I inhaled sharply, wishing he would keep touching himself . . . like he had two nights ago in this limo. I imagined him rubbing his big pierced dick, filling his palm with cum—
The limo glided to a stop in front of the restaurant.
Dmitri said, “Are you ready, moy ángel?”
As if waking from a spell, I nodded dumbly.
Starsky hurried around to open the door. When Dmitri helped me from the car, my nipples were straining against the thin silk.
The valet stared at my tits; the doorman stared. Each time someone noticed my swollen breasts and the lewdly jutting peaks, a forbidden thrill shivered through me.
Dmitri kept his warm hand on my lower back, his stance proprietary. I glanced up at him. His gaze was locked on me, as if he was making an effort to block out the others’ attention.
He’d been telling the truth. Dmitri Sevastyan was a jealous man—who was unfortunately fascinated by his date’s reaction to exhibitionism.
Later, I would let him know he was the one making me wet. His cock adjustment—and my brief fantasy about him—had primed me just as much as showing off my breasts.
He leaned down to murmur at my ear, “I’m going to feed your body, Vika, then later you’re going to be my dessert.”
A breath shuddered out of my lungs.
Trouble, Vice. Deep.
CHAPTER 15
I could get used to this.
A warm breeze blew into our cabana, flickering the table’s candle. The flame reflected in Dmitri’s eyes, his irises looking like backlit amber.
I dragged my gaze from his heart-stopping face to survey the picturesque scene. The outdoor seating surrounded an elegant pool, and each table had a private cabana.
I’d always wanted to eat here, but the prices were exorbitant. Murano’s sourced seafood from all over Italy and flew it in daily.
When the tuxedoed waiter, a ginger-haired fortysomething, had taken our orders a few minutes ago, I’d marveled at the menu, choosing the Mediterranean blue rock lobster. Dmitri had selected Venetian crab ravioli with artichokes.
I turned back to him. “You’re staring.”
“You’re stunning.”
Each time I caught him checking me out, my cheeks heated. To relax, I’d been drinking again, sip after sip of the delectable wine he’d picked out. Plus I was nervous about his promise to make me his dessert. Did he plan to go down on me?
When he lifted his own wineglass for a sparing taste, my gaze fell on his banged-up knuckles. “What happened there?”
He put his glass back. “It’s nothing.”
I reached across the table, taking his hand in both of mine. When I stroked the skin beside a cut, his muscles tensed and he exhaled a long breath.
Did even an innocent touch of mine affect him so much? How . . . heady.
I wondered what he’d do if I blew him. Visions of taking him between my lips filled my mind. Sucking and teasing his dick. Tonguing his silver piercing as his powerful body quaked. Making him desperate to come . . . until he was helplessly fucking my mouth. . . .
“There,” he suddenly said. “Your cheeks grew flushed. What were you just thinking?”
I released his hand. “This and that.” My panties were going to be soaked.
“I would kill to know what you’re musing about when you blush. Will you not tell me?”
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll show you later.”
“Tease.”
Only always. I lifted my glass again. “You really don’t drink a lot, huh?”
He shook his head. “I don’t relish feeling out of control. Except for during sexual play with you. Then I want to keep control—right up until the time you steal it from me.”
I almost fanned myself at his hungry look, a sight I’d never forget. In the candlelight, he was spellbinding.
I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Two babes sashayed past our cabana—for the third time—audibly sighing over him.
“You get that everywhere, huh?”
“Get what?” He was oblivious.
“Attention from women.” I swirled my finger around the rim of my glass. “What was your last relationship?”
“I’ve never had one.”
I waited for that nails-over-chalkboard sensation, but he was telling the truth. “So you are a player.”
“No. I am not.”
“You can’t have it both ways.” I could do the math. If he took a new lover anytime he wanted sex, the notches on his belt would start adding up.
“What was your last relationship?” he asked.
I let him get away with not answering me. “About a year ago, I broke up with a guy I’d been with for nearly two years. We were engaged.” Brett had been so normal, his life an open book. Back then, I’d equated normal and open with honest. “The wedding was weeks away.” I’d just gotten a passport for our honeymoon to the Caribbean, and I’d been finishing up a wedding gown that had given me fits for months. Creating it had felt like drudgery, which should’ve been a clue.
“He allowed you to break up with him?”
Allowed? “What should he have done?”
Dmitri held my gaze. “If I’d been him, I would have fought for you.”
His words sent a tingle through me. “Who said Brett hasn’t been doing just that?” Each Sunday, I pictured him struggling to come up with another e-mail, to tap into my memories of better times and reach some part of me not hardened by his infidelity.