“Let’s start off with a little drink, love.”
“Love?” I repeat, before I can think it through. I’m not protesting, though. I like it. I like it a lot.
Love. Doll. I wonder if he’ll pull out the honey and sweetheart.
No one, not even my mother, ever called me by a term of endearment. I’ve only been with a few men, and they weren’t the sappy name types, either. But this man…
“Bet you call everyone love.”
He shakes his head. “Actually, can’t say that I do,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “It feels good, somehow right, to call you that, like it belongs to you. And since you haven’t given me your real name, I’ll have fun coming up with your nickname.”
When he walks to the loaded sideboard, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushes my bare arm. I shiver at his nearness, at the outrageously masculine feel of him beside me.
“And since you clearly like to push your boundaries,” he says in an almost thoughtful tone, “we’ll have to be sure we have fun with that, too.”
Huh. Hmm. Boundaries.
“Boundaries?” I ask softly.
I want to know. My mind races with curiosity and fear-laced wonder. So we’ve got a lineup of firsts going here.
First time calling a man Daddy.
First time a man ever called me doll.
First time a man ever said I had boundaries.
I’ve read a few books and watched a few shows, but even though I’m not inexperienced, I’m still curious how that works. “So are you, like, a Dom?” I ask him.
“Not sure what the hell that is,” he responds, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he truly doesn’t. “What is it?”
My cheeks heat. If he were to look at me now, he’d say I don’t have a clue. He wouldn’t be wrong.
“Like… I’m not totally sure, but I think it has something to do with… bossing people around, telling them what to do…”
He pulls out a square decanter with bourbon in it, and tips himself a few fingers into a stout glass. “Bourbon?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I force a smile.
“Wine?” I shake my head.
“You want a drink at all?” he asks.
I think it over. Normally, I wouldn’t drink on a blind date or… whatever this is. But something tells me I might enjoy a little liquid courage.
I swallow hard. “Surprise me.” But I’m not dumb enough to let him slip something in my drink, so I walk over beside him to watch.
“I’m not the kind of guy who’s gonna drug you, doll,” he says. “And something tells me you’re not the type who’d fall for a guy who did.”
Ah. The old buttering up technique.
It’s working.
No, I’m not. I’m the girl who busts guys who drug women’s drinks, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Here,” he says, holding his palms up. “Watch me.”
I do. I watch him use a pair of silver tongs to grab a few ice cubes and place them in the glass, and I don’t miss the detail that the ice was waiting for us before we arrived. Prepared for the evening, then, or did he somehow signal for preparations? Not sure when he would’ve had the chance.
Then he takes a decanter and tips a small dribble in, before he caps it, adds vodka from a clear bottle, and gives it a stir.
“So there’s basically like nothing but alcohol in there. I mean, not that I’m disapproving.”
He shrugs and the corner of his full, perfect lips tips upward. “Diluted with a little ice, no?”
“Ah, yes. I’m sure that counts.” I enjoy tinging my words with a made-up accent. It lets me really lean into the whole anonymous-night thing.
“It counts.”
I take a sip and murmur in approval. Smooth, with a bit of a bite, it goes down real easy.
His lips quirk in an almost-smile again, and he reaches for a bottle of wine. I watch as he effortlessly opens it.
“Wow,” I mutter. “You’re good at that.”
A little modest shrug. “I’m experienced. My family owns—”
He stops himself before he finishes the sentence and shakes his head. “Ah, ah. You almost seduced me into revealing more personal information. Not gonna happen.”
“Seduced?” I say, before I take another sip of the drink. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”
My voice sounds a bit distant and husky. I’m leaning into this and loving it.
He hisses in a breath. I’m impressed with how easily he’s turned on. “You will soon, won’t you, doll.” Somehow, he makes it a statement and not a question.
I nod slowly, savoring the tension between us that heats with a gradual simmer.
“Tell me what you like,” he says. I feel as if a light veil’s been placed over my eyes, everything’s a bit hazy and muted from the effects of the alcohol.
“What I like?” I repeat. I lean against the arm of an ivory leather chair as soft as butter. “This chair’s nice. If I could fold this chair up and put it in my bag, I would.”