Chapter 20

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Saverio

W e're quiet during our meal. I give Anya time to come to grips with what went down. I want her to be clear about my intentions and where I'm planning on taking this arrangement , which, in good time, will be straight to my bed.

When I come out of the bathroom after showering and dressing in pajama bottoms, she's curled up under the covers, fast asleep. Her body is so small she looks lost on the king size mattress. I go over and brush a curl from her forehead, admiring her stunning features. With that peaches-and-cream complexion, she appears like a princess straight from a fairytale, like one of those cartoon images in which the character has a flawless skin with a pretty pink blush on her cheeks and a few golden stars dotting her nose. Almost too perfect to be real.

My good girl appears even more innocent in her sleep. She doesn't stir as I caress the contours of her face. Tenderness steals over me. The tiredness is normal. Her body is going through enormous changes that take their pound of flesh.

The miracle that women are never ceases to fill me with awe. The thought that a little person is growing inside her womb bowls me over every time. It's both wondrous and fucking terrifying. I want to worship her body for its incredible ability of nurturing life and protect her at the same time from everything that can go wrong. There are shitloads of complications that can happen before and during birth.

The fear and marvel live side by side in my chest. Nothing can happen to my treasure. She's so goddamn gorgeous. So frail and vulnerable. I've always found pregnant women beautiful, but when Anya's belly grows big with her baby, she's going to be ethereal. At the idea, an ugly green monster rears its head inside me. Selfishly, I want to lock her up so that only I can enjoy the sight of her. I've not even been inside her yet, and I already want to kill any man who dares to look her way.

Pushing aside the violent thoughts that will only agitate me and ruin my rest, I get into bed. I stay on my side, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms lest I wake her.

When my alarm goes off at five, she's still sleeping like she's been knocked out cold.

I get up quietly, making sure I don't disturb her, and dress in the bathroom before leaving for my morning jog and workout in the gym.

She's having breakfast in the kitchen when I return.

"Sleep well?" I ask, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Yes." She gives me a shy look. "I didn't hear you come to bed."

I unscrew the cap and take a long drink. "You slept deeply."

She frowns. "For a change."

"Maybe the vitamins are helping already."

The puzzled look remains on her face. "Maybe."

"I'll drive you to work. Just give me a couple of minutes to shower."

"Don't put yourself out," she says quickly. "Sacrificing your driver is already more than generous."

I flash her a smile as I grab a piece of toast from her plate on my way to the door and bite into it. "It's no trouble at all." Walking from the kitchen, I add, "By the way, we're going out tonight."

"Where to?" she calls after me, sounding apprehensive.

"After Dark. Be ready at eight."

Silence follows me down the hallway.

The strenuous workout did little to alleviate the sexual frustration that leaves me with a permanently hard cock. Not that I'm complaining. On the contrary. After my long unresponsive spell, I'm only too happy that my equipment functions normally again. I relieve my blue balls with a hand job in the shower, thinking of Anya's tight ass and pert tits as I come in my fist.

I'm downstairs in ten, ready to drive her to work. Instead of taking the car Kevin uses, I opt for the 1967 Chevrolet Corvette L88 Coupe that I keep in the double garage. With a fire-engine red exterior and matching leather seats, it's one of my favorite toys. Only twenty L88's were built in 1967. It's the crown jewel of the Corvette collection. The vintage sports car set me back just under four million.

I open her door, seat her, and fasten her safety belt. After testing the hold to make sure the clip locked properly, I hop in beside her.

Particularly proud of this baby, I ask, "What do you think?"

"Impressive," she says in a neutral tone.

I start the engine, enjoying the powerful roar of the motor. "Would you like to drive it?"

She looks at me quickly. "You'd let me?"

"Sure, once you get your driver's license." At the arch of her brow, I add, "And before you ask how I know you don't have one, I know everything about you that matters."

She huffs. "I'm not going to get a license."

I steal a quick glance at her as I pull through the gates. "Why not?"

She shrugs. "I'm not going to buy a car anytime soon."

"I'll teach you. It's not difficult."

She stares at me as if she's trying to figure me out. "Why?"

Always appreciating the fast acceleration, I change the gears and step on the gas. "It's important to be autonomous. What if, one day, you're in a place or a situation where you don't have access to a driver or public transport?"

"Are you always such a doomsday prophet?"

I grin. "I prefer to be prepared."

"For what?"

This time, when I take my eyes off the road for a second to look at her, my tone is serious. "For everything."

She ponders that in silence.

