He reaches for my hand, then squeezes.
I shrug. “It’s okay. I figured it out fast enough. And then I turned it around. Turned it into a tool. They never saw the real me anyway, so I finally decided that if I had it, I might as well use it.” My smile is thin. “I believe in being pragmatic.”
“Maybe so, but there is no escaping reality. And the reality is that you are beautiful. It’s not a curse. It’s not a tool. I’ve seen some of the pictures Nikki has taken of you. And captured on camera, you are truly exceptional. But it’s not because you have those incredible cheekbones or the kind of mouth a guy wants to see wrapped around his cock,” Ryan says, making me smirk. “You have a light, Jamie. You shine. You walk into a room and—”
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“What?”
“Make me feel special.”
His smile is so gentle it makes my heart swell. “Maybe you are special.”
He lifts his hand, and Stephen comes over, this time carrying a flat, square box wrapped in silver paper. “I bought you something,” Ryan says to me. He takes the box from Stephen and sets it in front of me. “Open it.”
“Ryan.” I can’t seem to stop grinning, and I reach for the box and pull it close. It is a jewelry store box, so the top is wrapped separately from the bottom. All I have to do is untie the bow and lift the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stunning silver collar. And on the center loop, there now hangs a lovely silver lock.
Ryan brushes his fingertip against the lock. “Because I want to lock you up and keep you. Because I will always keep you locked tight within my heart. Take your pick, Jamie. Both are equally true.”
His words make tears prick at my eyes, so I focus only on the gift. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”
“Will you put it on?”
I remember what we said in the store. That wearing it would mean that I belong to him. “Yes,” I say. “I will.”
He helps me fasten it. It feels odd at first—I own a few chokers, but I don’t wear them often, but I know that I will get used to it. More than that, I kind of like the fact that I feel it there against my skin. It is a reminder of what I am. Of whose I am.
“Do you like it?”
I don’t have a mirror—I left my purse in the room—but I reach up and feel it, and I can imagine how it looks. That isn’t what is important anyway, and when I turn to him, I am smiling. “Of course I do,” I say. “It makes me yours.”
I see the heat banked in his eyes as he brushes his hand over my cheek. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”
I lean over to kiss him, but am interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with our oysters. Ryan looks at me, and the gleam in his eye can only be described as devilish. “I didn’t think to ask,” he says. “Do you like oysters?”
“I’ve never actually had any,” I admit. “Not on the half shell, anyway.”
“Really?”
“Sad, isn’t it?” I say with a woe-is-me tone to my voice. “I’ve lived such a sheltered and unadventurous life.”
“Very pure,” he says. “Very sheltered.”
I grin.
“At any rate, it’s time to add some adventure, and I do think you’ll like them. Do you trust me?”
“You know I do.” And now my tone is all serious.
He meets my eyes, and what I see in that brilliant blue warms me. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he says.
The dozen oysters are arranged artfully on a plate surrounding a half shell full of red sauce. “Open your mouth,” he says as he dips a small spoon into the sauce, then dabs it onto an oyster. “There are stories that Casanova ate fifty of these for breakfast every day,” he adds, his voice low and steady.
I do as he says, opening my mouth, though I truly don’t know what to expect. I trust him though. More than that, I want this moment.
His eyes never leave mine as he raises the shell to my parted lips. “That’s it. Now suck, and just let it slide down your throat. Oh, Jesus, Jamie, you’re killing me,” he adds when I do as he demands, then use the tip of my tongue to catch the last bit of sauce.
“Delicious,” I whisper, but even I’m not sure if I mean the oyster or the moment.
“You do know what they say about oysters?” Ryan asks as he lifts another one to his own mouth. “Why a man like Casanova would want so many of them?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” I say, though I knew perfectly well.
“They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says as he takes one of his own.
“Do they?” I pluck another shell up, then dab sauce on it. I draw it to my mouth, then slowly suck it in as he watches, the desire on his face so sharp it’s a wonder it doesn’t cut me to pieces.
