I felt the blood pump through me, the rush filling my head. Not fear—not really. This was excitement. Challenge. And, yes, a bit of frustration, too, because the victory I’d so greedily claimed had apparently been premature.
“Let go of me,” I said, my voice matching the ice of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He released his grip on my hair and took a step back. I used the motion of standing up straight to shake off my nerves. Despite my desperately pounding heart, right then, this was all about playing it cool. Just like in a suspect interrogation, I wasn’t about to let him see that he’d shaken me.
“I know what my game is,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out yours.”
“I’m not playing a game,” I lied.
“Everyone’s playing a game.” There was no humor in his voice.
I said nothing. I’d already denied. Repeating myself would get me nowhere.
“A lot of people want a piece of me, Sloane. What do you want? An introduction? A loan? I want to know why you’re here. I want to know what you want.”
Slowly, I shook my head. “I’m not gold-digging, if that’s what you think. And I already told you what I want. Hell, you’ve already told me what I want.” I took a single step forward, then pressed my hand over his cock, hard inside his tailored slacks.
I watched his face as I touched him, not moving, simply touching. “‘I want to feel you tremble beneath me.’ That’s what you said. That’s what I want, too. Christ, Tyler, isn’t it obvious what I want? Why I came here? I want you.”
Beneath my hand, I felt his cock stiffen. He glanced down, then back at me. His face was all hard lines and angles, as if he was fighting for control. “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t even breathe.”
“I—”
“No.” His finger pressed against my lip before skimming downward. Over my chin, down my neck until he delicately traced my collarbone. Then lower, teasing my nipple with slow circles as I sucked in air and bit my lip in defense against the sounds of pleasure that wanted so desperately to escape.
The bodice was a halter, with two triangles of material attached to the waist, then rising up to tie behind my neck. He followed the material up, his finger skimming under the bow at the base of my neck.
“Shall I untie it? Let it fall? Shall I close my mouth over your bare breast right now, tease your nipple between my teeth? Tell me the truth, Sloane, would that make you hot?”
I swallowed. My mouth was so dry. I thought of the waitstaff. Of camera phones. Of the Internet and the image of us, his mouth on my breast, my head back, my lips parted in pleasure. I thought of it, and I felt the quickening in my belly. The clenching in my sex.
I thought—and I whispered the only answer I could. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he said, as his hand sneaked down, leaving my dress intact. I breathed a sigh of relief, then gasped as he traced his way down my cleavage, his hand slipping beneath the material just long enough for his fingers to tease and for the heat of his palm to cup my breast.
“Tyler,” I moaned when he withdrew his hand, leaving me clutching the tables on either side of me, because if I let go, I would surely fall.
“Hush,” he said, as he moved closer. His hand snaked around my waist to find the zipper at the back of the dress, then slowly eased it down. “Now spread your legs,” he ordered as he slid his palm inside my dress, over my lower back, and then down to the curve of my ass.