“How else do you think I found you?” He steps closer, so close I can feel his body heat. The brush of his clothes against my mostly bare skin. “Are you happy to see me, Savage? It’s been a long time.”
I want to both smack him and jump him. “Why are you here, Whit?”
“We have the restaurant to ourselves. I bought it for the night,” he informs me, his voice smug.
I frown. “Monty said it was a dinner party.”
“For two.”
“I thought there would be more people,” I tell him hating how confused I sound. “Like Monty. He said he would be here.”
“Your precious friend lied to you.” Whit drifts his fingers down the length of my arm, leaving me shaky. “Have you missed me?”
I thought the first time I would finally see Whit after all of these months—well over a year—I would be happy. Thrilled. But I’m not.
I’m mad. Infuriated. I feel tricked. Used.
What else is new?
“No,” I bite out.
“Really. Your body is telling me otherwise.” He blatantly touches my breast, his thumb slowly brushing against my nipple, the mesh giving me little protection from his seeking fingers. My nipple hardens in an instant, and he flicks it again, making me ache. “This dress should be fucking criminal. I can see everything.”
I swallow hard, fighting the shame that wants to wash over me. Wearing this dress, coming tonight was a huge mistake. I willingly walked into a trap, like the stupid girl I’ve always been. I’m just like my mother. “Why did you do this? How?”
“I missed you,” he says simply, as if that’s enough. “I wanted to give you some time on your own before I made my approach.”
“That sounds like complete bullshit,” I spit out.
“It’s the truth,” he says, his voice firm. “I’ve known you were in Paris pretty much from the first day you arrived here.”
I’m fuming. Monty is the only one I kept in contact with out of anyone Whit would know. So basically he ratted me out to Whit from the very beginning. But why?
And why is Whit here?
“Yet you didn’t reach out to me.” If he really wanted me, he would’ve done something about it by now. Not keep away from me for so long.
“You didn’t want to be found.” He lets go of my shoulders completely and reaches around my front, his hands settling directly over my breasts, tugging gently on the mesh fabric. “You may as well be naked.”
“Don’t touch me,” I say between clenched teeth.
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my ear, just before he lightly sinks his teeth into my earlobe. “You’re shaking, Savage. You want this so fucking bad. Just as bad as I do.”
Whit thrusts his hips against my ass, his cock nudging me. I close my eyes, powerless to him, but not willing to give in to him yet.
“You need to talk to me first,” I tell him, hating how weak I sound. He hates weakness too. I know he does. “Tell me why you’re here, and what you want from me.”
“First, I want this.” He releases my breast, his hand drifting down my side, slipping beneath the hem of my dress to settle that big hand in front of my pussy, cupping me between my legs. “I’m reclaiming it.”
“You don’t own me,” I whisper, biting my bottom lip when he exerts the slightest pressure against my sensitive flesh, thinly covered by my nude thong.
“I own this. It’s always been mine,” he says arrogantly. “Since we were fourteen, Savage. Remember that night?”
How could I forget?
“It’s burned on my brain,” he admits. “And all the other nights we’ve shared, too. So many. We couldn’t get enough of each other.” He shifts his fingers, pressing harder, his index finger sliding between my pussy lips.
I lean my head against his chest, a sigh leaving me as he begins to stroke. What is he doing to me? I’m ashamed of my instant reaction to his touch. How my knees wobble, threatening to give out. My core tightens, eager for more. My head swims with memories at the sound of his voice. And my lips.
They ache for his.
“I’ve bided my time. Waited for you while I’ve gotten my affairs in order,” he says, his fingers toying with me, streaking across the front of my thong. I feel it grow damper with his every stroke. “And when the opportunity arose, I took my chance. Now here we are. Together once again.”
I tear myself out of his hold completely, immediately missing his warmth. His touch. I turn to face him, drinking him in, hating how elegantly handsome he looks in the black suit, his hair trimmed neatly, and his face.
Oh God, his devastating face.
He’s looking at me as if there’s no other woman in the world for him.
Just me.
Only me.
“I have something for you,” he says, his gaze never straying from mine as he reaches for the table behind him, picking something up. “It doesn’t belong to me.”
He stretches his hand toward me and I glance down to see my journal, clutched in his long fingers. My stomach pitches and roils at first seeing it, my mouth going dry. I hate that stupid journal. It’s what got me in trouble in the first place.
I lift my head, my gaze meeting his, those icy blue eyes seeming to penetrate me to my very soul. “The last time I saw my journal, it was in your mother’s possession.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face and then it’s gone. “She said and did some things to you I’m still not happy about.”
“She threatened me, Whit. Said she would call the police and tell them the fire was my fault. That I killed my stepfather and Yates,” I throw at him.
He flinches when I say Yates’ name, and I wonder at that. “Idle threats. She’s not a worry to you. Not any longer.”
“Yeah, right.” I snort, unable to keep it in. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you,” I say. I start to walk past him but he grabs hold of my arm, his fingers loose, but not so much that I could escape him. “Let me go.”
“Listen to me first.”
“No.”
“Summer.” His voice turns faintly pleading, which is a shock. “At least sit and have dinner with me. Let me explain myself.”
I twist my mouth up into a pout, still glaring. “I hate you and Monty for tricking me into this.”
“You don’t hate Monty.” He makes this statement with complete confidence.
“I definitely hate you,” I spit at him.
Whit actually grins, and the sight of it takes my breath away.
“That’s what I was counting on.”
“Why couldn’t you have just asked if I wanted to see you?”
“Would you have said yes?”
“No,” I immediately answer.
“That’s why,” he says drolly.
He lets me go, his words lingering in my brain as he pulls the chair out for me so I can sit at the table. The moment we settle in, a server appears. An older gentleman in a crisp white jacket, who serves us each a glass of wine before Whit speaks to him in fluent French.
I stare at him, wondering who this man is, who has he become? I don’t know him anymore. Not really. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen him last, and we’ve changed so much in that time. At least, I have.