“Well,” she says looking back at the Rolex, “it looks ridiculous.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. What is it about her that makes me delighted and furious, that makes me want to run to her as quickly as I want to run away?
“Let’s see yours,” I say. “You probably have something practical with a thin leather strap.”
She immediately moves her arms down into her lap.
“I knew it,” I laugh. “Let me see. I won’t tease you.”
“You won’t?” she asks, looking at me carefully.
“Promise,” I say. She slowly moves her hands back onto the tops of the starched tablecloth. Her fingers and wrists are bare of any jewelry. “A minimalist?” I ask. I take her hands in mine as if I’m inspecting them for hidden jewels. I run my thumb over her palm.
“I don’t like anything fussy,” she says.
“You certainly don’t need anything extra to make you shine,” I say. “How about a delicate diamond bracelet?” I wrap my fingers around her tiny wrist. “You’d wear it well.”
“Do you plan on buying me something?” she asks. “I thought you didn’t stick around for things like that.”
“I don’t,” I say delicately.
“So don’t tease me,” she says. “You said you wouldn’t.”
I realize this is getting a little heavy for me. I release her wrist and sit back in my seat, putting distance between us. I’m tempted to throw the table aside and wrap her up in my arms. The small touch of her skin may have only made things worse. But if one thing is a real boner crusher, it’s relationship talk.
“I won’t tease you,” I say. Unless you want me to, I want to add but don’t. The main course isn’t even here yet, and I’m starting to wonder how much more I can take. I have a sip of the wine, then chase it with the sparkling water to help keep my wits about me. With each moment that passes—each look, each touch, each word out of Emily’s perfect lips—I wonder how I’ll ever survive being tempted by her.
Our eyes locked on one another again, neither of us speaking—at least not with words—when Rocco comes through the door.
As we go through the courses—an arugula salad with pear, a roasted corn soup, and a champagne sorbet—I find that as passionate as Emily is about helping others, she’s done little to help herself in terms of a social life.
“That’s one thing we have in common,” I tell her. “Work always comes first.”
“I spend so much time studying, not to mention working part-time at CEF, that I hardly have time for anything else aside from the occasional happy hour and grub at Mickey’s Tavern,” she says.
It’s ridiculous, but I’m glad she doesn’t mention a guy—aside from her brother and father.
“This is the most out I’ve been in, God,” she says, thinking. “I don’t even want to say. I had to really dig in the back of my closet to find this thing.”
She gestures down at the gold dress, which fits her so perfectly despite the fact that I find myself wanting to rip it off her body.
When the entrées arrive, I’m happy for the distraction.
Rocco sets our dinner plates in front us, pieces of art, really. The rich aroma of the lamb warms me, and Emily’s five-spice seared yellowfin tuna is a plate of vibrant colors and beauty.
Once the new wines are served—including the rosé for Emily—Rocco makes his exit. We listen as the door clicks shut.
“Oh my god,” she says after taking her first bite. “Jackson, this is incredible.”
I smile. “Of course it is. I only go in for the best. When I heard talk of Chef Barton opening his own restaurant I knew I had to get on board if for no other reason than to dine here whenever I wanted.”
“You have to taste this,” she says.
“I’ve had it,” I say. “I know how good it is. You enjoy it.”
She takes another bite and closes her eyes as she chews. I almost drop my fork as I watch the pure pleasure on her face as she slowly works her jaw, savoring each taste. She opens her eyes as if waking from a dream, swallowing the bite. “Here,” she says, nudging her plate toward me. “You have to have some. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
Christ, she’s killing me and she has no idea. Absolutely none.
“I’ll taste yours if you taste mine,” I say. “You first.” I cut off a small piece of meat for her. Emily leans forward in her seat, her breasts coming dangerously close dipping into the sauce on her plate. Without a word, she drops her mouth open and waits for me to feed her, her eyes locked on mine. I move the fork toward her mouth, and her tongue slips out the smallest bit to capture the food. She wraps her lips around the fork and gently tugs back. I think I might explode right here at the table.
“Mmm,” she moans as she chews, her eyes falling shut again. “Amazing.” I can’t move while I watch her. Never in my life has a woman had me so charged up, and over dinner. “Your turn.” She fills her fork and leans toward me again, her eyes on my lips. The fork hovers there for a moment, but I can’t take my eyes off her. “Here.”
“Put it down,” I say, and I hear the scratchiness in my voice as if I’m choking on want.
“You don’t want to taste?”
God, is she this innocent, or is she messing with me? I can’t tell, but it’s making me crazy just the same.
I stand up from the table and stride across the room to the door. I lock it. When I look back at Emily she’s still holding that damn fork but her mouth has fallen slightly open. I walk back to the table. I run my fingers over her jaw.
“Emily,” I say. “I definitely want to taste.”
Emily
Jackson moves his hand to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. His face moves toward mine, his lips parted and eyes focused on my mouth. I’m watching it happen, frozen in my chair, not breathing, heart stopped. He’s been open one moment and cold the next, leaving me wondering what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his. Now I know. He’s going to kiss me, and that means I am floating in a dream.
His lips touch mine softly, as if testing to see my reaction. I press my lips back, showing him that I want it too. His lips move over mine, feeling me, as one hand kneads over the back of my neck, gently pulling me closer to him. His other hand softly touches my face. I press into his lips until his tongue pushes through, seeking my own tongue and tasting me, exploring me. I give him back as much as I can but no one has ever kissed me with so much urgency it’s almost messy, and delightfully so. It makes me lightheaded and I’m glad I’m sitting down, my hands resting in my lap as if I’m paralyzed which, in a way I am. Jackson Croft has me powerless to move my own body.
When he pulls away I almost fall forward. I’m looking up at him, still standing above me, and my eyes catch what’s right in front of my face—the evidence of how excited Jackson is.
By me.
It hardly seems real. This guy is my exact opposite but the way he’s looking at me now is the sexist way anyone has ever looked at me in my life. Not just like he wants me, but like he needs me in order to keep breathing.