Chapter 16

16

June

I ignore him and keep walking. He overtakes me and plants his bulk in between me and the path to the exit.

"Let me pass, Sir." I swallow.

He draws in a sharp breath. I sense the tension in him ratcheting up. It surprises me enough to raise my gaze to his. When his blue eyes blaze at me, I realize it's a mistake. I'm caught up in the sapphire depths, caught up in the vortex of emotions that I glimpse, until an avalanche of ice seems to crash down and erect a wall between us.

"I didn't give you permission to leave," he says through gritted teeth.

"My work here is done. I need to head back." I love it when he treats me as his plaything. I want to please him. I work hard so I can hear those words of praise from his gorgeous mouth. But I also know when he's frustrated with himself. I know he's drawn toward me, but he also wants to resist feeling anything for me—that's when he lashes out, hoping to hurt me. And this time, he did. And I... I won't stand for that. It satisfies something in me to obey him. I love for him to order me to do his bidding, but he also has to respect me.

"You go home when I tell you to and not before," he growls.

I firm my lips. "Why should I stay, when all you've done is insult me all evening?"

A bleak look enters his eyes. For a second, I glimpse his confusion, and it mirrors the conflicted feelings I harbor toward him. He's the most conceited, egotistical man I've ever met. And the most powerful. And the most charismatic. And I hate him. And want him. And can't stand him. And I still want him. Argh! Doesn't change the fact that he caused me distress with his words.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

My jaw drops. "Did you just apologize?"

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I should not have said what I did earlier. That was rude and insufferable of me."

"And?" I prompt.

He sighs. "And I have a lot on my mind. I'm pissed off about a few things, and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."

I blink slowly. "Does this have anything to do with your grandfather's visit?"

His gaze widens almost imperceptibly—but I've learned his tells—then he wipes the surprise from his features. Guess he didn't think I was insightful enough to figure that out. I'm more astute than he gives me credit for. I wouldn't have navigated my minefield of a childhood and reached here if I weren't.

He takes a step back, then nods toward the table behind us. "Please, join me for dinner?"

It's a request, not a command. And that is surprising.

"I promise to be civil." His tone is genuine enough that I feel my defenses melt. But I'm not willing to give in yet.

"Tell me how you knew I was vegan? And that I prefer white wine to red?"

It's a gamble, trying to negotiate that information out of him, but if I don't try to hold onto my self-esteem, then he'll walk over me. And even if he is my boss and he holds the power in this relationship, he needs me as his assistant .

No man can run a big company without a good team, and from what I've seen, he hasn't done much to build relationships with his. I have the people skills he's lacking, and that's just one reason I'm indispensable. He needs me, all right. And whether he says it aloud or not, he's too shrewd not to realize it.

He glares at me, not happy I'm questioning him, and I admit, my inclination is to lower my gaze, but I resist. I dig my heels into the floor, and even as the color drains from my face under the force of his scrutiny, I hold his gaze.

A flicker of something—admiration, maybe? —flashes in his eyes. Then it's gone so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it. He nods slowly. "I called the café where you buy your lunch."

For a moment, I'm speechless. "Y-you called them?"

He nods.

I rub at my temple. "Wait. Hold on. This means, you knew you were going to invite me out to dinner earlier today?"

"We had work to get through, and I wanted to do it over dinner." He raises a shoulder.

"So, you called a world-class, Michelin-starred chef and asked him to book out the restaurant for you. And he did it?" I say in a disbelieving voice.

"James is a good friend." He hesitates. "We served in the Marines together."

It's the first piece of personal information he's shared with me. I lock it away greedily. Does it mean anything that he's shared something about his past with me, which I have a sneaking suspicion he doesn't do often? He messaged the leading chef in the world and asked him to book out his restaurant. Not to forget, he made the effort to find out personal details about me, then called ahead to book out the restaurant. It shows a level of planning indicating that he... Cares about me? A burst of joy sparks in my chest. He has to. He feels something for me, but and is pretending he doesn't.

"I've never done this before," he adds.

Once more, my heart flutters. My stomach flip-flops. "You mean?—"

"I don't often have time to go to dinner, let alone, move my official meetings to a restaurant. But I'm aware I've been an arse. "

I stay quiet. He's apologizing to me again, and it's overwhelming. Everything that's happened today is overwhelming.