I swallow, then smile sweetly as I indicate the oysters. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered you want to seduce me or insulted that you need so much help in order to try.”
“Trust me,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing an aphrodisiac could do for me at this point that having you next to me isn’t doing better.”
I hear the hint of something wicked in his voice, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I say.
He takes a sip of wine. “I want you to do something for me now.”
I narrow my eyes, wary. “What?”
“Take off your panties.”
I lift my brows. “Um, no.”
He tilts his head, his expression stern. “I seem to recall coming to an agreement as to the rules.”
“My answer,” I say, “is still no. Not because I’m feeling rebellious, but because I’m not wearing any.”
I see the flare in his eyes that tells me I’ve surprised him. “Oh, really. Well, in that case...”
The hand that has been on my thigh moves up, and his fingers slip into that secret pocket. I gasp, though, when I feel the warm touch of his fingertips against my bare thigh.
I turn, shocked. “What—how—?”
“I really didn’t see the point of a pocket when it was so much more convenient without that seam.” He grins wickedly. “Full access.”
“But—”
With his other hand, he silences me with a finger to my lips. “Spread your legs,” he says.
“We’re in a restaurant.”
“Then I hope that when I make you come, you can refrain from screaming.”
“Ryan,” I say, but though my tone is a protest, my actions are not. I spread my legs, and when his hand slips down and finds me already wet, already excited, Ryan lets out a low whistle.
“You like this as much as I do,” he says, “getting off in public. Knowing that you’re mine. That I can touch you anywhere, make you come for me anywhere.”
His fingers slide over me, and I am wet—so wet that there is no denying the truth of his words.
A waitress comes to check on our wine and asks if we’d like to order the meal. I manage a polite smile, and all the while Ryan’s fingers are stroking me, dipping into me, taking me higher and higher.
As if to torment me, he asks her to recite the specials, and as she does, I reach under the table and clutch my own knee, trying to stifle the urge to squirm, to get his hand to move faster, tighter. To take me that much further.
I shrug. “It’s okay. I figured it out fast enough. And then I turned it around. Turned it into a tool. They never saw the real me anyway, so I finally decided that if I had it, I might as well use it.” My smile is thin. “I believe in being pragmatic.”
“Maybe so, but there is no escaping reality. And the reality is that you are beautiful. It’s not a curse. It’s not a tool. I’ve seen some of the pictures Nikki has taken of you. And captured on camera, you are truly exceptional. But it’s not because you have those incredible cheekbones or the kind of mouth a guy wants to see wrapped around his cock,” Ryan says, making me smirk. “You have a light, Jamie. You shine. You walk into a room and—”
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“What?”
“Make me feel special.”
His smile is so gentle it makes my heart swell. “Maybe you are special.”
He lifts his hand, and Stephen comes over, this time carrying a flat, square box wrapped in silver paper. “I bought you something,” Ryan says to me. He takes the box from Stephen and sets it in front of me. “Open it.”
“Ryan.” I can’t seem to stop grinning, and I reach for the box and pull it close. It is a jewelry store box, so the top is wrapped separately from the bottom. All I have to do is untie the bow and lift the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stunning silver collar. And on the center loop, there now hangs a lovely silver lock.
Ryan brushes his fingertip against the lock. “Because I want to lock you up and keep you. Because I will always keep you locked tight within my heart. Take your pick, Jamie. Both are equally true.”
His words make tears prick at my eyes, so I focus only on the gift. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”
“Will you put it on?”
I remember what we said in the store. That wearing it would mean that I belong to him. “Yes,” I say. “I will.”
He helps me fasten it. It feels odd at first—I own a few chokers, but I don’t wear them often, but I know that I will get used to it. More than that, I kind of like the fact that I feel it there against my skin. It is a reminder of what I am. Of whose I am.
“Do you like it?”
I don’t have a mirror—I left my purse in the room—but I reach up and feel it, and I can imagine how it looks. That isn’t what is important anyway, and when I turn to him, I am smiling. “Of course I do,” I say. “It makes me yours.”