Outside her office building, I get out to open her door. We're ten minutes early. A few of her colleagues are arriving, carrying disposable cups with coffee shop logos. They shoot curious glances at us as I help her from the car.

"Thanks," she says, ducking her head before trying to scoot around me.

I lock my hands around her hips. "Not so fast."

She looks up with a question in her eyes. In the bight fall sun, those amber pools glitter like gold. She's wearing one of her old dresses, a long-sleeved lilac one, and her flat ballerina shoes. Standing there in that simple dress that falls softly around her curves with the sunlight reflected in her flaming red hair, she's the most beautiful sight I've seen.

I drag her flush against my body. "You're not leaving without saying goodbye properly, are you?"

She glances over her shoulder at the people who slowed down on the sidewalk. "Is this necessary?"

"Absolutely." My smile is wicked. "It won't look good for our relationship if I let you get away without a kiss."

She parts her lips to no doubt argue, but before she can utter a word, I frame her face between my palms and tip her head back. Those gorgeous eyes are wide open and alert, shining with spirit and life. Her lips are pink and plump, and I already know they're going to taste like strawberries when I lower my mouth to hers.

I wasn't planning on giving her more than a peck on the lips, but the minute I brush my mouth over hers, I forget about my intention of keeping the kiss decent. I still possess enough control not to stick my tongue down her throat in front of the witnesses who stop to gawk, but I can't help eating her lips while I hold her face in a tender grip.

It's last night all over. I'm hard in a second, needing relief like never before. Even as I fantasize about making her wrap her soft hands around my length, or, better yet, those lips I'm devouring, I bring the kiss to a slow halt. I'm already addicted to her flavor, but this isn't the time or the place.

She stares at me with big albeit hazy eyes when I pull away. A slow smile curves my lips. As much as she'll deny it, she's not unaffected.

"Have a good day, my love ," I say, pressing a last chaste kiss to her forehead before setting her free.

She lowers her lashes and pulls the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder before dashing to the entrance of the building. Her colleagues went ahead. They look at me through the glass doors, straining their necks for a better view.

If that didn't look real, nothing will. That's the secret. Every second of that kiss was real.

When I leave her office, the drive is less enjoyable. I like it better when she's next to me, when I can study her expression and her mannerisms and figure her out. I haven't had this much fun in ages.

Giorgio waits in the office at the club. Antonio is there, working on the books at the desk in the corner. From the permanent crease on his forehead and the sweat that stains the armpits of his jacket, I gather it's not going well.

It's a tough job, a complicated one that requires precision. Lewis was damn good at it. It's a pity he got greedy.

I use the rest of the day to check out the candidates for Lewis's replacement. We need someone who's not only excellent at his occupation but also a man who can be bought.

After drawing up a shortlist that I email to Luigi, I research a few prenatal classes. They use different methodologies, and the reviews vary between good and poor feedback. It's confusing to say the least.

"Fuck it," I mumble, shutting the laptop.

"What was that?" Giorgio asks from where he sits with his ankles crossed on Antonio's desk, shoving a hotdog down his throat while babysitting his cousin.

I send a text message to Nicole. "Nothing."

"You're in a mood," he says, wiping mustard from his mouth with his hand.

Nicole replies a second later with a link. It opens on a website of a birth preparation course that uses sophrology. The comments from couples who took the class are glowing. The waiting period to get onto the list is almost two years, but Nicole puts in a word for me.

One minute later, I've enrolled Anya from her second trimester.

Giorgio crumples the empty wrapper in a fist and launches it through the air, hitting me on the forehead. "What are you so fucking busy with?"

"Securing us a new bookkeeper." I grin at Antonio, who goes pale. "Don't worry. Your days aren't numbered. We're just going to relieve you of crunching numbers."

Giorgio laughs.

Antonio's lips twitch in a gesture that's more nervous than amused.

A reply comes back from Luigi, telling me to set up the interviews. For the next hour, I make the necessary calls.

At five, I pick Anya up from work as promised. On our way home, the security detail at the house informs me that her personal belongings arrived.

"Not too tired?" I ask as I lead her into the house with a hand on the small of her back.

She shakes her head.

I take her bag and leave it on the entrance table. "What about the dizzy spells?"

"I had one this morning, but it's not as bad as before."

I usher her toward the stairs, removing my jacket in the walk. "If it happens again, I want you to call me."

"Why? What difference will it make?"

"I'll come over. We'll go to Nicole for a checkup. She's in agreement with the course of action the doctor who ran your tests took, but I'm not taking a risk of you fainting again."

