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Lifting my head, I blink the daze away and glance around. “You parked on the street?” I ask.
He hums but doesn’t say anything else. That is until he tugs me close to him. My body slams into his hard one. I lift my hands, place them on his chest, and tilt my head back so I can look up into his eyes.
One of his hands slides up the center of my back, his fingers tangling in my hair as he watches me for a moment. He bends down slightly, his mouth touching the center of my neck. I tried to cover the bruises as much as I could. But they’re still purplish in color and dark.
“I love these,” he rasps. “My marks on your body for the world to see.”
“Wells,” I exhale.
“This is fucking beautiful, Parker. Don’t ever be ashamed of my bruises on your throat, on any part of your body. This is what you like,” he grinds out.
It is, too. I wasn’t sure I did. I sat and overthought the entire thing. I decided it was him manipulating me and nothing more. It was me being inexperienced and pathetic. Except, he came back, he did it again, and I would have crawled on my hands and knees and begged him to bruise me.
I love it.
I’m not sure what exactly is healthy or not, but I feel like this is probably not healthy in the slightest. I’m not sure I care. I don’t give a shit, actually. I want his hands on me, everywhere, anywhere, and I want his mark.
I crave his brand of pain.
Over and over again.
He releases me, then takes a step backward and reaches out for the door handle without saying a single word. I watch as he tugs it open. Sinking down into the seat, I buckle myself in as he jogs around the front of the car. I don’t even know what kind of car he drives, but it seems really nice.
When he starts the engine, he looks over at me, a smile playing on his lips before he shifts his attention forward and guides the car onto the street. I watch as he drives, his tattooed hand moving from the gearshift to the steering wheel.
Instead of asking me where I want to eat, he moves through the city in silence until he pulls into a parking lot. I’m shocked when he pulls up to the front of a building instead of finding a spot, acting as if he owns the place.
My door is opened almost immediately. With more surprise, I turn my head and look up at the man who is standing in front of me. He’s wearing a uniform, and there is a little pin on his chest that saysValet.
Blinking a few times, I now realize I am, without a doubt, not dressed for the occasion. I thought this might happen, but figured I would be safe with Wells wearing jeans and a tee.
Obviously, that’s not the case.
I’ve never eaten anywhere that has valet, or if they did, I didn’t realize it.
Shifting my legs over to the side, I place my feet flat on the ground, then I stand up from the seat, straightening before I take a step to the side just as Wells appears beside me. He wraps his hand around my waist before he tosses the valet the keys to his car, and we move toward the front door.
Wells doesn’t even reach for the door before it opens. “Wells,” I whisper.
He stops, turns his head, and flicks his gaze down to mine. He almost looks annoyed that I’ve stopped us, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything. His lips curve up into a smile as he watches me, waiting for me to tell him whatever is on my mind.
“Parker,” he murmurs.
“I’m not dressed for this place.”
He chuckles. “Cupcake,” he begins, “you’re only underdressed if you don’t have the connections and money to get you in, which I do. Therefore, you’re dressed exactly the way you need to be. Which means whatever you’re wearing, sweats, cocktail dress, whatever, is exactly what you should be wearing.”
WELLS
The hostess doesn’t even askme how many or tell us there’s a wait time. She wouldn’t. She knows who I am. Who the family is. And she takes us straight back to the family-reserved table for two.
Sometimes, we hold meetings here. Other times, we bring a date or have a birthday celebration. Placing my hand on the small of Parker’s back, I continue behind the hostess until we reach the table. She dips her chin without saying a word and leaves two lunch menus and a drink menu in the middle of the table before she turns and walks away.
Before I can say a single word to Parker, waters are being set down in front of us, along with my favorite glass of whiskey. The waiter turns to Parker and asks her what she would like to drink. Her eyes widen at the sight of my glass, and she slowly lifts her gaze to meet the waiter’s before she tells him that the water is fine for now.
When he leaves us, she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. I watch her teeth scrape across it, and I know she has something to say, but I don’t ask her. I wait it out. I’m not going to pull anything out of her, not when I know she can ask me whatever it is herself, and she will.
“Do you come here a lot?”
