ip your head back slowly,” he murmurs. I do as he
asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn’t
touch me, only the shell.
Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another.
We continue this tortuous routine until all twelve are gone.
His skin never connects with mine. It’s driving me crazy.
“Still like oysters?” he asks as I swallow the final one.
I nod, flushed, cra一ving his touch.
“Good.”
I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?
He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I
melt. Now. Please. Touch me. My inner goddess is on her
knees, naked except for her panties—begging. He runs his
hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back
where it was.
The waiter tops up our champagne glasses and whisks
away our plates. Moments later he’s back with our entrée,
sea bass—I don’t believe it —served with asparagus,
sautéed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.
“A fa一vorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
“A fa一vorite of yours, Mr. Grey?”
“Most definitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was
cod at the Heathman.” His hand moves up and down his
thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn’t touch me.
It’s so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.
“I seem to remember we were in a private dining room
then, discussing contracts.”
“Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to
get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.
Gah!
He takes a bite out of his sea bass. He’s doing this on
purpose.
“Don’t count on it,” I mutter with a pout and he
glances at me, amused. “Speaking of contracts,” I add.
“The NDA.”
“Tear it up,” he says simply.
Whoa.
“What? Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure I’m not going to run to the Seattle Times
with an exposé?” I tease.
He laughs and it’s a wonderful sound. He looks so
young.
“No. I trust you. I’m going to give you the benefit of
the doub一t.”
Oh. I grin shyly at him. “Ditto,” I breathe.
His eyes light up. “I’m very glad you’re wearing a
dress,” he murmurs. And bam—desire courses through my
already overheat
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