"You're overreacting." She adds with sarcasm, "You're taking the value you place on your freedom to a different level."

"You'll call me, Anya. The matter is closed for discussion."

She purses her lips.

In the dressing room, she goes to her side while I take a suit from the closet.

"I'll shower in one of the guest bathrooms," I say. "You can use the master bathroom."

She doesn't reply. She only follows my exit with her gaze.

When I return dressed and groomed twenty minutes later, she stands in front of the closet with an adorable frown on her forehead. Her hair is brushed out in glossy, tamed curls, and her make-up is done with a dusting of golden eyeshadow and glittery red lipstick, but she wears nothing but a towel around her body.

The picture is enticing enough to have my cock strain in my pants.

She flips through the dresses and removes a black number. Biting her lip, she holds it up in the air. It's pretty, but it's a cocktail dress. It's not suited for the club. The women can be bitches, and if she goes wearing that, they'll pull her apart.

"The green one," I say.

She looks at me from over her shoulder, dragging her gaze over my fitted white shirt and the black waistcoat that matches my slacks. Her evaluation ends on my Italian shoes.

"Have you been to After Dark?" I ask.

She puts the black dress back and slips the green one from the hanger. "I haven't been clubbing much."

No, she was too busy working her ass off to take care of her mother when it was her mother's duty to take care of her. I know what that's like. In that regard, we're the same. That's where the similarity ends. She's everything that's innocent and pure, whereas I'm the personification of violence and sin.

"The clubs I've been to don't serve champagne and caviar," she says, turning the dress this way and that. "Beer in a plastic cup is more what I'm used to."

"There's no doubt After Dark is in a different league. The clientele is supercilious."

"Yes." She turns with the dress in her hands. "You need an invitation to get in. I read all about it."

"Not all," I warn. "Whatever happens tonight, don't let them see what you think. Be careful not to show them anything, even if the conversation and their behavior shock you."

"I'm not a prude."

I smile. That's debatable.

"And I'm not as easy as that to read," she adds.

"You, my treasure, wear your heart on your sleeve."

She lifts her chin. "I can hold my own."

That is a fact. "The people you'll meet tonight are like sharks. Just keep a poker face and follow my cue." I add with caution, "Luigi and Giorgio will be there."

She stiffens. "Do I have to go?"

"I wouldn't make you sit through the ordeal if it weren't necessary. It's one of those events where we're expected to bring our partners. It'll look strange if I don't take my girlfriend. People will think I don't care about you. Not taking the woman I claimed as mine will be disrespectful toward you. The message it'll send is that you're nobody to me. That's not?—"

"Okay," she says in an impatient tone. "I get it."

"Say as little as possible. Let me do the talking."

She walks to the bathroom without acknowledging my instruction and returns a few minutes later, dressed in the shamrock green frock.

I was going to tell her to grab a shawl to cover her shoulders because the evening is fresh, but words escape me as I look at her.

Fuck.

Framed with the full-length mirror at her back, she takes my breath away. The green of the dress compliments the vibrant color of her flaming red hair. The triangular top embroidered with emerald crystals wraps around her firm breasts and crisscrosses over the milky expanse of her back with spaghetti straps. The silk of the skirt fits snugly over her hips and dips with a V over the top of her ass.

She's a fucking goddess. When I chose the dress, I envisioned how good she'd look in it, but my most vivid imagination couldn't do the picture justice.

At my silence, uncertainty flickers in her eyes. "Is the fit too tight?" She lifts an arm and glances at her boob. "Maybe it's too revealing."

"No," I say, my voice gruff. "It's perfect."

Turning to adjust my hard-on, I fetch the strappy green heels from the closet cubbyholes filled with shoes.

"Sit," I order, pointing at the padded stool in the center of the dressing room.

She flops onto the seat without arguing.

I go down in front of her on one knee like a man about to propose and take her small, narrow foot in my hands. The arch of the bridge is elegant. Her toes are slender and perfectly proportioned, forming a diagonal line from the big to the small one. I brush my palm over the top and wrap my fingers around her ankle. Her bones are so small my fingers overlap. I linger for a second longer than necessary before slipping the shoe over her heel and fastening the thin strap.

When I lift my gaze to hers, she's watching me. A frown pleats her forehead but she doesn't voice the question that burns in her pretty eyes. She doesn't ask what I'm doing even though I won't mind giving her the answer. It's simple. I'm taking care of her.

