“That interest you?”
“Sharing a sleeping bag? Tightly pressed together? Yes. Do you sleep naked?”
He doesn’t answer that question. Just slowly grins at me. “Do you?”
I match his expression, only, I can’t simply teeter the line of flirtation. I jump right over it.
I lean forward, running my hand down my leg, angling my body down the slightest bit until Mason takes notice of my cleavage. I play with the chain hanging around my neck, which just so happens to tickle between my breasts. He doesn’t remove his gaze, and my nipples quickly harden under his scrutiny. Then I slowly sit back, crossing my one leg over the other, waiting until he looks up at me before I leisurely raise my glass to my lips and taste my wine. His eyes flare with desire as my tongue licks the residue from the corner of my mouth.
The longer we stare at each other, the wetter I become.
I never realized how sexy silence can be. How hot I could get from unspoken words, or the idea of something as personal as someone’s sleeping habits.
Boxers, I decide. He looks like a boxers guy. No shirt. His lean body modestly concealed, stretching against the sheet.
I subtly tug at the bottom of my shirt below the table. My breasts swell. More skin is revealed.
Mason clears his throat.
I have no idea if he is growing hard in his jeans, until he drops a hand to his lap and inhales sharply through his nose.
My smile broadens. His disappears entirely.
But just like that, the aura around him shifts. All signs of a man starving to throw me on top of this table and feast vanishes the second our plates arrive.
I glare at the waiter. Can you let the chef know his promptness is annoying?
He merely smiles at my silent instruction, murmurs something in Italian, and steps away.
I look down at the dish placed in front of me. Seafood pasta, with scallops and shrimp over a bed of linguini. Mason’s plate has a lobster tail, a generous cut of steak, and some greens on the side.
Everything looks incredible. I was set on climaxing before I dined but I suppose it can wait.
I twirl some pasta onto my fork and bring it up to my mouth.
“I always sleep naked, Brooke,” Mason mumbles quietly.
I nearly drop my fork.
Oh, you gorgeous bastard.
He laughs around his bite of steak as our eyes meet. He looks delighted, reveling in my reaction and clearly thinking he’s won this round.
Did I mention how much I love a little friendly competition?
I shoot him my sweetest, most innocent smile as my mind begins calculating my next move.
Silly man. You have no idea who you’re up against.
MASON
Dinner with Brooke is . . . interesting, to say the least.
I’ve never watched a woman so completely focused on my undoing before. So casually sexual with every little movement and shift of her body. Fucking brilliant, on her part. I’m finding it hard to concentrate, which I believe is her every intention. She’s had to repeat a question or two. My voice has grown a bit thick at times, leading me to tug at my already unbuttoned collar. I’ve thought about every way I could possibly get her off at this restaurant, how concealed I would be if I were to crawl under this table and feel her orgasm against my tongue. After thorough investigation of the white cloth stopping well off the floor, my horny arse remains planted in my chair.
What she’s doing, it’s calculated, and fucking torture not to react to. I can hide my erection but I can’t keep that bloody thing under control. Even the placement of her hands while I speak of my classes from earlier today is suggestive.
“I think I’ve established a good client base,” I tell her, tossing my napkin on the table. “I’m seeing some familiar faces come around now and pop in again. That’s encouraging. I was worried about that.”
Her fingers brush against the smooth dip between her collarbones, then trail lower, openly teasing the swell of her tits.
Fuck. What I wouldn’t give to bury my face in there.
She grins. “I don’t know why you were worried. I hate exercising and enjoyed your class. Not just the view either.”
Her voice remains completely neutral, friendly, delightfully engaged in this conversation. That’s the only thing about her that isn’t screaming for me to bend her over that chair she’s sitting in and fuck her senseless.
I discreetly adjust my cock, again. I’m surprised I’m still able to form coherent responses at this point. There can’t be much blood flow still heading to my brain.
“You should come to another one,” I suggest, keeping my hand in my lap, a smile tugging the corner of my mouth.
Her eyes dance with mischief. She drinks the last of her wine. “That’s a fantastic idea. I would love to come.”