"Watch your step," he said. Then, gently, he let me go. I swallowed hard. "Mr Waters," I said.
He held out a hand. "Please. Let's be seated."
I gripped my purse, holding the strap in front of me like a talisman that could ward him off, and glared at him. He dropped his hand, somehow making the gesture elegant rather than awkward, and turned into the dining room. I followed him.
We wove through the other diners. A few stopped chewing and stared at him as he passed them by, but most of them ignored him. I, in my hooker-on-a-holiday getup, attracted far more attention. I didn't like that one bit. Mercifully, we were seated at the back of the dining room in an intimate little booth. I took one side and put my purse next to me to deter him from sharing my bench, but he didn't even try. Instead, he slid in across from me, poured two generous glasses of red wine, and ordered the asparagus salad for both of us from the waitress who stood next to our table, practically vibrating at attention.
"Of course, Mr Waters," she gushed. She didn't even look at me. I wondered if I would have to get used to that sort of thing as well when we got married.
No. If. If!
Dammit.
I smoothed the white table cloth under my hands as she ran off to the kitchen. "I'm not fond of asparagus," I said.
"You will be with this asparagus," he said. "It is delicious." I watched as he shook out his napkin and laid it on his lap. I envied that napkin. I followed suit, though the table cloth was so long it seemed like it could do double duty as a napkin just fine. I shoved it out of my way and laid the cloth across my gaudy red skirt.
"Care to explain what you are wearing?" I looked up.
Waters sat across from me, one arm propped on the back of the booth, his head tilted at an arrogant angle. He wore another linen shirt today, this one just as impeccably tailored as the one yesterday, and a tie was conspicuously absent. Every day was a casual Friday in the Empire empire.
"Just something I had leftover from college," I said. Which was mostly true.
He arched one perfect brow. His green eyes glinted. "I see," he said, his tone of voice conveying that he didn't see at all. I felt like a contrite schoolgirl dragged in front of the principal.
Oh no, don't paddle me, Mr Principal, I thought, and was immediately angry. It was becoming increasingly clear that I was fighting a losing battle, and it wasn't with Waters; it was with myself.
Of course, it was Waters' fault for being so sexy. It wasn't fair.
I shrugged at him. "Well, you hung up on me before I could ask you what I should wear."
"And this is what you chose?"
I looked down at myself, pretending to be surprised. "Sure," I replied. "Why not?"
He studied the glass of wine in front of him, then reached out and began to play with it, but before he could answer me the waitress returned with our salads. She chirped something at him, and he answered, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too mesmerized by the slow, deliberate way he stroked the stem of his wineglass. It wasn't until the waitress bustled away again that I realized he had ordered my lunch for me. I was blowing this. Ah, well, at least I could get a meal out of it, right?
I looked down at my salad and was perturbed to discover that it was a single piece of asparagus on a leaf of lettuce, artfully arranged and drizzled with some balsamic concoction that stung my nose from the table. A lone slice of tomato peeked from beneath the lettuce.
"You are trying to get a rise out of me, Miss Dare."
I looked back up at him. His gaze penetrated me straight to the core. I shrugged. "Maybe."
He leaned back. "You will have to do better than that. What purpose would dressing as a prostitute serve?"
"Well, that's what I'm going to be for you, right? Your prostitute?" "No. You would be my wife."
I scowled at him. "I don't see it that way, and I doubt many other people would either if they knew the truth. I just thought I'd rather be honest about what I am to you."
He pursed his lips. His lovely, perfect lips. Why was he so distracting? "I know what you are to me, and you know what I am to you, Miss Dare.
There is no other reason for dressing in this fashion than to attempt to humiliate me."
I shrugged. "If you think so, then fine."
To my surprise, he shook his head. "Your opinion of others is so low," he said. "That is disappointing. Many wonderful women work in the sex industry. I would not be insulted to be seen with one of them. I hope they would be able to make the most of it."
Stung, I stared at him. He was right, of course. I had just assumed, because he was rich and lucky, because of the circles he moved in, that he would be angry with my outfit. In a flash of insight, I realized that he hadn't told me how to dress because he wanted to see what I would do, not just exert power over me.
For a brief moment, I felt ashamed. "Was this just a test?" I asked.
He tilted his head. "It was what it was. I now know more about you than before. That is enough for me." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. I wished I could punch it and not get my name in the papers. I wondered if the paparazzi were taking pictures of us right now. The thought was so humiliating that I swept my hair over my face and looked down at my plate and its lovingly arranged asparagus.
"But we are here to talk about the contract, yes?"
I nodded. "Yeah." The asparagus languished in front of me, begging to be eaten, but I had lost my appetite.
"Let me see it."
With clumsy fingers, I extracted the rewritten agreement from my purse and handed it across the table. Waters leaned back and began to flip through it as though he had all the time in the world. Ms Gray had highlighted the changes in the contract to make them easy to find, and he lingered over each one, sipping his wine as he did so. Occasionally he glanced up at me.
At last, he sat back. "None of these changes is very drastic," he said. "Are you sure this is all you want?"
I'd been staring at my asparagus salad, trying to ignore him and make a decision about what part of my bounty to attack first, but at this, I looked up in surprise.
"I, uh, didn't know I could ask for more."
He speared his tomato and popped it into his mouth. "You may ask for anything you like. Whether or not I will grant it is another matter entirely."
God, I hated him.
Thoughtfully, he chewed and swallowed. "Your changes are minimal. The major changes appear to be a requirement to revisit and renew the contract after one year. That is fine with me. And you wish for the medical clause to go into effect immediately upon signing." For a long moment, he regarded me, then signalled a passing waiter who snapped to attention.