After fitting the other shoe, I straighten and get a wrap from the drawer that I drape around her shoulders. "Would you like to take a bag?"

Rachele hated carrying a bag to the club. She used to drop her lipstick in my jacket pocket when we went out. The day she started carrying a bag was the day I knew something was amiss.

Fuck that.

I'm not going to compare them. I'm an asshole, but I refuse to be that man.

Anya nods, pulling me back to the present. To her.

I get the matching green bag with the crystal detail that's still wrapped in tissue paper. Then I wait for her to prepare the bag, watching with incurable fascination what she stuffs in there, which includes tissues, strawberry gum, her phone, and a tube of lipstick.

After pulling on my jacket, I offer her an arm and lead her downstairs. I'm mindful of her heels, slowing my step so that she can keep up and to ensure she doesn't twist an ankle or break her neck.

"The dress and the shoes," she says, stealing a sidelong glance at me. "They fit me."

I flash her a smile. "Of course they do."

She narrows her eyes. "How did you know my size?"

My smile stretches into a grin. If she's baiting me to admit that I went through her drawers like a stalker, I don't mind telling her the truth. "How do you think?"

"You're despicable." Anger taints her tone. "You could've asked."

I open the front door and guide her onto the porch. "Where's the fun in that?"

Kevin waits outside. He opens the back door of the car.

She gives me a cutting look as I help her inside.

Once I've buckled her in and secured my own safety belt, I tell Kevin to go. A car with bodyguards follows.

"Who knows our relationship isn't real?" she asks as soon as the partition is up.

"Only Luigi and Giorgio. As for the rest, we're as real as two people in love can get."

She nods and turns her face to the window, seemingly lost in her thoughts.

We arrive a good half an hour early. I planned it like that for two reasons. One, I want her to settle in and get comfortable before the mob arrives, and two, I don't want to wait too long before I feed her.

A doorman takes my jacket and her wrap to check into the cloak room before he escorts us to the main area.

The dance floor opens after midnight. Until then, the background music is soft enough to allow for conversation. The interior is decked out in black chrome and smoked glass, creating a dark but glitzy ambience with the overhead dim lights. A chandelier with fat purple crystals hangs like a giant bunch of grapes from the ceiling. The bar counter runs along the length of the room. A few high tables and padded bar stools are placed on a raised platform that overlooks the circular floor in the center. The place always smells sweet from the smoke machines and the floor wash.

I intertwine our fingers and escort Anya past the plum loveseats with velvet upholstery and carved golden armrests and up the stairs where paintings line the walls. The life-size portraits depict half-naked women in white wigs, fourteenth century Renaissance bodices, and pantyhose with ribbons on the thighs. Their modern chunky platform heels in hot pink and dayglow yellow form an odd contrast with the historical scenery. The women pose with sultry expressions, their legs spread wide and their feet turned inward, tethering between vulgarity and innocence. I suppose Luigi's taste in art has always been vulgar.

Anya stares at the prints as we mount the stairs. When we exit on the gallery, I clench my teeth. Our party is already there, seated in the VIP section. A bottle of vodka chills in an ice bucket on the table. The shot glasses that are scattered around indicate they started the celebration early.

Luigi did it on purpose. He told me to come later than everyone, and it can only be for one reason—to put Anya on the spot. Why? Just because he can. Just because he's a mean motherfucker who doesn't need a reason to hate someone.

At the sight of Luigi and Giorgio, Anya tenses. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Raphael and Elena are seated on their left. Dante and a blonde are on the end. I don't bother with the men and women occupying the other tables. They're minions in the organization. None of them poses a threat.

The only two empty seats are on Giorgio's right. They're reserved for us.

The conversation goes quiet when we approach. Plastering a smile on my face, I introduce Anya to the group. Dante stares at her with such unabashed astonishment that his companion's back goes stiff. The woman glares at Anya without even trying to hide her animosity. For that reason alone, I don't ask her name, and Dante doesn't offer.

Elena drags a narrow-eyed gaze over Anya, evaluating the dress and the shoes. Being Rachele's cousin, her loyalty will be with my ex. No matter how sweet or agreeable Anya is, Elena will be a bitch. I expected it. However, it's the unconcealed curiosity in Raphael's eyes that gets my hackles up.

The asshole shakes my hand, but when he extends a hand toward Anya, I fix him with a look that says I'll motherfucking flatten him to the ground if he touches her while pulling her with a very clear message out of his reach. He blinks as I tuck her against my side and drape a possessive arm around her shoulders. Giving a small, surprised smile, he lowers his arm. Giorgio's gaze ping-pongs between us as if he's watching a tennis match.