"When you chased me at the gym?—"

"Primal play."

He must see the confusion on my face for he elaborates, "It's a form of kink where the participants engage in predator/prey gameplay."

A shiver runs up my spine. I shouldn't be aroused by what he's revealing, but I can't deny that the space between my legs has turned into a wet mess from his words."

"You liked it." The confidence in his voice is arousing.

It's also annoying enough that I retort, "I didn't say that."

He inclines his head. "The fact that you begged me let you come is evidence of it."

He's right, and I can't deny it. I shift my weight from foot to foot. How did we get onto this topic anyway?

"I… I think I should go."

"At least, have dinner with me first," he coaxes. "The food here is really good."

"I'm sure it is." I glance away.

"I'm sorry, I was a complete twat earlier."

When I don't look at him again, he lowers his voice to a hush, "You want to stay; you know that. And I want you to, as well."

I sense movement behind us, then he murmurs, "Ah, there's our food. Surely, you can't leave now."

I blow out a breath. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Of course, not."

I glance up into his face to find he's looking at me with a steady gaze.

"It's just a meal. And you deserve it after working so hard all day."

I find myself giving in, and rather than saying anything, spin around and walk over to the table where the Ma?tre d' places our dishes in front of our chairs. I sit down and take in the beautifully arranged food on my plate.

He takes his seat and looks at me expectantly. "Taste it," he urges me.

I pick up my fork and dig into the cauliflower starter. The fragrant taste of the curry leaves and the slightly charred notes of the cauliflower melt in my mouth. By the time I finish it, I'm ravenous for more. Thankfully, our main courses arrive right away. I tuck into my risotto. The earthy, woodsy notes of mushroom set off the more savory, aromatic flavors of the truffle. Combined with the nuttiness of the arborio rice, it's both creamy and sweet, as well as aromatic and pungent. "Wow."

I only realize I've said it aloud when he nods. "James is a true maestro."

"Is it true, The Beast has developed a conscience?" Someone chuckles, then a man wearing a chef's garb walks over to the table.

"Hey, motherfucker." My boss nods.

"Arsewipe," the chef growls back.

"Pillock," my boss drawls in an almost lazy tone.

"Lummox." The chef glowers, before barking out a laugh. "Good to see you, mate."

"Can't say the same." My boss rises to his feet, and the two do the kind of half hug and back slap that men often do. Then they clasp the backs of each other's necks and smirk at each other. I watch them with unconcealed fascination. I have rarely seen my boss crack a smile, let alone man-hug another person.

When they step back, my boss nods in the other guy's direction. "This is James Hamilton."

I'd guessed as much.

"This is June Donnelly," my boss adds.

I swing my face in his direction, a strange sensation of lightness enveloping me. Hearing my name from his lips feels so intimate. It feels like he's given me a gift for the good girl I've been. Pleasure blooms in my lower belly. My toes curl. I've wanted this so much. I've waited to hear him say my name, and now that he has, it feels overwhelming.

James lowers his chin. "Good to meet you, June."

"And you." I swallow down the ball of emotion in my throat and manage to curve my lips. "This is amazing," I lower my head to mask the emotions coursing through my chest and end up taking another bite of the risotto. Flavors explode on my palate. "I've never tasted anything like this before." When I smile at him this time, it's more natural. The taste really is mind-blowing. Enough to ground me and help me gain some semblance of equilibrium.

"Thank you." He half bows. "I'm glad you're enjoying your dinner. I've been asking this man to visit my restaurant for the longest time, and it's thanks to you that he decided to show up here. You must be a special woman." His eyes gleam.

"Oh, no." I flick a sideways glance toward my boss who's watching with an amused look on his features. Why isn't he saying anything? I scowl at him, then turn to James. "I'm Mr. Davenport's assistant."

His forehead furrows. Then, he looks between us and nods. "My bad. Doesn't change the fact that it's thanks to you he's here today." He turns to my boss. "I need to get back to the kitchen. Don't be a stranger, mate."

My boss scoffs, "Like you have time off from your restaurants?"

James lets his gaze wander about the space. "The restaurant business is a demanding mistress, but my brothers-in-arms come first."

The two look at each other, and something passes between them. They nod, then with a wave in my direction, James leaves. My boss takes his seat.

