With the goofy shirt Declan bought me crumpled on the bathroom floor, I finish the last of my makeup after a long shower. Walking into the bedroom, I can see Declan out in the living room sipping Scotch. He looks good as he waits on me, dressed in his usual look—a sleek designer suit, tailored to perfection.
I pick out a flattering navy shift dress that I purchased on my shopping trip with Davina. After I slip it on, I step into a pair of nude heels and join Declan. We then make our way down to the lobby where his roadster is waiting out front.
We drive through the night to Cité, an upscale restaurant that’s perched atop Lake Point Tower. We’re seated next to the windows, which provide stunning views of the lake and city, and Declan takes the chair right next to me instead of across the table.
He was right—this is a first for us. We’ve never been on a date, and then it hits me that I’ve never been on a date. Not a real one, not with a man I love. The thought causes me to smile and Declan takes notice.
“What’s that grin all about?”
“Nothing,” I tell him, feeling a bit juvenile.
“That’s not nothing behind those blue eyes of yours. Spill it.”
“You’re pushy, you know that?”
“I’m aware. And I’m waiting.”
“Fine,” I exhaust. “I was just sitting here, thinking . . . It’s really silly.”
“Humor me.”
“Aside from fallacies . . . this is my first date.”
“Ever?” he says in curiosity.
“Ever.”
He slips his hand under the table and places it on my thigh, giving me a gentle squeeze. We order wine and he insists on the Siberian caviar service, promising I’ll love it—and I do.
“You’re quite divergent, you know that?” I say, setting my wine glass down.
“Why’s that?”
“I remember you taking me to breakfast at that diner when I first met you. Stale coffee and pancakes.”
“The Over Easy Café does not have stale coffee,” he immediately defends, and I laugh, bantering, “Whatever you say. But, now, you have me here, drinking a bottle of wine that’s so expensive, it’s obscene.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I never said that; it’s just a contrast from the ‘not stale’ coffee and the hot dog you ate from the street vendor today.”
“So what would you prefer?” He leans closer to me and slips his hand back on my thigh.
“I like your contradictions,” I admit as he runs his hand under the hem of my dress. My body tenses and I shift my eyes around the room, wondering if anyone knows what’s happening under the table linens.
“You nervous?”
Giving him my attention, I ask, “You like making me nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” My voice trembles when his fingers hit the lace of my panties and then he nudges against my thigh for me to uncross my legs—and I do.
“Because I like testing you,” he confesses, shifting my panties over. “To see how far you’ll let me push you.”
“When have I ever stopped you?”
“Never,” he whispers on a husky voice at the same time he shoves one of his fingers inside my *.
I gasp.
He smiles.
Pride and domination color his eyes in heated black.
“You want me to stop?”
“No,” I breathe, and he drags his finger out of me and rolls my clit in slow circles.
“Tell me why you yield like this to me.”
“Because I love you.”
He thrusts his finger back inside of me. “Say it again.”
My breath catches, stammering unevenly as I resist the urge to grind down on his hand, nearly whimpering the words, “I love you.”
He abruptly pulls out of me, leaving me yearning, and shifts my panties back over to cover me. My chest rises and falls noticeably as I watch him bring his hand up to his mouth and suck my arousal off his finger.
Unsatisfied and aching, I make it through dinner, and when the bill is paid, I’m quick to leave. Declan’s cocky smirk should irritate me, but it only makes me want to fuck him more. He takes my hand, and once we’re on the elevator, he further tests me by refusing to touch me. My body is on high-alert, sensitive to every element, begging to be touched—but he doesn’t engage me.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, and he smiles.
The elevator doors open and as soon as we exit the building, my steps halt the moment I see her.
She stops in her steps as soon as she sees me, her eyes narrowing into daggers. It’s a look I’ve never seen her wear, but it’s wasted on me.
“You’re back,” she states.
“It’s nice to see you too, Jacqueline,” I condescend.
“Jacqueline?” Declan questions to himself, but we all hear.
“You,” she accuses, looking at Declan. “You son of a bitch!”
“You’re sorely mistaken,” I butt in. “Your husband—”