Luigi waves a hand. "Sit." His tone is jovial, but I don't miss the sharp observation that passes through his eyes when he looks at Anya. "You're not going to stand all night, are you?"

Dante and his date move back their chairs, making space for us to pass. I take the seat on Giorgio's right. When Anya makes to lower herself in the chair next to mine, I lock my hands around her waist and pull her onto my lap. Her lips part on a soft gasp as her ass lands on my groin.

Nuzzling her neck, I whisper in her ear, "Your place is here," before shifting her into a comfortable position in my arms.

The people around the table stare. Dante looks on with an open mouth while Elena's eyes bulge in her head. Luigi pinches his lips together. Let them get their fill. I don't give a damn. Anya is mine, and I'll make sure everyone understands that, Anya included.

Giorgio takes a cigarette from the pack on the table. When he shoves it between his lips, I rip the cigarette from his mouth and throw it in the ashtray.

"No smoking around Anya," I say in a rough voice.

At the hostile tone I never use with him, he raises a brow.

I look him straight in the eye. "We have ladies at the table."

"My apologies, ladies," he says, lifting his palms in a mock gesture of surrender. "That was inconsiderate of me."

Luigi removes a cigar from his inside pocket and rolls it between his fingers. "I was going to light this to celebrate our business success."

"Maybe outside on the balcony when we toast with brandy." I look pointedly at the vodka. No one here drinks fucking vodka, which means Raphael ordered it. "Otherwise we'll have to ask the ladies to entertain themselves downstairs alone." I give Anya a heated look. "And I have no intention of letting her out of my sight. An unsuspecting fellow may look her way, and that will end in bloodshed."

Dante utters a boisterous laugh.

My statement is not funny in the least. I mean it. I'll break arms and legs if I catch anyone as much as glancing in her direction. Forget that. I'll just start shooting off heads. Dante knows that as well as every other person in the room, but he's making light of the situation. Saving the day—or in this case, the ambience—is in his nature. As lethal as he can be, he hates conflict unless it's the physical kind that involves guns or knives.

"You're right," Luigi drawls, putting the cigar away. "It'll be a rude to let the ladies entertain themselves, not to mention what a pity it'll be to deprive ourselves of the beauty they add to our company."

The blonde who's hanging on Dante's arm bats her eyelashes. If she believes the false compliment Luigi spewed, she's dumber than an ostrich.

Elena leans forward, asking with a little too much interest, "So, Anya, how did you and Sav meet?"

While Anya tells the story I made up, I signal a waitress and order a bottle of brandy as well as a mocktail with freshly squeezed fruit juice for Anya.

"Nothing artificial and no colorants or preservatives," I tell the waitress. "Or you and the barman are dead."

She scurries away to put in my request at the bar just as Anya wraps up her story.

"What kind of earring was it?" Elena asks. "Was it valuable? A diamond?"

"A pearl," Anya says without missing a beat. "Its value is sentimental. My mother gave the earrings to me for my eighteenth birthday."

"How romantic," Elena says with a saccharine smile, sliding her gaze my way.

I place my hand on Anya's thigh, enjoying the warmth of her body under the cool silk of the dress. "Indeed."

The conversation turns to Elena and Raphael's upcoming wedding. The blonde poses questions about when and where it's going to be, clasping Dante's hand and telling him how much she loves weddings.

Dream on, honey. He's not taking you.

After Elena's interrogation, no one puts Anya under fire again, but their attention stays fixed on her. Dante and Elena keep on stealing glances in her direction. Giorgio wisely doesn't wink or smirk or dare to look at the woman on my lap. Only Luigi rests his gaze on her from time to time, hiding his dislike behind a two-faced smile.

Anya's body stays rigid in my arms, but she makes me proud, doing a damn good job of keeping up the show. Even as she smiles and laughs at appropriate times, she clutches her bag in a death grip on her lap. I wrap one arm around her middle, holding her close to me, and rub a hand over her back until the tension slowly leaves her muscles and she eventually relaxes a little against me.

Giorgio tells one of his bad jokes, inviting an eye roll from Elena and a mocking smile from Raphael. Luckily, the waitress cuts him short when she arrives with our drinks, and not a minute too soon. Another carries a tray with bite-sized finger food.

I take Anya's bag and leave it on the table to free her hands. Before giving her the mocktail, I take a sip to make sure it's free of alcohol and that it tastes good. Satisfied, I kiss her lips and pass her the drink.

