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Chapter twenty-eight
Jordan
Two Weeks Later
God, he’s so fucking hot.
Emerging from the bathroom in only a bra and thong, I gaze at Peter, who’s standing in front of the full-length mirror in his walk-in closet.
Captivated, I watch him fasten the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt. He wears a bespoke suit in a deep, midnight blue, which drapes over his muscled frame with precision. The fabric catches the light with a subtle sheen, outlining the strong breadth of his shoulders tapering down to his trim waist.
Peter’s dark-blond hair, usually a sexy, tousled mess, is slicked back—though a couple of renegade pieces have broken free. He's so effortlessly handsome. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones counterbalanced by sparkling blue eyes and an expressive brow.
Our eyes meet when he catches me watching him in the mirror adjusting his tie. I’m transfixed by his fingers as they deftly maneuver the silk—an hour ago, those fingers made me come so hard, I’m still rattled.
As if he can read my mind, he smiles at me through the glass. Quirks an eyebrow. “Are you planning on wearing clothes to dinner?”
“I didn’t want to get makeup on my dress.” I slink in behind him and caress his package through his slacks. “I’m happy to get lipstick on your cock, though.”
Peter spins around and clasps me to him, holding me firm at the small of my back. “You’re a bad influence, baby.”
“We have time.” I skate my hand to his zipper, but he encircles my wrist with his free hand.
“We don’t.” He brings our hands to the slip of a waistband on my panties. “But, if you can get yourself off in under three minutes, we can try double penetration with the dildo tonight.”
My thighs clamp together at the thought and I’m pretty sure I’m soaked. “If I don’t?”
“I’ll lick you until you beg me to stop.” He drags our hands to my mound and releases his grip. “I’m waiting.”
Never one to shy away from a challenge, especially one where I win no matter what, I slip my fingers into the side of the scrap of cloth disguised as underwear and pull them to the side so he can see my swollen lips. Leaning against the doorframe, I get to work. Slicking my finger through my arousal. Rubbing tight little circles on my clit.
Peter’s eyes are laser focused on me masturbating and I’m pleased to see his pants start to tent. “Ohhhhh,” I moan with deliberate exaggeration for his benefit, though I’m already seconds away from detonating.
“Fuck, baby. Not fair. Not fair.” Peter’s hips shift and cant watching me pinch my nipple through my sheer lace bra with my free hand.
Seconds later, his pants are down to his ankles and he’s lifted me onto his cock. It only takes a few deep, hard thrusts and we’re both moaning through our respective orgasms.
“I’m sorry, I’ve made us late.” My arms are wound around his neck and my legs are hooked around his waist, though he always holds me up effortlessly.
“Don’t be sorry.” He shuffles us into the bathroom, with me still speared on his shaft. “It’s worth it. Grab a hand towel, baby so I can get us cleaned up. The last thing I want is for your folks to see spunk on this suit.”
Carefully, he sets me on the counter and wipes up the evidence. While he redresses, I change my underwear, slip on my black sheath dress and step into my black wedges.
Fifteen minutes later, we walk hand in hand to the Metropolitan Grill, which is only a couple blocks from his condo.
I’m glad we slipped in a quickie. Peter’s nervous because tonight isn’t merely a casual dinner—he and I have catapulted the dating stage into full-blown commitment. With our new status solidified, I want him to get to know my family on more than a superficial event-laden level. It’s also important, with two famous members in my immediate family, for him to know firsthand what he’s getting into.
No matter how tonight goes, Peter’s my guy, but I can’t help but hope for my mom and dad’s approval. I may be a grown woman with my own business, but my family is important to me. I want them to see the Peter I know and love. Not the one who broke my heart years ago without even realizing it. Or the polite party-going guy from the wedding.
“If I didn’t say so before, you look stunning.” Peter squeezes my hand.
I lean into him. “Thank you, baby. You’re not so bad yourself. Are you ready for this?”
“Yeah.” Peter gives a reassuring nod. “I’ve actually been looking forward to this. I'm guessing it'll be a far cry from dinner with my family.”
The hostess leads us back to the private dining room where my parents are waiting. My pops predictably wears his techie uniform of jeans and a sweater. My mom looks beautiful in a simple burgundy dress and black flats. Always charming hosts, they engage Peter in a conversation about Project SoHo immediately. Peter holds his own, infusing both humility and pride in retelling of the late nights his team endured trying to get the final submission in on time.
By the time our food arrives, the conversation flows effortlessly on a ton of different subjects, including my decision switching from fine art to tattoo art. My parents share a mortifying story about my childhood. When I was four, I threw a temper tantrum in a hotel parking lot and threatened to run away in a purple Volkswagen Beetle.
