Page 108 of Ruined Vows
But I don’t touch her. I take her in. And wait.
She glances around, brow arching. “Where’s everyone else?”
“They had other plans,” I say smoothly.
It’s about showing her the world already knows what I do. And that she is someone youshut doors for.That she issomeone youclear the roomfor. But once inside, she stops and takes it in with a glance. The chef bows low. The staff aligned like disciples and finally turned back to me.
Her expression is unreadable. But her eyes see everything. And she knows this place was bought, reserved, and silenced…for her.
And in that moment? I’m in, and she lets me walk beside her again. Not because I demand it. But because I’veearnedit. Her lips twitch in understanding.
“You bought the restaurant,” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out her chair and join her at the table. I pour her a glass of Cristal, cold, perfect, and chilled to perfection. She takes it with a suspicious look.
“You know,” she says, lifting the flute with a perfectly manicured hand and resting it on her lips, “most men would’ve just booked a private booth.”
I shrug. “Most men would, but we both know I’m not most men. Besides, they don’t have ten dates to make a woman fall in love.”
She takes a sip of the champagne, and I can tell from how her eyes flicker that she wasn’t expecting it to taste that good.
The chef appears next—silently, respectfully—with the first course.
Exotic nigiri and hand-crafted rolls: toro with shaved black truffle, shrimp topped with sea urchin and gold leaf, a sliver of fugu prepared under special license. It’s rare. Risky—just like her.
“Impressed?” I ask, watching her eyes move from dish to dish.
She doesn’t respond before she slowly takes a piece of the toro and pops it in her mouth. She chews and swallows it slowly.
Her eyes roll back in her head, and it’s the kind of look I would expect to see when I’ve pleasured her with numerous orgasms.
Then, finally, she says, “Your taste in food is exquisite.”
I lean back in my chair. I volley back with, “So is yours in men. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t have come with anyone else. Otherwise.”
She wants to protest, but she doesn’t. A small smile, barely there, but I can’t bank it in the win column. Next, sake is poured—warm, refined, the kind that slips down smooth and burns after.
We talk about Tokyo. She makes a biting comment about me kidnapping her in style.
By the time the final course—matcha-dusted white chocolate truffles with a sake-champagne reduction—hits the table, her posture has changed.
She’s not letting her guard down. She’sforgetting she has one.She leans over the table, and the candlelight casts shadows over the line of her collarbone. She’s perfection.
“Was this all part of the plan?”
“Every detail,” I say.
“And what happens next?”
I lift my glass to hers. “You tell me.”
And just like that—I know she’s not walking away untouched by this night.
After dinner, we take to the street outside. It’s late enough that the city hums softly like it’s exhaling. I offer my arm and she eyes it.
Then—surprise of the year—she takes it.
No smirk. No snide comment. Just her fingers, warm and sure, sliding into the crook of my elbow like they’ve done it a million times.