When the waitress offers us food, I inspect the selection and load a plate with an assortment of healthy options. Choosing a tomato and cheese tart, I pop it into Anya's mouth. When she's swallowed, I feed her a miniature quiche. If I'm picky about what she eats, it's to make sure she and the baby are healthy. I avoid the dessert tarts, knowing she doesn't like sweets, but I offer her a tiny strawberry pavlova next.

As it goes at these parties, we avoid talking business. We enquire about the women's families and the men's hobbies. Unavoidably, the discussion always leads to sport. If Anya is quiet, no one questions her silence. They'll assume she's not a fan of soccer. In between taking a few canapés for myself, I feed her until she tells me she's had enough.

Sadly, it's almost midnight before Luigi makes the toast and we can leave. After sending a text message to Kevin, who waits in the underground parking lot, I lift Anya to her feet and take her hand as we say our goodbyes. The women stare after her when I lead her across the gallery. They may think they're discreet in their evaluation, but when I turn my head, I catch them sizing her up.

I keep a hand on her hip not only to steady her on the stairs that she has to navigate in her high heels but also to show every man in the room that she's taken. Mine. To look the other way. Lest they want a bullet in their brains.

The DJ is in his box, turning up the volume for tonight's opening song. The floor is already packed. There are way too many gyrating bodies for my liking. The chance of Anya getting a fist or an elbow in the stomach is too big. I'm getting her the fuck out of here.

Using my arm as a barrier, I clear a path through the throng while catching the doorman's eye.

Not two seconds later, two bouncers come toward us, pushing people out of their way.

"Stand aside," they say, cordoning off the partygoers to make space.

Holding Anya under the shelter of my arm, I escort her to the elevator where a man waits with her wrap and my jacket. I take her wrap and hang my jacket over her shoulders before leading her downstairs. I only breathe easier once we're outside, far away from the shoving and bumping.

"Not too cold?" I ask, hugging her closer so that she can borrow heat from my chest. The last thing I want is for her to get sick.

"Do people always jump when you click your fingers?"

I look at her. "What do you mean?"

"They parted for you like the sea for Moses."

"Someone could've bumped into you. I wasn't going to risk it."

"So you did that for me," she says with a tilt of her lips.

I rub her arm to warm her. "Of course."

"Is that how you treat all women?"

I frown. "Like what?"

"Keep them on your lap, test their drinks for poison, and feed them only the food they prefer."

I raise a brow. "Isn't that the norm?"

"Not by a long shot. On the few dates I've been, I had to fight my way to the bar to buy cheap beer for us. Half of the time, the guy got the last seat, which left me standing. If dinner was involved, I ordered whatever I could afford. No one paid attention to my menu choices. When it was time to go home, we said our goodbyes before I walked to the nearest subway station."

What she tells me makes my vision fray around the edges. I plant my hands around her middle and turn her to face me. "I have two things to say to you. One, those assholes who treated you like that deserve to die. Two, don't tell me about the times you were out with other men unless you want me to force their names out of you and go after every single one of those losers and kill them. Got that?"

She stares at me with big eyes.

"Actually, make that three things." I take her hand and cup it over the raging hard-on in my pants. "This isn't for all women. This is only for you."

She opens and closes her mouth, looking as surprised—shocked maybe—as I am, because I didn't plan on telling her that.

Kevin pulls up, but neither of us moves.

Her warm palm on the achingly hard length of my cock feels so good I'm tempted to lock my fingers around her wrist and use her hand for my selfish pleasure. Alas, we're out in the open. More importantly, she's outside in the cold.

Setting her hand free from where I trapped it, I open the car door and grip her fingers to help her down the sidewalk. "Careful. There's a step."

She lets me bundle her inside the back and secure her seatbelt.

When I shift onto the seat next to her, she shoots me a sidelong look.

"What?" I say, my voice thick with the lust that's been riding me hard since she walked into my life.

Biting her lip, she puts her hand on my thigh. The touch is tentative and uncertain. Sweet.

"The other night in your kitchen … you made me feel good," she says when Kevin pulls off. "I want to return the favor."

I quirk an eyebrow. "What exactly are you offering?"

She clears her throat. "You know."

"There are five possibilities in that equation—hands, mouth, tits, ass, and pussy."

In the dim door lights, her cheeks flush tomato red.

"Hands?" she says with too much uncertainty for someone who just signed up to get me off.

Covering her hand with mine, I say, "I don't want your favors. Come to me again when you really want to do it, and I'll consider your offer."