Exeter House
His words echo in my mind.
Who knows what we’ll get up to?
Nothing! is my silent answer. But even as my mind protests, my body is warming to him in every way. As if those few minutes with his mouth on my breasts and his hand down my panties was enough to imprint his touch on me.
The car slows, and I glance out the window. I see that we’re by the beach, Malibu maybe, with all the chic shops and elegant bistros. We pull to a stop in front of a sprawling, beach-front hotel. Exeter House, one of the most exclusive social clubs in Southern California. Attached to the classy, white-shuttered building is a restaurant, right on the beach.
I turn to Kohl, wide-eyed. “You’re a member of Exeter House?” Even the most elite, the top one percent of the top one percent, can only dream of becoming a member of this ultra-exclusive club. Presidents have applied and been declined.
Exclusive isn’t just an expression with them. I swallow, studying the sign again.
Fuck. This is unreal.
Kohl just smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “I have a place here,” he says nonchalantly, as if he’s talking about the YMCA. “But we’re not going there tonight.”
I nod slowly, a little relieved and a little disappointed. Catching a glimpse of the inside of Exeter House would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing. But even the attached restaurant, though not part of the required membership, is incredibly exclusive—a mecca for actors and billionaires. A place to be seen.
The restaurant is elegant, gorgeous fixtures, and dim lighting. The glamorously dressed hostess smiles and greets him as Monsieur Kohl, escorting us to a private room in the back of the restaurant. It’s quiet here, with the faint strains of a live quartet reaching us in our little alcove from the main dining room. I’m suddenly very aware that we are alone and it’s quiet. For lack of anything better to do and because my nerves are pulled so taut they might snap, I snatch up the menu.
But when the server comes, Evan orders for us. In French. He carries on a conversation with the woman in fluent French. She laughs and rests her hand on his shoulder, leaning into him flirtatiously.
Wow, I’m sitting right here.
He smiles at her, and the sound of that language coming out if his sexy mouth is enough to shred whatever resistance I have been holding onto. And I remember something from the online research I did about him—his mother was a French native so he probably grew up speaking it.
I remember to shut my mouth about two seconds before the server turns to collect my menu. She hasn’t even asked me what I want or even greeted me. Evan seems to notice my discomfort. “You like filet mignon?”
I nod.
“Medium rare?” He’s right again. I blink. Is that just a lucky guess or has he been studying up on me? And how exactly would he even get that information? It’s not like I’ve had the money to order a steak at any half-decent eating establishment in the last two years.
He smiles. “You seem a little on edge. I ordered us a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. That should help you relax.”
