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She impresses me even more. Not everyone would catch that. “True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”

“What’s that ace tonight?”

I lower my eyelids slightly, measuring my next words. “I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early.”

She draws in another deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”

“Braden,” I say again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”

A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”

“Absolutely, Cory,” I say. “Skye?”

“Vodka martini,” she says. “Extra olives.”

“Any particular vodka?”

“Grey Goose?”

Cory nods and then turns to me.

“Wild Turkey on the rocks.” All the bartenders here know I mean one rock.

Still my favorite, even though I can afford the top-shelf brands now. I guess a guy never really leaves his roots. Coming of age in South Boston, I was lucky to be able to afford a six-pack on a Saturday night.

“Very good. Any appetizers?” Cory asks.

“Yes. A dozen of your best oysters on the half shell, please.”

“Any particular ones you want to try tonight?” he asks.

“Three of the Blue Point, and you choose the rest.” I nod to Skye. “Do you want anything else?”

She shakes her head. “I love raw oysters.”

I smile—a big one. A woman who loves raw oysters. Not that a person who loves raw oysters is hard to come by in Boston, but I can’t wait to eat oysters with Skye Manning. Already, I know it’s going to drive me wild.

I say nothing. I like silence. I’m comfortable in silence. Most women—at least most women who date me—aren’t. Except for Skye Manning. She doesn’t try to make the dreaded forced conversation, and I appreciate her all the more.

A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive.

I lift my glass to my lips and take a drink. The bourbon is smoky and slightly harsh, and I love it. I let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, let it glide over every inch of my mouth before it trickles down my throat.

And I wonder how my cock will feel jammed up against the back of Skye Manning’s throat.

Later, I’ll find out.

“Tell me,” I say after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”

“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”

“For her influencing?”

“Yeah.”

“But those are selfies.”

“Actually, they’re not. I take the pictures, and she positions her arm so that it looks like a selfie to the untrained eye.”


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