“How long have you been dating?”
Caught daydreaming, I return my attention to Marc. For a few minutes anyway, until a flash of red catches the corner of my eye. A lump forms in my throat, and I can’t talk or even think. She’s fucking incredible.
Chari walks toward us, a red cocktail dress hugging every curve. I stand, heartbeat in my ears, and try not to immediately ravage her as she walks up to me. Instead, I give her a quick kiss on the cheek as the scent of vanilla with a hint of coconut wafts by. Chari sits next to me, and I introduce her to Marc.
Who doesn’t hide his appreciation for my girlfriend.
Concealing my irritation, I ask Chari about her drive in.
“It was totally fine until I came through the tunnel. You’d swear it’s rush hour or something.”
“You left your car with the valet?”
She nods. “I did.”
The waitress comes to take Chari’s drink order. She looks at our drinks and orders an Angel Pale Ale. I try not to smile. And she worried about acclimating to my life? She’s a natural.
“So, tell me, Marc”—Chari uses his first name, deliberately I’m sure—“what exactly does a wholesale beer distributor do?”
Marc is all too happy to tell Chari about his business. How he grew up in it, what he’s going to change now that he’s in charge, and . . . I stop listening. My leg edges ever so slightly toward Chari, and I reach down with my right hand.
She doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, she’s acting so interested in Marc’s relentlessly boring description of sales channels, the green-eyed monster bites. I know what she’s doing, but I also hate his appreciative gaze.
From above the table, my shoulder doesn’t appear to move. Below it, my hand grabs the hem of her dress and pulls upward. When her voice catches, I try not to smile.
“Fascinating,” Chari says.
Our eyes meet.
The only thing fascinating at this dinner table is how clueless Marc is that Chari is merely humoring him.
Keep looking at me like that, I warn her with my eyes, and this pre-sex dance won’t last beyond the first course.
In fact, as we give our orders, I make a decision.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say, my hand already missing the feel of her after I pull it away from her leg.
I have an idea . . .
28
Chari
When Enzo comes back, he has a strange look on his face. I’d assumed he’d excused himself to go to the men’s room, but now I’m not so sure. Finally, after what seems like a lifetime of entertaining our pompous dinner companion, Enzo asks for the check.
“I’m glad you were able to avoid your team’s affliction and meet us,” Enzo says.
He almost sounds as if he means it, which is impossible. Marc Walden is an insufferable braggart. I suspect all of his big talk is a way of compensating for his inability to run the company his father so deftly managed. But I’ve managed to keep things friendly, and so has Enzo—friendly and professional, except for the way he’s been touching me under the table. Except for the way his jaw twitches ever so slightly when his companion flirts with me.
As we prepare to leave, I start fantasizing about Enzo’s hands all over me, the feel of him inside me . . .
“Chari?”
I’ve totally been caught.
“Sorry.” Enzo and Marc are already standing. I do the same. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say to Marc.
“Same to you,” he says. “If you ever find yourself in Northern Virginia”—he directs the comment to me—“I’d be thrilled to host you”—finally he looks at Enzo—“both.”
There’s that tic again in Enzo’s jaw, the one that tells me he’s about to crack. I’ve only seen this side of him once before, in Switzerland, and I’m still not sure what to make of a jealous Enzo. Mostly, I kinda like it.
“Thank you.” I stick out my hand. “Have a safe trip back, and give our regrets to your team.”
He shakes my hand, letting it linger just a tad too long.
Marc shakes Enzo’s hand next. Is that a wince? Apparently Enzo’s grip isn’t very light. Time to redirect that strength to something more useful.
Enzo doesn’t say a word as Marc walks off. Also, he doesn’t move.
“Are we going?” I ask, confused.
He glances at the entrance to the restaurant.
“In a sec.”
We stand next to the table for a moment, unmoving. This, despite the fact that the bill has been paid.
“Enzo?”
He finally starts moving, as if coming back to life, but he’s still going oh so slowly. What’s up with him all of a sudden?
“I had no desire to ride the elevator with that bozo.”
Elevator?
Enzo guides me past the door leading outside, leading me into the connected hotel instead. We go past the front desk and straight to the elevator bank he mentioned. Pressing the up button, he turns to me.
“If you think I’m waiting until we’re back at my place . . .”
The elevator dings. Enzo looks me up and down, clearly liking what he sees. I’ll have to buy Lisa a drink. I thought the red was too much—it basically screams take me!—but she wisely said, “And that’s a problem why?”
This is where he went earlier. He got us a room.
The elevator door hasn’t even closed behind us yet when Enzo pins me to the back wall, holding my hands above my head in the same tight grip Marc winced over. I can’t move. But I don’t want to.
As Enzo’s entire length presses against me, his mouth blessedly demanding, all of the white noise drifts away. My worry about what Lusanne said earlier. The loneliness I’ve felt at night, craving his touch. The disappointment of him cancelling his visit last weekend.
His tongue sweeps inside my mouth as Enzo’s free hand completes the mission it started over dinner. Under the table, it only traveled so far. Now, as the floors ding past us, it continues to ride up my thigh, his fingers reaching for . . .
I break contact to state the obvious.
“Not here. Someone could get on . . . oh!”
He doesn’t listen very well. Enzo’s lips part as he plunges two fingers into me, watching my expression. I gasp, the rule-follower in me terrified the elevator might stop at any moment. And also excited. I’ve told him how much I enjoy being touched this way, and on this, he most certainly listened.
“Enzo,” I breathe as he relentlessly works me. This man is an expert with his fingers, among other things.
“I’ve missed you.”
He’s watching me, and from his smart suit coat to his crisp white shirt, he looks exactly like the kind of man wealthy enough to book a room in a five-star hotel because he doesn’t want to wait a half hour. But those eyes, they’re the same ones I’ve known most of my life.
The small-town guy all the girls adored. Part jock, part nerd, and part all-around nice guy from a family everyone wanted to be a part of.
Including me.
The two sides of him don’t seem at odds right now. There’s just one Enzo tonight, and he’s mine.
“I’ve missed you too,” I admit freely, already feeling myself begin to clench around his hand. “The door,” I manage, reminding him we’re in a somewhat public place, one of his hands trapping my wrists above my head, his other deep beneath my dress.