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"Cristal, ma'am?" Christian hands me a glass of chilled champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.
"Why thank you, sir. " I stress the last word flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.
He gazes at me and his face darkens. "Are you flirting with me, Miss Steele?"
"Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm sure I can think of something," he says, his voice low. "Come - our table's ready."
As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand on my elbow.
"Go and take your panties off," he whispers.
Oh? A delicious tingle runs down my spine.
"Go," he commands quietly.
Whoa, what? I blink up at him. He's not smiling - he's dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel, and head for the restroom.
Shit. What's he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly named.
The restrooms are the height of modern design - all dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I'm grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress.
I thought it appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn - I hadn't expected the evening to take this unexpected course.
I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now that we won't be spending the evening talking through all our issues and recent events... but how can I resist him?
Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed with excitement.
Issues schmissues.
I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it's not as if I haven't gone panty less before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in f**k-me shoes.
Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.
"Sit beside me," he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. "I've ordered for you. I hope you don't mind." He hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding me intently and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs slightly.
The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his contract. Oh boy. We've come a long way since then.
"I think you liked oysters last time you tried them." His voice is low, seductive.
"Only time I've tried them." I'm all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.
"Oh, Miss Steele - when will you learn?" he muses.
He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.
"Learn what?" I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fingers gently squeeze the lemon over the shellfish.
"Eat," he says, holding the shell close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places the shell on my bottom lip. "Tip your head back slowly," he murmurs. I do as he asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn't touch me, only the shell.
Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this tortuous rou-tine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It's driving me crazy.
"Still like oysters?" he asks as I swallow the final one.
I nod, flushed, craving his touch.
"Good."
I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?
He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I melt. Now. Please. Touch me.
My inner goddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties - begging. He runs his hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back where it was.
The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks away our plates. Moments later he's back with our entree, sea bass - I don't believe it - served with asparagus, sauteed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.
"A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?"
"Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was cod at the Heathman." His hand moves up and down his thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn't touch me. It's so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
"I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts."
"Happy days," he says, smirking. "This time I hope to get to f**k you." He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
Gah!
He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He's doing this on purpose.
"Don't count on it," I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. "Speaking of contracts," I add. "The NDA."
"Tear it up," he says simply.
Whoa.
"What? Really?"
"Yes."
"You're sure I'm not going to run to the Seattle Times with an expose?" I tease.
He laughs and it's a wonderful sound. He looks so young.
"No. I trust you. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt."
Oh. I grin shyly at him. "Ditto," I breathe.
His eyes light up. "I'm very glad you're wearing a dress," he murmurs. And bam - desire courses through my already overheated blood.
"Why haven't you touched me, then?" I hiss.
"Missing my touch?" he asks grinning. He's amused... the bastard.
"Yes," I seethe.
"Eat," he orders.
"You're not going to touch me, are you?"
"No." He shakes his head.
