I draw several ragged breaths into my chest, my heart racing. Her lips are sexy and swollen, her chest rosy, her nipples hard and protruding against the clingy fabric of her blouse. I resist the urge to tweak one.
“Dinner tonight,” I say huskily. “I’ll pick you up here at seven. And this time, Skye, you’re coming to my bed. Get used to the idea. It’s going to happen.”
I turn and walk out the door.
…
Sitting next to me in the back seat of my car, Skye clears her throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”
“My place.”
“Oh? You cook?”
“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”
Skye nods.
Marilyn’s been with me a few years now, and she knows my tastes. Her skills as a chef are top-notch, and I pay her more than she’d earn in a five-star restaurant. The hours are better, too. She’s adept at all cuisines, but Italian is her specialty.
A robust Italian dinner will set the perfect mood for what I have planned for tonight.
Odd, how I want this woman—Skye—so badly. Is it the thrill of the chase because she turned me down last night?
No.
It doesn’t happen often, but I’ve been turned down before. I simply move on.
So what is it about her?
She’s an enigma to me. A woman who’s focused and values control, yet something about her screams submissive to me. My instincts about submission haven’t been wrong yet, so I trust them.
Beyond instinct, though, I know little about Ms. Manning and how she’ll react to my particular tastes in the bedroom.
I know only that I must have her.
We arrive and take the elevator to my place. Sasha greets us at the door.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I say, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”
“Is Annika the chef?” Skye asks.
“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.” I quickly send a text.
Within a few minutes, Annika, gray-haired and spry, whisks into the room, leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word. I prefer my staff to be the silent type. We get along well that way. Christopher’s the most talkative of the bunch, and he’s hardly a conversational wizard.
A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil from the Italian meal Marilyn prepared. I inhale the scent again, my mouth already watering. I specifically requested that she not cook lasagna. It’s too filling for what I have planned for later this evening. Penne arrabiata, full of spicy heat, and veal Marsala, less spicy and more filling but not so much to make a person uncomfortable after the meal.
Skye stands, fidgeting with her hands and looking delectable.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say.
Her lips quiver just a touch, and she continues fiddling with her fingers.
She’s nervous, of course. But I don’t want her to be nervous. Perhaps a drink will help.
“Wine?” I ask. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”