He busies himself unpacking the containers and sits half of them in front of me, the other half in front of him. It affords me the opportunity to get ahold of myself, to calm down and realize . . . this is okay. I’m okay. It’s just a quick, impromptu meal, albeit one I’m utterly unprepared for.
Unfolding himself gracefully into the leather chair across from me, he opens his lunch. He lifts his eyes and the corner of his lips follow. "This looks great."
I smile, but don't respond. I'm still figuring out how I ended up seated at the table with him.
"Aren't you going to eat?" He nods to my still-closed container.
"I remember telling you I didn't want to have dinner." I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling and his eyes go straight to my mouth.
He grins, a mixture of a little boy getting his way and a sexy as hell man well on the way to getting his. “Good thing this isn’t dinner then. This is lunch.”
I laugh and his posture relaxes further. I find myself falling into a rhythm with him, just like I did before. “Semantics, Landry.”
“You can’t fault me for playing by the rules. You said if we were meant to see each other, it would happen. I just, you know, made it happen.”
I try to not be swayed by his cheeky grin or his hooded eyes or the way the muscles in his forearm flex beneath the watch on his wrist. Or the way I'm fairly certain he just reached discreetly beneath the table and adjusted his cock.
“That you did,” I say under my breath and pop open the container in front of me. The food looks beautiful, Opal having done a fantastic job at staging the entree, but I can’t eat. There’s no way. My appetite is for one thing and that’s sitting across from me.
"How has your day been?" he asks.
"Lunch was crazy today,” I say. “How about yours?"
"Getting better," he says vaguely and then wraps those gorgeous lips around the fork.
I die. Imagining his lips on my skin, moving across it like they’re doing to the metal tines makes me shiver. I hope he doesn't notice, but it's not like I can control it. I can feel him watching me, but I don't look up. I can't. It'll confirm that what he thinks I'm thinking is true and I'll die of embarrassment.
The silence is awkward, more awkward than a conversation in which I make a fool out of myself, so I take a gamble. "How'd the event go last night? Was it a success?"
"It was. Lots of connections were made although, between you and me, those things are usually pretty boring."
"That's good."
He rests his fork on the side of his plate and sits back, studying me. “Did you do anything after work last night?”
"I went home and slept like a log," I say, conveniently lea
ving out the phone call to Lola and then the date with my vibrator afterwards. "And then I got up and went to work today. Just another day in the life, you know?"
"I do. But you know what they say? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
"Is that so?"
"That's what they say."
"So what do you like to play, Jack?"
When his eyes light up immediately and his lips twitch, I admonish myself for asking that question.
Why, why, why do I do this to myself?
"I play a lot of things very well," he insinuates.
"Do you?"
Shut. Up. Alison.
"Wanna play with me?"