"The two of you are close?" I venture.

"As close as two men who were held prisoners and saw each other being tortured can be."

I gasp. He revealed something personal about himself. And did he say tortured? And in such a casual voice? I try to conceal my horror but don't succeed, for when I speak, my tone is shocked, "What happened?"

"We were behind enemy lines and had been trudging through the frozen forests on the southern edge of the tundra for days. We had information about insurgents who we knew were in hiding. We knew it would be difficult to track them down in the dead of winter but hadn't realized just how much the weather would slow us down. There was a snowstorm. We got separated from the rest of our team and were captured by the enemy."

He falls silent. And though there's no trace of emotion on his face, the flicker in his eyes betrays just how difficult the experience must have been.

When he doesn't speak for another few seconds, I clear my throat. "But you escaped?"

He wraps his fingers around his tumbler of whisky. "We did. But not before the two of us had many weeks to think hard about our lives and what we wanted out of it when we got out of there. It was the fact that we had each other's backs that kept us going." His jaw is hard, his features almost expressionless, except for the nerve that throbs at his temple. There's a faraway look in his eyes.

Once more, he lapses into silence. I see the bleakness that creeps across his face and decide to stay quiet this time. Best to let him take his time to parse through his thoughts. It's another few minutes before he murmurs, "The worst part is not having control over your future." He swallows. "Not knowing if you'll wake up to see another day, and then waking up to find you're still caught in the nightmare." His voice is hard.

For someone like him, not knowing what was going to happen to him next would have been unthinkable. Is that why he likes to have control when it comes to sex? Is that why he thrives on being a Dom, knowing he can direct every aspect of how he gives and take pleasure? Is proclivity for kink a way of dealing with the uncertainty he's been through? I want to believe that, but my instinct says he always had that cruel yet caring streak in him. It was, likely, what made him a good Marine. It's likely that contradiction got him through his missions. And his experiences feed his proclivities. The silence stretches. I cast about for something to say, then settle on something which I hope will encourage him to keep sharing.

"It must have been hard," I venture. My words are nothing in comparison to what he must have gone through. But I can't help wanting to try to soothe the horrific memories that must be cascading through his mind right now.

The skin across his knuckles stretches. "It was. But we were lucky; we had each other. If not we—I wouldn't have made it out." His lips thin.

"How… How did you escape?"

His expression becomes even more impenetrable. "They tortured James to the point that his heart stopped. Then they threw him into my cell, probably to break my spirit. Only the ol' codger had life left in him. I resuscitated him, but he pretended to be lifeless. It gave us a chance to plan our breakout. We overpowered our guards, then grabbed their weapons and shot our way out of there. We were picked up by a search party.

His jaw ticks. I'm sure he's leaving out vast swathes of what happened, but I'm also shocked he shared so much with me. He raises the tumbler to his mouth and tosses it back, then sets the glass back on the table with a thump. When he looks up at me, there's surprise on his face.

"You're easy to talk to," He frowns. Anger flickers across his eyes, spiked with confusion. His gaze is unblinking, and I can't help but squirm under the force of it.

I try to look away but, oh my god, the force of his personality pins me in place. The skin around his mouth tightens, and he seems almost displeased. "You're not eating," he points out. The rough edge of his voice pulses frissons of awareness up my spine.

"I… Uh… I'm not hungry anymore."

Without breaking the connection between our eyes, he raises his hand. The next second, the Ma?tre d,' who must've been hovering out of sight, glides over. He clears away our plates, handing them to another uniformed staff-member, then slides a plate which another staff-member had wheeled in, onto our table. He places one spoon next to it, then fades away. Why only one spoon? Shouldn't there be ? —

My unspoken question is answered when my boss dips the spoon into the chocolate dessert. The flick of his wrist as he wields the spoon, the deft curl of his wide fingers around the narrow, delicate handle, the glimpse of arm hair revealed when his shirt sleeve rides up and exposes his wrist bone… Oh my god! I'm burning up. My throat goes dry. All the moisture has been pulled into that place between my legs. My pussy throbs, and my clit feels like there are weights attached to it. He holds my gaze, and the intent in them sends a lick of desire up my spine. Even before he can raise his eyebrow in question, I lean forward.

There's a ghost of a smile on his face as he scoops up some dessert and holds the spoon out to me. "Open."