“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that with me.” She giggled. “I hate salad. Unless it’s drenched in ranch, but then it’s not really a salad, so much as dressing with salad as the garnish. I should probably eat more salad—I mean, look at me—but I just like real food too much. I’ve never made a very good herbivore . . .” She trailed off, realizing she was rambling.
When she lifted her eyes to look at Ambrose, he was giving her that silly grin again.
“What?”
“You’re perfect the way you are. And I love when you talk food.”
Smirking, she said, “Just food? Or are you thinking about other things I put in my mouth?”
“Don’t tease, little brat. You have to go back to work after this. You don’t want me to muss you up in the bathroom, do you?”
That didn’t sound like a bad idea at all. She shrugged and looked at him coyly.
He chuckled. “Bad girl.”
The chef appeared, carrying a glass of wine and a mug. She thanked him, then, after adding cream and sugar, she sipped her coffee, hoping it would make her come to her senses. No matter how private the table, they were still in a public restaurant. And she did have to go back to work after this. Now was not the time to tempt the demon.
“So you’ll come over tonight?” he asked. “I’ll text you the address after I get my phone.”
“Sure.” She arched a brow. “What are we gonna do? Watch a movie? Play a board game?”
He leaned back, letting his arms span the back of the chair, reminding her just how large he was.
A shudder swept through her. Fuck, how was she going to last until tonight when she was getting horny already?
“We’ll play some games all right,” he said. “I liked the one we played last time. I’m the Sultan and you’re my little slave girl.”
She thought of the slave bells he’d given her and the fact that she sometimes wore them around her apartment. Wearing them made her feel like she was his property, which was a crazy turn-on. She’d fantasized about belonging to somebody for so long it seemed almost too good to be true.
Time to test a theory. “Oh. Here I was just thinking maybe I’d wear my new schoolgirl skirt.”
His body seemed to freeze in place, then he swallowed hard. “I . . . uh . . . I’d be okay with that.”
She chuckled, feeling cocky and powerful. “Maybe it’s too soon for that. I’ll just wear a T-shirt and jeans.”
Abruptly, he sat forward. “No, I like your idea better.”
“Nah.”
“Wear the fucking skirt, little brat, or you’ll be sorry.”
“Mmm.” Warmth slid from her belly down to her pussy. “What if I like being sorry?” She nibbled her lip.
“There are better reasons to be sorry than for disobeying me.”
She leaned in, her breath shallow and her voice husky. “Like what?”
He sat up straighter. “You’ve been very bratty today. I have a desk and a strap with your name on them.”
A whimper escaped her and she fought the urge to slide her hand down between her legs. If she pressed on her clit, just for a second, she could possibly come right there in the restaurant.
“So you’re going to wear that pretty skirt for me, right?”
“Yes,” she said on an exhale.
He quirked a brow.
“Yes, Sir.”