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He grins, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Pinot noir is good, but nothing can beat a good cabernet sauvignon.”
“I’ll admit I knew I liked pinot noir, so I’ve never really experimented with other wines.”
He raises a brow. “I’ll have to change that then. So, tell me, love, as we’re trying to have a civil dinner together,” he says, leaning forward. “What kind of things interest you?”
It takes me aback a little that he’s showing any interest in me and what I like. “I enjoy reading and watching movies.” I pause a moment, thinking. “Also, I love to paint, but my father said it was a stupid waste of time and banned me from doing it in the house anymore.”
A flicker of anger ignites in Isiah’s eyes. “That’s a stupid fucking thing to say.”
My brow furrows. “You don’t agree?”
He shakes his head. “No, I think that doing what makes you happy is all that matters. And art isn’t a waste of time. It’s the perfect way to express yourself.” He purses his lips. “You can paint while we’re here.”
My stomach twists with butterflies as sometimes this man’s actions and words make no sense. “Really?” I wonder if this is a cruel trick of his.
“Yes, I’ll get you canvases and paints delivered to us in the morning. What do you like to paint?”
I sigh. “It’s been so many years, but I used to like to do portraits, since there’s not exactly a lot of nature to paint in Washington.”
A devious smirk twists onto his lips. “You can paint me in the nude, if you’d like?”
My pussy throbs at the thought, knowing it would be far too distracting to try to paint him. “I fear I’d never actually finish.”
“And why is that?”
I lick my lips. “You know why.” My body is burning with heat.
“Because you’d be too distracted by my cock and wouldn’t be able to resist sitting on it instead of painting me?”
“Do you always have to be so crass?”
“Do you always have to avoid admitting that what I’m saying is true?”
“Fine, yes, it’s unlikely I’d ever finish it because we wouldn’t be able to resist having sex.”
Isiah smiles, but it’s not an annoying smile. “Finally.”
I shake my head. “What about you?”
His expression turns serious. “What about me?”
“What interests do you have?”
As if a wall comes down, his entire countenance changes. “I don’t have time for interests. All of my time is taken up with work.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I want to talk about you.”
“I’m not sure why. There’s not a lot to talk about.”
The server returns then with the wine and shows the label to Isiah. “Is this suitable?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Would you like to taste?”
“Bella can taste it,” he says, looking at me. I’m surprised he allows me to, as in this sexist society it’s always the man they ask.
“Certainly,” the server says, pouring me a small amount into the glass.
I take a sip. Honestly, not a connoisseur of wine, but it tastes amazing. “It’s good.”