"May I borrow a pen?" he asked.
The blood drained from my face. Surely he didn't mean to...?
But he did. The waiter whipped a ballpoint pen from his pocket, and right in front of me Anton Waters initialled and signed each clause and page, and then signed and dated it.
He pushed it across the table. I stared at it.
It stared back at me.
I willed it to go away. It didn't.
I reached out and drained my glass of wine.
"Are you not prepared to sign today?" Waters asked.
I swallowed. "I..." My thoughts ricocheted inside my head. All it would take was a flourish of a cheap Bic ballpoint and my life would change. I would be bound to marry this man that I didn't even know, my father would be back in business, and my mother would be in chemo.
The world darkened at the edges of my vision. I tried to take a deep breath, but it seemed like something heavy had settled on my chest.
"Miss Dare?"
A movement across from me caught my attention. Waters had risen from his seat.
I didn't know how to react, but then I felt the booth dip and he slid in next to me, looping an arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the rest of the dining room.
God, he felt good, warm, and strong. If circumstances had been different, and if he had been less of a douche, I might have enjoyed the intimacy. I might have been able to lean into him and take comfort from his strength. I might have been able to wholeheartedly let him take my burdens from me.
But all it did was make me skittish. My pulse picked up the pace.
"Let's not pretend," he said. Reaching out, he poured me another glass of wine. "You need me, and I want you."
"You don't want me," I said. "You want a woman who needs you."
"To me, those are the same at the moment." He lifted the wine and brought it toward me, urging me to drink. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the table.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. "I like to watch you fight it," he said. "Just like I liked watching you finger yourself in my elevator while you thought of me."
Security cameras. Of course.
Mortification swept over me. I stiffened and he leaned in. His lips brushed over my ear. "You are beautiful when you abandon yourself."
"Don't feel so smug," I snapped, even as he moved his lips to the spot just below my earlobe. "I haven't gotten laid in six mo—ooh..."
Anton Waters pressed his hot, soft mouth against my hammering pulse.
I melted under him, my body dissolving into shivers. Panting, I put my hands on the table, gripping the table cloth tightly as I struggled to keep myself from touching him back. My fingers itched to feel him. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.
"Our marriage would be mutually beneficial," he said, breath ghosting over my skin. "I think you might even enjoy it."
No, no, no, no, no... "No one would enjoy being forced into sex for money," I ground out.
He smirked against my throat and swept my hair aside. Lightly, gently, he placed lingering kisses down my throat and up over my neck.
"I would never force you. You will always want it."
My heart twisted in my chest. I know, I know, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to admit it.
His breath was hot on the back of my neck. "Do you think I won't be able to please you? Is that it?" he whispered, and I felt his words sink into my skin, into my bones, zipping down my body, electrifying me. I wanted him so badly, but how could I tell him that obtaining orgasms with him was the least of my worries?
His leg pressed against mine. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric between us and I wished I'd been more prudent and worn pants instead of a skirt. His fingers alighted on my thigh and began to trace shivering patterns across my skin. Lips and tongue played with the sensitive nape of my neck, and his hand drifted down my arm, fingertips skimming the outside swell of my breast. Between my thighs, I felt myself grow hot and slick.
"I could make you come right here in this restaurant," he murmured, and his voice was hoarse. "Right in front of everyone. I'll make you scream."
His words set me on fire. "I'd like to see you try," I whispered back.
Bravado. My voice shook.
But it wasn't a lie.
Pulling back, he graced me with another one of his faint smiles. "You are the perfect woman for me," he said. "Defiant, with nowhere to run. You'd rather die on your feet than live on your knees." His fingers drifted up to my leg, up under my skirt. I swallowed around the lump in my throat.
"I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees, thanks," I told him.
He laughed, then looked shocked that he'd done so. I saw him forcibly recover, but I had no time to bask in my tiny victory. One long, hot finger brushed against the soft mound above my pussy, robbing me of thought.
"You may live on your feet," he whispered, "but I will bend you over and fuck you all the same."
And he slipped under the table.
It was so quick, so unexpected, that I was still staring at the spot where he had been and trying to muster the presence of mind to react when I felt his large, hot hands on my knees.
My god. He was kneeling under the table, hidden by the long table cloth.
He was going to—going to—
I wish I could say I put up a fight. But my thighs parted at the slightest pressure from his hands, and I opened to him.
He pushed my skirt up, rearranging the table cloth so that it fell across my lap, and hid my sudden indecency from the rest of the lunch crowd. All around me conversation carried on as usual. Glasses clinked, knives scraped against forks, and someone tittered at an amusing joke. And Anton Waters gently pushed the crotch of my panties aside, parting the slick folds there.
I felt the rough tip of one finger poised at my entrance. Then it slid up, up, up, almost touching my clit, but he only grazed it before sliding back down, pressing against my waiting channel. I was biting my lip so hard I could almost taste blood. Up his finger came again, gently teasing me, then down it went. Up, and down. Up and down. Up, and down again, each time pressing ever so slightly into me.
It was torture. My cheeks burned. I wanted to reach down under the table and slam his face against my pussy. I wanted to leap up and kick him. I didn't dare do either of those things. I knew I was soaking through my panties and probably staining my skirt, but I couldn't bring myself to push him away. My whole existence was his finger and my aching cunt. The restaurant faded around me and I closed my eyes, trying to manoeuvre my hips into his finger yet again. I needed him to touch my clit. I was going to die without it.
But he didn't. Instead, he paused again at my entrance, and I could feel his gaze on me, staring straight into my quivering folds. I was exposed to him.