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I gave him a smile—an actual flirtatious smile, something I hadn’t done in a long time. “There was no other reason?”
He grinned. “Are you saying I wanted to touch it?” He did just that, entwining his fingers around a loose strand. Then he plunged his whole hand into my hair, cupping the back of my head.
For a wild moment, I thought he was going to pull me in for a kiss, but it was too soon for that. Or at least that’s what my brain told me. My body was more on board with the idea. I leaned my head back against his large palm, enjoying the way it felt.
“Ready to go inside?” he asked. When I nodded, he smoothly slid his hand down my body, settling it on the small of my back as he guided me forward. He didn’t have to. I was a competent professional. I could manage to enter a building on my own. Again, that was what my brain was telling me. But my body definitely didn’t mind his touch. His hand was warm, and I enjoyed the way it rose and fell slightly as I walked forward. And… there was something more. Something deeper. Having him touch me… having him at my side… it made me feel cherished. It made me feel…safe. But that was absurd, given what I knew of the life he led. Then again, those kinds of conflicting feelings were exactly what I was here to figure out tonight.
So in that regard, the evening was already off to a good start.
It got even better when we were at the table and the waitress practically drooled when she caught sight of Cesare. He was a large, intimidating man, so you’d think that most people’s first response would be fear, but he was also extremely hot with his dark Italian features and his incredible body. It was a bit of a relief to know that I wasn’t the only woman who skipped over fear and moved right on into desire.
To his credit, Cesare was polite but distant with the waitress. While I firmly believed that people could be judged by how they treated the wait staff, I also wouldn’t have liked him preening under her obvious admiration. He ordered wine and some appetizers. I barely paid attention to the order—I was spending too much time watching him.
After the waitress left, Cesare stilled, cocking his head. Then he said, “I like this song.”
I raised my eyebrows, straining to recognize the music. “Carlos Santana?”
He smiled. “He’s a kickass guitarist. I’ve been trying to copy his style for years. It’s hard, though. Really hard.”
I nodded, like I usually did during small talk, but then I straightened up. “You play the guitar?”
His eyebrow shot up. “You look like you just found out I’d stabbed my own mother to death,” he said, the corners of his eyes tightening. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Sort of.” Embarrassment filled me due to my reaction, but I couldn’t help trying to take in this new information. On impulse, I reached across the table and put my hand over his. Mine looked so small compared to his. “It’s kind of hard to believe that the same hands that can wield… you know, a gun, can also strum a guitar.”
I’d whispered the word gun, and Cesare raised both eyebrows this time. “The skills aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“But they’re just so different.”
I still had my hand on his, and I stroked my thin finger the length of one of his huge ones. “Do your hands even fit on the guitar strings?”
He flipped his hand over, capturing mine. “No, they’re too big.” He gave me an extra squeeze on the word big. “I have to use one of those things they have in the orchestra. You know, that thing that’s bigger than a cello that they have to stand to play? I just sling that over my lap and start plucking away at the strings.”
I laughed at that, starting to pull back, but he kept hold of my hand.
“I can do a lot of things with these hands,” he said. “Does that bother you?”
Looking up, I stared directly into his intense gaze. “Some of the things you do, yes.”
He nodded, apparently not surprised by that. “So let’s focus on what I can do that you haven’t yet experienced.” He slid his finger along the underside of my palm, and I shivered.
“Like playing the guitar?” I said, my voice a little shaky.
“Among other things.” The look he gave me was very direct, and I was pretty sure he knew that I was imagining what it would be like to have his long, thick fingers stroke my bare skin… and then slip inside me. It wasn’t the kind of thought I normally had about a man I barely knew, but I couldn’t help it. His hands were as large and powerful as every other part of him.
Cesare’s glance fell to the bodice of my dress, and I wondered if he could see that my nipples had hardened.
But then the appetizers came, and he let go of my hand to examine the bottle of red that the waitress had brought.
That gave me a minute to collect my thoughts and to calm the heated blood coursing through my veins. As I watched Cesare confidently discuss the wine with the waitress, one thing was clear. This was definitely a date, not just dinner.
Cesare ordered our food. He didn't ask me what I wanted or if I had any food allergies—he just told the waitress that we’d both have the filet mignon. At first, it made me bristle. What if I didn’t like red meat? Or if I’d wanted something else? But then… I thought of the men I’d dated in the past. How when I’d ask what they wanted to do, they’d say it was up to me. And yeah, it was nice to be given a choice, but sometimes, I felt like they had no ideas of their own. This one guy, Gary, was the worst at that kind of thing. Whenever I’d ask him about any plans, his response would always be—whatever you want to do. It got to the point where I’d just wanted to yell at him to just make a damn decision.
Obviously, that wasn’t an issue with Cesare. With him, it would probably be harder to get him to stop making the decisions. It was clear he liked to be in control. Or maybe it wasn’t even a preference thing. Maybe he just always was the one in charge.
That thought made my skin heat up. At work, when patients were in pain, I was the one making split decisions and figuring out what to do—at least until a doctor showed up. In my personal life, however, it was a bit different. I was usually the one calling the shots, but it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was more like most of the men I’d dated refused to take a strand.
Again, not going to be a problem with Cesare, and I didn’t quite know how I felt about that. Except from the flush I felt growing on my chest, my body was okay with it.
