Look away. But is that the outline of her nipple?
Christ, it is her nipple, and it’s hard. I can make out the whisper-thin cup of her bra through her blouse and the color of the pebbled point through it.
Her nipple is pink, lusciously sized, with those little fucking dots surrounding it in a tight, perfect circle.
My mouth fills with saliva as my cock full-on surges against my fly.
I look up to see Emma watching me. That gleam in her eye is still there. So is the smile.
The realization hits me with the force of a skillet to the head.
Emma did this on purpose. She unbuttoned her blazer, and wore this shirt with this bra, to tease me.
Taunt me.
Provoke me.
Fuck her. Two can play this game.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting down my glass without sipping. I place my fingertips on its stem.
She sets down her glass too. “Sorry?”
“I’ve been neglectful.” I glide those fingers up the stem. Back down, Austin Powers style. Just to mess with her.
Just to see if she’ll catch on.
She does, right away. Her gaze follows my movements. She smirks, amused. But then her nostrils flare, and her eyes get a little hazy. Heated.
Aw, I like that heat. That hint of a chink in the armor of her impeccable professionalism.
But then she blinks and the heat is gone, smoothed over by something like victory.
We’ll see about that.
“Xavier?” The waiter appears at my elbow in half a second flat. “Would you mind bringing some cornbread to the table?”
“Ah,” Emma says, glancing up at my face. “You’ve been neglectful of that. Making it moist.”
“I’m going to take my brother’s advice and stop the food puns there. But I figure we could use some extra carbs to soak up five courses of wine.”
“Six. I included a dessert course.”
“I hate dessert wine.”
“Trust me with this one? You’ll like it.”
“You have no idea what I like.”
I run my fingers up the stem again. But this time, her eyes stay glued to mine.
“I’m learning,” she replies steadily. “I’m good at reading the room. Good at reading people.”
“Oh? And what kind of book am I?”
The gleam in her eyes darkens. “I’m not sure yet.”
Her eyes keep flicking to my fingers. The ones wrapped around the elegant stem of my wineglass.
I gently glide them up the stem. Then I pick up the glass and bring it to my lips.
Time to get down to business.
Closing my eyes, I do my best to ignore the heaviness in my groin and focus on the wine instead.
I inhale. My nostrils sting at the immediate hit of alcohol. Behind that, I smell burnt sugar, an almost sticky strawberry note that brings to mind the kind of old, gooey candy you’d get at Grandma’s house.
Emma sips, taking the lead, and I follow. Bubbles wash over my tongue. I wrinkle my nose. Oh, yeah, that sticky sweetness is there, and it is gross. Gotta be something young and cheap.
“You’re smiling,” Emma says, swallowing. “You know this one?”
“I’m smiling because your pick is downright awful. Reminds me of the crap I’d duct tape to my hands in college.”
Emma cocks a brow. “You duct taped bottles of sparkling wine to your hands in college?”
“You’ve clearly never played Edward Forty Hands. It was forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, actually, but it tasted the same.”
“Right.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, still smiling. Like she knows something I don’t. “How about you save all your answers for the end? Make a note on your phone about what you think each wine is. Varietal, vintage, and location.”
No need. I make a mental note—gotta be Prosecco, two or three years old, Italy—and raise my hand for the next round.
Emma’s arm shoots out. She grabs my forearm, the heat of her touch seeping through the sleeve of my jacket, and guides it back down to the table.
Her grip is firm. Confident. So is her voice when she says, “This is my tasting, Beauregard. I call the shots.”
My cock stands at attention as my vision goes red.
Who the hell does Emma think she is?
And since when does she call me Beauregard?
“Keep it moving,” I grunt, slugging what’s left of the sparkling.
Emma’s paired it with a winter kale, Manchego, and chili dusted pecan salad. We eat while we wait for the next pour. I can’t help but notice how she eats like a European, fork in her left hand, knife in her right, and every time she takes a bite her lips linger on the tines of her fork. Gliding over them slowly as she savors every morsel.
When she moans, my knife slips against my plate and almost gouges my eye out.
“Wow,” she says, shaking her head appreciatively. “We gotta give our compliments to Chef Katie. The play on texture in this salad is just—I mean, it’s on a whole other level. The crunchy heat of the pecans with the creamy cheese and the tang of that warm bacon vinaigrette? Kill me now and I’d die happy.”