Chapter Four
Before I can fully appreciate the look of surprised awe on her dropped jaw, Cory returns to take our dinner orders.
Skye quicky closes her mouth and scans the menu. “I’ll have the pan-seared haddock with mashed potatoes and fresh veggies.”
“Salad?” Cory asks. “Or a cup of our amazing clam chowder?”
“No thank you.”
“Great. And you, Mr. Black?”
“I’ll have the fried oysters with a mixed green salad.” In my opinion, you can’t eat too many oysters.
“Dressing choice?” Cory asks.
“A balsamic vinaigrette.” I hand him my menu. “And bring us a bottle of your best white Burgundy.”
“Very good.” Cory nods and leaves the table.
I expertly slurp the oyster I’m still holding and let it glide down my throat. Perfectly salty and briny, with the zing of tomato and horseradish from the cocktail sauce. An explosion of flavor on my tongue, but all I can think about is what Skye tastes like between her legs.
Sweeter and tangier than any oyster, I’ll bet.
Skye is eyeing me as if I’m starring in a porn flick.
Nice.
I dab my napkin to my lips. “Do you enjoy your job, Skye?”
She opens her mouth, but her phone dings. She quickly grabs it out of her purse, her eyes wide. It must be her notifications because I tagged her in the oyster post.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You’re famous.”
She stares at her phone as it continues dinging.
“Turn off notifications,” I say, “or it’ll drive you bananas.”
She follows my advice and then tucks the phone back in her purse. Good. She’s not a social media addict. Or she’s choosing to focus on our dinner over Instagram. Either way, respect.
“You going to answer my question?” I ask.
“Sure. What question?”
“Do you enjoy your job?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning…?”
She shrugs. “I get to take pictures, which is what I love to do, but I’m not exactly photographing anything significant.”
“Addie trying on scarves isn’t going to make it into National Geographic,” I say. “You’re right about that.”
She shrugs again. “I’m making good contacts.”
“That’s true. Maybe you can become the official photographer for Bean There Done That. Getting those sprinkles of nutmeg just right on cappuccinos.”
No shrug this time. She goes slightly rigid. “Did you really ask me to dinner to diss my job?”
My comment was a poke at Addison, not Skye. I should apologize, but I’m not ready to be quite so accommodating. At least not yet. “That wasn’t my intention. I asked you to dinner because I really want to fuck you.”
Man, those words are true. Were and are and becoming even more so by the second. Already I imagine her nipples sore from my attention, her ass gloriously pink.
“How am I supposed to respond to that?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I stare at her, right into those big brown eyes. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t go after what I want.” The rasp in my voice surprises me. The need.
God, I want this woman in my bed. Underneath me, writhing, moaning. Tied down, blindfolded, at my mercy, as I tantalize her with my fingers, lips, and tongue.
And then I’m going to fuck her. Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before.
How am I supposed to respond to that? I haven’t yet answered her question.
So I do.
I raise one eyebrow. “You can tell me you’d like to fuck me, too.”
She’s trying not to squirm. Already I know her pussy is wet. I can tell when a woman wants me, and this woman wants me as much as I want her. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the tenseness of her body. It’s in the way I know she’s squeezing her thighs together to ease the ache in her core.
“Because you do,” I say. “Don’t try to deny it, Skye. I see it in your eyes.” I slurp an oyster and lick a dab of cocktail sauce from the corner of my mouth.
Delicious.
But not nearly as delicious as I know Skye Manning will be.
She bites her lip. “If I were to agree to this… Where?”
“My place.” Or my office. My car. Hell, a bathroom stall here at the Oyster House for all I care. I want Skye more than I’ve wanted any woman in recent—or distant—memory. I find myself holding my breath, waiting on her response as if it’s a lifeline.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Sometimes it’s better that way.” True words, though they taste bitter tonight. I want to know her. I want to know Skye.
She cocks her head slightly. Is she waiting for some kind of explanation? I won’t give one. I want to fuck her, and I won’t apologize for it. Sure, she doesn’t know me, but she will. I have no doubt. I load cocktail sauce onto another oyster, slurp it, and again lick the dab of sauce from the corner of my mouth.
My pre-dinner drink is long gone, and so is Skye’s martini. Our wine arrives, followed by our meals. She takes a bite of her haddock, chews, swallows.
I could sit here and watch her eat and not once get bored. I could tell her my life story, how my brother, Ben, and I worked for our father’s small construction company in South Boston. I made some modifications to a pair of safety goggles, which turned out to be state of the art. I patented the design, and Ben and I started Black, Inc. when I was twenty-five years old. Now, at thirty-five, I’m a billionaire, and most construction workers in the world use my goggles. But I’ve gone far beyond goggles. My investments in real estate, luxury assets, public and private holdings, foreign currency, precious metals—you name it—have made Black, Inc. a household name.
I am the CEO, while Ben handles marketing, and our father, Bobby Black—yeah, he goes by Bobby—is chairman of the board.
Not bad for three guys who never went to college.
But Skye undoubtedly knows my story. Everyone does.
I could tell her what I want to do to her once we get back to my place. How I want to squeeze those round tits and bite her nipples. Tie her up and lick her pussy until she’s raw.
Fuck her until morning.
That would scare the hell out of her, though.
So I stay quiet.