Black Obsidian (Obsidian 1)

She wore a short black dress with a deep cut in the front. When she was close enough, I could catch a glimpse of her cleavage. When I first saw her in the bar, I didn’t look because I was trying to be polite. But now that she dressed that way a second time, I took her invitation and looked—and didn’t bother hiding it. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She took off her black coat and placed it on the back of her chair.

I pulled the chair out for her, treating her exactly the way she wanted to be treated. Without knowing much about her, I could tell she was a good girl. She wanted the respect she deserved and expected a man to treat her like a queen.

I could treat her like a goddess.

But I wanted something in return.

I sat across from her and admired the curls in her hair. They were open and long, making the strands frame her face and highlight her naturally flawless features. Her small nose was perfectly centered, and she wore dark makeup around her eyes that made her look sexier than she already was. I pictured that hair wrapped around my fist. Those thick curls would be easy to hook around my palm so I could yank her head back while I fucked her hard in the ass.

My cock sprang to life in record time.

She had rounded shoulders and slender arms. Her neck was one of her best features. It was curved and long, giving her an air of royalty. A gold necklace was around her throat with a circle pendant at the bottom.

I realized I’d been staring for a long time without saying a word. “I love the way you’ve done your hair.”

“Oh, thanks.” She tucked a strand behind her ear. “I like the way you’ve done yours too.”

I didn’t do anything at all. “Thanks.” I returned to picturing my hand wrapped around her hair until I finally forced myself to calm the hell down. “I ordered some wine. Would you like some?” I grabbed the bottle and her glass and began to pour it without waiting for an answer.

She answered when I was nearly finished. “I’d love some.” She took a sip before she eyed her menu. Her chest rose and fell at a steady rate, and her cheeks weren’t flushed like the last time I saw her. She was calm and in control, just as she was in that bar. Her embarrassment from her phone conversation with her friend was in the past. “Everything looks good.”

“Then order everything. I just hope they have enough to-go boxes.”

She chuckled before she put the menu to the side. “I could stop by the homeless shelter and give everyone a special treat.”

“They’d go crazy for some Pad Thai.”

We ordered our food and the waiter disappeared once more, leaving us to the privacy of our corner. I wished the table wasn’t so large and she wasn’t so far away. I wanted to wrap my fingers around her wrist and hold her still. But even if I could, that would never happen—because she would see me for what I really was.

She looked so beautiful by candlelight that I wanted to command her to touch herself, to sink her fingers underneath her dress and panties. I wanted her to press her fingers to her clit and watch my face as she got herself off—thinking about me. The words were heavy on my tongue, but I kept them back. I would have to get my dominance under control before I did something I couldn’t take back. “How was your day?”

“Good. I had a lot of work at the office. Tomorrow, I’m volunteering at the soup kitchen.”

I was all about helping people, but I didn’t give up my weekends for anything—except her. “Can I join you?”

“Really?” Her mouth instantly formed a smile.

“Of course. We can get lunch afterward.”

“That would be fun. Have you volunteered before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well, bring some old clothes. You’ll probably get dirty.”

Her choice of words got me hard in my slacks. My eyes narrowed on her face, and I pictured kissing her hard on the mouth.

She caught on to my reaction but didn’t blush. “And I’ll get dirty too.”

Now she was just toying with me.

The waiter arrived with our food, and I was irritated to see she’d ordered another salad. It wasn’t big enough to constitute as a meal and it hardly looked satisfying. If she were my submissive, she wouldn’t be allowed to order a salad ever again. She would get whatever I ordered for her—and she would eat the entire fucking thing. “Were you born in New York?”

“Yeah. In Manhattan.”

She just lied to me. If she had been born here, Charles would have known about it. But since I couldn’t tell her I was a stalker and did a background check on her, I couldn’t call her out on her shit.