Page 20 of Only the Wicked
“Not too forward at all. It seems we have something in common.”
Chapter
Six
Rhodes
The blush on her cheeks deepens ten shades. Her trimmed, unpainted nails glide along her slender neck beneath a subtle red burst.
With her shoulders back and her chin at a defiant angle, she’s the picture of a headstrong woman with a modest streak she’d rather hide, but her traitorous body gives her away.
We’re both on vacation. There’s no need to dance around a series of dates or pretend there’s relationship potential.
Perhaps I should give her a reprieve. Shift to mundane conversation. Ask if she’s been scuba diving.
Fuck that.
I lean forward, pushing the place setting back to make room for my folded arms. “Tell me exactly what you believe we have in common.”
Her luscious milk chocolate eyes widen and a silky dark veil of wavy hair swings forward, partially hiding her face, but her gaze never breaks. I half expect her to retreat to the restroom, and that’s the only reason I don’t give in to the itch to reach across the table and touch those glossy strands. I wish I was sitting closer, that this table wasn’t between us.
All in good time.
Her shoulders rise and she braces against the bench, pushing up on the vinyl cushion. Using the physical to gather her strength. Fuck, maybe even pressing her thighs together, wanting this as much as I do.
“Orgasms,” she says, the strength of her defiance going straight to my cock.
Holy fuck. Outstanding.
“Plural,” she adds, and with that addition, I’m forced to shift to readjust my pants because my dick is now hard as stone. “I’m a fan of pretty much any path to get there. Slow. Fast.” She tucks the veil behind her ear and licks her lower lip. “Dirty.”
Alright. That does it. Where the fuck is our food? Can I just ask for the check?
As if hearing me, the singsong server appears with our appetizers. The talkative woman makes a production of detailing what we ordered, while the space between Sydney and I smolders.
Orgasms. Plural.
Challenge accepted Ms. Sydney.
Syd.
All we have to do is make it through dinner.
After the server leaves us, I ask, “What’s your last name?”
Her head tilts to the side. “We’re doing last names now?”
A cautionary voice whispers through my conscience. Once she has my last name, she’ll Google me. But what does that matter? I’m not ashamed of who I am. We’re on vacation. I’ll likely never see her again, but I hope to see a lot of her tonight.
“Given what I’m mentally doing to you sitting here right now, sharing last names strikes me as appropriate.”
She lifts her glass. “To last names and wishful dreams.”
Our glasses clink, and our gazes remain locked over the rims as we sip.
Wishful dreams?
A warning sounds in my head. Is she mocking me? Telling me to dream on? Or is she a romantic? Dreaming of a vacation fling lasting into eternity? Neither scenario ranks as good.
