That way, I silently scoff. We’re not talking a schoolyard romance here. The kind of sweet nothings I want to whisper include coaxing her to slip out of her underwear to bring her sweet pussy over my face.
I stifle a frustrated sigh. I’ve been turned down before, of course. But it doesn’t happen often, mostly because I stick to the same kind of woman. Those aware of my name and my status. Those who are aware of my need for absolute discretion. Those who, for whatever reason, are happy to make do with the part of me I’m willing to give. Usually my cock.
No, I decide. It’s not that she isn’t interested. Her answer was a spur-of-the-moment payback for embarrassing her in front of the server, though I’m certainly the one paying now as I try to decipher her intentions as she dances with . . . whatever her name was. Is she trying to make me jealous? Trying to or not, I find I am. I’m jealous of anyone taking an inch of her attention from me. As strange as it sounds and as hard as I currently am watching her sinuous movements on the dance floor, I find I don’t want her to come back to the table. Because when she does, she won’t be alone given that she’s dancing with . . . Nikki, yes, that’s it. A girl who has made it blatantly obvious she’d be happy to fuck me.
Right sentiment. Wrong girl.
Worse, I think her friend might have the same offer in mind for Holland. Over my dead body.
I throw back the rest of my drink, wondering if I would’ve been better served to have left her in the coffee shop and turned up for my birthday dinner. At least until I remember how little I was looking forward to the evening. Which means I’m where I want to be. Where I need to be. Because for the past six months, I’ve been telling friends and family I wanted nothing for this milestone birthday. But I was wrong because I want her. God, how I want her.
The beat of the music pulses through the soles of my feet as I watch Nikki throw her arms around the fascinating and petite brunette. As she does so, her gaze is all for me. She slides behind Holland, her arms snaking up the other woman’s jean-clad thighs. I’m sure it’s supposed to be a turn-on. Girl on girl. Isn’t that supposed to be every man’s fantasy? The thing about realising fantasies is that it can be a little like opening Pandora’s box: nothing is ever the same afterward. Life’s miseries visited upon all, as I can attest.
Nikki murmurs something in Holland’s ear, causing her eyes to fly comically wide. It doesn’t take a great imagination to guess that was a suggestion. Two salacious invitations in one day, Holland. I shake my head a little ruefully, biting back a budding smile. I wonder if that’s a record as well as how she’ll react to a third from me.
I want her on my knee. In my bed. Her cries ringing through the room as I press my face between her thighs.
Even if it is madness. Absolute utter madness.
Which is exactly how being near her makes me feel.
“That was so much fun!” Lost to my introspection, I hadn’t noticed the pair’s return. “Olive is such a good dancer, don’t you think?” The other woman throws an arm around Holland’s waist, her long fingernails like crimsons spots against the white cotton of her T-shirt. The pair are a study in contrasts. Two pretty faces, flushed from exertion. One full of natural beauty, the other trying too hard.
Holland and I exchange a covert look as Nikki sidles closer, her hand finding my shoulder as she slides into her seat. Or rather Holland’s seat.
“Sorry,” Holland mouths silently, pushing a wayward lock out of her face.
“You will be,” I mouth back, my eyes narrowed slits of retribution.
Holland’s eyes fly wide, her shrug seeming to say what can I do before she lowers herself onto the seat opposite.
As a general rule, I don’t suffer fools. Yet here I sit with people I neither like nor care for while trying to decide how I entice a pretty girl to make this birthday memorable.
I turn back to find Nikki uncomfortably close, her chin rested on her hand. Given that hand is still on my shoulder, she’s practically in my face. Her brows lift in anticipation, and though my mind is a beat behind, I remember she’d asked a question. The kind of question that seemed like a segue to an invitation.
“It was fun!” Holland’s interjection saves me from a reply but doesn’t save me from the woman, who inches inconceivably closer.
“I’m all about fun,” Nikki murmurs, her mouth far too close for comfort as she eyes me like I’m her next meal. I slide her hand from my shoulder, pressing it to the table as I lean away.
“Me, too,” Holland says. “Remember the time we went to the Festival of Fungus together?”
“The festival of what?” Nikki’s head whips around so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t suffer whiplash.
“Fungus. You haven’t heard of it? Wow. Back home, it’s a pretty big deal. The Estacada festival puts the fun in fungus, right, Lyle?”
“I’m not certain that truer words have ever been spoken,” I reply.
“Hey, if you’re cousins, how come you two have different accents?”
I’m saved by the bell as my phone buzzes with a text, though not before hearing Holland say that my parents left the cult’s compound while I was still small.
I pick up my phone with a murmured apology. Given the social setting, I wouldn’t ordinarily answer, but the diversion seems timely.
Wherever you are, you’d better be having a good fucking time, reads my text from Matteo, which is quickly followed by a second.
Because someone (and my money is on your idiot of a brother) has hired a stripper to wish many happy returns to the birthday boy. Only, guess who isn’t here.
I begin to chuckle, covering it with a cough. While I’m grateful (so fucking grateful) not to be present, I might actually like to be a fly on the wall just to watch how that went down. Like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, I shouldn’t wonder.
And not just any old stripper, oh no.
But a scantily-clad octogenarian, comes his next text.
Gyrating. Around the table.
In a Michelin star restaurant, for fuck’s sake!
That is something I don’t need to imagine. Griffin will be so pissed I wasn’t there, but it serves him right. Without answering Matteo’s text, I switch my phone to silent and slide it away.
“I hope that wasn’t your wife, Lyle.” Nikki purrs.“I don’t like competition.”
“Lyle doesn’t have a wife.” Holland stares across at me, her eyes tawny and full of mischief. I give a slow warning shake of my head, which, of course, she ignores. I begin to wonder if trouble might be her middle name. No, because it would have to be proceeded by causer of. “He’s not that way inclined,” she adds happily, ignoring my silent threats of bodily harm.
I think I’m going to put her across my knee at the earliest opportunity.
“You mean he’s . . .?” The woman’s attention bounces between us like a stone skipping across a pond.
“It’s just like Olive to spill all my secrets,” I drawl, agreeing with Holland that it would be convenient for Cousin Lyle to be gay. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.” I pat her hand once again, this time with a look of sympathy. “You lack a couple of the essentials.” I’m not exactly lying. She lacks being Holland, at least.