She runs a finger over her necklace, the glittery diamond that hangs on the chain is so bright, her eyes suddenly so damn dark.
“What kind of men do you usually date, Imogen?” I ask, not touching the steak in front of me. Right now, the only thing I want is the thing I haven’t had in a hell of a long time. My cock is aching for it, my heart is ready, and dammit, Imogen’s eyes are practically fucking me right here.
“I usually date boys,” she says, “but tonight, I’d really like to take home a man.”
3
IMOGEN
He is not what I expected.
Not that I had high hopes or anything — I mean, my mother set this up — and I’m sure she described me as the daughter she wishes I could be. But his self-control compels me to test the limits. He is a reserved man of few words, but by the time we’ve both had a few glasses of wine, I see he has warmed up to the idea of going to bed with me.
Which is what I want.
After today … all I want is to escape the self-loathing that has been banging against my head since the art director called me this morning letting me know there had been an error, and that there wasn’t space for my piece.
And by error, I mean an error on my part. I hadn’t replied to the email saying that yes, I was excited to be in the show.
Perhaps my mother is right about my habits… my lack of organization certainly cost me tonight.
I’m really glad my dad didn’t cancel surgery and that my mom didn’t reschedule plans with her sister. I would be mortified if they knew I messed this up.
I’m twenty-four years old … you’d think I’d have a few things figured out by now … but I don’t.
I’m a certifiable hot mess. But I’m owning it. I can always get my shit together tomorrow.
“Are you finished?” he asks, setting down his knife and fork, the steak gone.
My own dinner is practically untouched. I’ve been talking. A lot. It’s kind of my thing.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
“It was all that bread,” he says, eyeing the empty basket.
I laugh. “That’s the funniest thing you said all night.”
“I’m not known for my humor.” He clenches his jaw — and I have the distinct feeling if he could do exactly what he wanted he would clear the tabletop and have me right here and now. There is a look in his eyes that says his food may be gone but he is starved.
God, I want to satisfy his cravings.
“What are you known for?” I ask as he signs the check. My pussy is wet and I swear he knows it. Can smell it. Me; my pheromones, begging him to strip me naked and make me come — make me forget about my failings, my inadequacies. Make me happy. Deliriously satiated. That is what I want. Him.
His eyes graze over me, landing on my tits. There is something ridiculously erotic about a man who unabashedly looks me over. He isn’t comparing me to anything, he doesn’t see my curves and confidence as a threat. No. Neil knows who he is and isn’t playing a game here. He knows he’s already won.
“I’m known for taking care of business,” he tells me. “For closing on the deal. I’m known for never taking no for an answer.”
I lean in, across the table. My breasts pressed together, my tongue sliding over my lips. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not saying no tonight.”
He gives me the closest thing to a smile all night. His voice is low, gravelly and sure. A whisper but I can hear him loud and clear. “I need to fuck you, Imogen. I need to fuck you soon.”
A shiver runs up and down my spine. Desire. Lust. A craving in my core.
“I have a room here,” I tell him. “Come upstairs with me.”
He is already pushing away from the table, taking my hand and leading me from the restaurant. Not a single word more.
But his hand on the small of my back says plenty. He has an urgent need only I can fix.
In the elevator he keeps his hand on my waist — as if not letting me step away, like he doesn’t want me out of reach. It makes my body thrill with pleasure — with anticipation. Neil wants to fuck me and he doesn’t need me to take the lead.
We get to the fourth floor and I pull the keycard from my bag. I checked into the room before dinner and got ready up here. I have clothes everywhere, makeup strewn about. A duffel bag is on the bed and there are towels all over the floor from when I showered. I figured I wasn’t going to the art show, but I might as well use the room my mother already got me. Besides, if she found out I didn’t check in she’d ask about the date, about the exhibit — it would be a headache.