I see the heat banked in his eyes as he brushes his hand over my cheek. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”
I lean over to kiss him, but am interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with our oysters. Ryan looks at me, and the gleam in his eye can only be described as devilish. “I didn’t think to ask,” he says. “Do you like oysters?”
“I’ve never actually had any,” I admit. “Not on the half shell, anyway.”
“Really?”
“Sad, isn’t it?” I say with a woe-is-me tone to my voice. “I’ve lived such a sheltered and unadventurous life.”
“Very pure,” he says. “Very sheltered.”
I grin.
“At any rate, it’s time to add some adventure, and I do think you’ll like them. Do you trust me?”
“You know I do.” And now my tone is all serious.
He meets my eyes, and what I see in that brilliant blue warms me. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he says.
The dozen oysters are arranged artfully on a plate surrounding a half shell full of red sauce. “Open your mouth,” he says as he dips a small spoon into the sauce, then dabs it onto an oyster. “There are stories that Casanova ate fifty of these for breakfast every day,” he adds, his voice low and steady.
I do as he says, opening my mouth, though I truly don’t know what to expect. I trust him though. More than that, I want this moment.
His eyes never leave mine as he raises the shell to my parted lips. “That’s it. Now suck, and just let it slide down your throat. Oh, Jesus, Jamie, you’re killing me,” he adds when I do as he demands, then use the tip of my tongue to catch the last bit of sauce.
“Delicious,” I whisper, but even I’m not sure if I mean the oyster or the moment.
“You do know what they say about oysters?” Ryan asks as he lifts another one to his own mouth. “Why a man like Casanova would want so many of them?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” I say, though I knew perfectly well.
“They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says as he takes one of his own.
“Do they?” I pluck another shell up, then dab sauce on it. I draw it to my mouth, then slowly suck it in as he watches, the desire on his face so sharp it’s a wonder it doesn’t cut me to pieces.
I swallow, then smile sweetly as I indicate the oysters. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered you want to seduce me or insulted that you need so much help in order to try.”
“Trust me,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing an aphrodisiac could do for me at this point that having you next to me isn’t doing better.”
I hear the hint of something wicked in his voice, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I say.
He takes a sip of wine. “I want you to do something for me now.”
I narrow my eyes, wary. “What?”
“Take off your panties.”
I lift my brows. “Um, no.”
He tilts his head, his expression stern. “I seem to recall coming to an agreement as to the rules.”
“My answer,” I say, “is still no. Not because I’m feeling rebellious, but because I’m not wearing any.”
I see the flare in his eyes that tells me I’ve surprised him. “Oh, really. Well, in that case...”
The hand that has been on my thigh moves up, and his fingers slip into that secret pocket. I gasp, though, when I feel the warm touch of his fingertips against my bare thigh.
I turn, shocked. “What—how—?”
“I really didn’t see the point of a pocket when it was so much more convenient without that seam.” He grins wickedly. “Full access.”
“But—”
With his other hand, he silences me with a finger to my lips. “Spread your legs,” he says.
“We’re in a restaurant.”
“Then I hope that when I make you come, you can refrain from screaming.”
“Ryan,” I say, but though my tone is a protest, my actions are not. I spread my legs, and when his hand slips down and finds me already wet, already excited, Ryan lets out a low whistle.
“You like this as much as I do,” he says, “getting off in public. Knowing that you’re mine. That I can touch you anywhere, make you come for me anywhere.”
His fingers slide over me, and I am wet—so wet that there is no denying the truth of his words.
A waitress comes to check on our wine and asks if we’d like to order the meal. I manage a polite smile, and all the while Ryan’s fingers are stroking me, dipping into me, taking me higher and higher.
As if to torment me, he asks her to recite the specials, and as she does, I reach under the table and clutch my own knee, trying to stifle the urge to squirm, to get his hand to move faster, tighter. To take me that much further.
