On Dublin Street (On Dublin Street 1)

Our front door opened and shut and my stomach flipped.

“It’s me,” Braden called. “I’ve got a cab waiting so we sh-” he stopped speaking as he entered the sitting room, his eyes frozen on me. “Fuck.”

Ellie giggled.

I squinted an eye at him. “Is that a good f**k?”

He grinned. “Well you’re that too, babe.”

“Euch,” Ellie made a choking sound. “Gag me.”

Ignoring her, Braden sauntered casually towards me. He was wearing a simple, but elegantly cut black skinny suit with a slim velvet lapel, white-gold cufflinks and a dark silver-grey shirt that matched my dress perfectly. His skinny tie was blood-red like my lipstick. We had unknowingly coordinated.

He looked yummier than I did though.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, and by the time they came back up to my face they were blazing. “Come with me.” He grabbed my wrist and I just managed to hand Ellie my wine glass before I was hauled down the hall in shoes I’d had to practice walking in, and dragged into my bedroom.

He spun around, hooking an arm around my waist and tugging me towards him.

“You have got to stop doing that,” I complained.

“Babe, you look… let’s just say if there wasn’t a taxi waiting to take us to the restaurant for our reservation, you’d be on your back right now.”

Overconfident much?

“In fact…” he murmured, squeezing my waist, his eyes dipping to the low neckline of the dress.

“Braden.”

He jerked his eyes back to mine. “You look beautiful, Jocelyn.”

My stomach flipped again and I smiled softly. “Thank you.”

“But you need to put your hair up.”

“What?” I touched my head, scowling up at him. “Why?”

To my utter bewilderment, Braden’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Just do it.”

I made a ‘pfft’ noise and pushed against his chest, stepping out of his hold. “Not unless you tell me why?” My hair looked good. He would not make me think otherwise.

“Because,” his voice was low, a deep purr he reserved for the bedroom, hence why I felt it all the way down into my panties, “I like being the only man who knows how beautiful your hair is. How gorgeous you look with it down.”

Something nudged inside my chest. An almost ache spread. Outwardly, I smirked. “How very Victorian of you.”

Braden’s narrowed eyes turned into a glower. “Jocelyn,” he warned.

I threw my hands up. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Braden-”

“Jocelyn.”

I stopped, my hands on my hips as I searched his face. It was implacable. My God, he was serious. With a huff of disbelief, I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t take well to orders, Braden.”

“I’m not ordering you. I’m asking.”

“No, you’re demanding.”

“I just don’t want you to wear your hair down.”

“Fine.” I cocked my head to the side as my own eyes deliberately perused the length of him. “I don’t take orders, but I do make deals. The hair goes up, but you owe me a favor in return.”

He flashed me a wicked smile. “Sounds good, babe.”

“Oh I didn’t say the debt would be sexual in nature.”

His grin only widened. “So what are we talking about here?”

“Well that’s the thing.” I sidled over to him, pressing up against him with a smile. “You won’t know, until you know.”

Braden’s head dipped towards mine, his lips almost brushing mine. “Deal.”

“Brave man.” I laughed and stepped back. “You also look really good tonight by the way.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes still eating me up.

“Well, you better tell the cab driver we’ll be out in ten minutes. I need to fix my hair.”

***

I managed to style my hair up into an elegantly messy bun, bid a goodnight to Ellie whose eyes were all teary at the sight of us together—I don’t think she’d quite grasped the concept of f**k buddies yet—and slid into the cab before Braden. When he got in, he gave the cab driver our destination. It was Braden’s French restaurant, La Cour, the one he’d inherited as part of his father’s businesses, and it was situated on Royal Terrace near the Regent Gardens. I hadn’t been there before, but I’d heard great things about it. As Braden settled back, he settled in close to me and reached for my hand.

For the entire cab ride I stared at his large, masculine hand in mine, fighting the urge to pull out of his touch. It wasn’t because the handholding wasn’t nice. It was nice. Too nice.

Too ‘more’.

This was supposed to be just sex. But there he was… holding my hand.

I barely even noticed we’d pulled up to the restaurant, before Braden was paying the cab driver and helping me down out of it.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, as he laced his fingers through mine again to lead me inside.

I didn’t answer that. “Who are we meeting?”

But before he could respond, the maître d’ appeared with a huge grin on his face. “Monsieur Carmichael, we have your table waiting, sir.”

“Thank you, David.” Braden pronounced his name with the French pronunciation and I wondered if the guy was really French, or if it was all part of the restaurant’s image. The restaurant itself was opulent elegance. It was modern French rococo with black and silver patterned, gilt-framed chairs, deep-red tablecloths, black glass candelabras and clear crystal chandeliers. The restaurant was packed.