Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
She doesn’t look away.
This is what I wanted. Not a timid dinner. Not forced small talk. Just this. Watching her walk into it with her eyes open, not flinching. Not folding. Maybe she’s too young for me, but she seems up for the challenge.
The car winds through the streets. Outside, the lights stretch into ribbons. But neither of us looks away.
She shifts slightly, the fabric of her dress tightening around her thighs.
“So where are you taking me?”
“I’ve rented out Velour for the evening,” I tell her, wanting to gauge her reaction.
“You rented the whole restaurant?” she asks.
“I like the privacy,” I admit, hoping she catches the double meaning.
“Do you always require so much privacy?” she asks.
“Often.”
“And what exactly do you plan to do with so much of it?”
I don’t answer.
The driver pulls up to a private entrance on the far side of the tower. The valet is already waiting, briefed and background-checked. He opens the door, and I step out first.
Lyra follows.
She walks with a confidence that surprises me. Chin high, shoulders back, like she’s marching into battle. She’s on high alert, and maybe she’s right to be.
We ride the elevator in silence to the top floor.
When the doors part again, they open onto the kind of view most people never get to see.
The restaurant is dimly lit. Black floors. Steel lines. Wall-to-wall glass. The city stretches out in every direction, lights glittering against the night sky. There’s only one table set, near the glass.
She stops walking when she sees it. “This is incredible,” she whispers.
I step beside her. “I thought you might appreciate a little luxury tonight.”
She looks over at me, searching for something in my face.
“So is this, like, your move?” she asks suspiciously. “Do you do this for all of your dates?”
I don’t lie. “No, but I have done it once before.”
She looks back at the table. “Is this the same place?”
“No.”
She looks satisfied by my answer, then walks toward our table.
The host appears silently, bows, then vanishes the moment we’re seated. Champagne is already poured. Lyra picks up her glass and studies it before taking a sip. I let her settle before I say anything more.
“Is this too much?” I ask.
She glances around. “Maybe.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
I nod, not sure what to make of her short, curt answers.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So private. So in control of everything and everyone.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s necessary.” I shrug. “It’s the nature of my business.”
She tilts her head. “And are you trying to control me?”
“No. I’m trying to control myself.”
There’s a pause. She visibly blushes and looks down at her plate for a second, then up again.
I lean forward slightly before continuing. “Because if I don’t, I’d say things I shouldn’t.”
Her breath catches, and she does that little lip bite that I have come to adore.
Dinner comes in courses. Elegant small plates arrive like works of art. She eats slowly, savoring every bite, but never lets herself appear impressed. She’s careful and measured, but the longer the evening goes on, the more her edges soften, the more her eyes linger.
By the time dessert arrives, she pushes the plate away with a contented sigh.
“I couldn’t possibly eat any more.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because you’re full or because you want to look classy in front of me?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me before taking her fork and scooping up a large bite of chocolate soufflé. “You’re a bad influence.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, without a hint of hesitation.
9
LYRA
Ifelt like I was doing great controlling the extremely volatile situation presented before me, but alas, it takes less than ten seconds for us to start making out once we’re back in the limo. I don’t remember who leans in first, but it hardly matters now. All I’m aware of is Damien reaching up and pressing a button. The privacy partition rises without a sound, sealing us in.
The second it clicks into place, his hands are on my thighs, sliding up my dress.
His hand slips beneath the hem, his fingers spreading over my bare skin as if he has every right to touch me. And I let him. I let him because I can’t stop him, not with the way I’m already gripping the front of his shirt and my knees angle toward him in the narrow space between us.
His mouth is slow, measured, and controlled, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. I feel the edge building with every stroke of his tongue, every sharp breath between kisses. His self-restraint unravels, and somehow that makes it worse in the best way.
He pulls me toward him until I’m practically on his lap, one arm braced behind my back, the other sliding higher up my thigh. I gasp into his mouth when he reaches the line of my panties, and he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.