Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Shall we?” His tone is calm, as if he’s completely unaffected by whatever just passed between us, but I see his jaw flex and know he’d felt it too.
My mouth feels dry as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about how thick and solid his arm feels. It’s like holding onto a curved tree trunk—albeit one that’s covered by expensive cashmere-wool.
“Do you come to this restaurant a lot?” I ask, trying not to pant audibly as we walk toward the restaurant. Marcus’s legs are so long I have to take two steps for every one of his, and the exertion, combined with the heat thrumming under my skin, makes me feel like I’ve just run up three flights of stairs.
“I’ve been here a few times,” he says, opening the door for me. I step inside and appreciatively inhale the rich, savory aroma of basil, roasted garlic, and fresh-baked dough. It smells like Papa Mario’s, but the ambiance is infinitely better. The restaurant is small, but clean and cozy, with about a dozen tables covered by white linen tablecloths and topped with vases with real flowers. Even though it’s a Thursday night, each table is occupied except the one in the far corner.
This dinner might be worth the hit to my budget.
Unbuttoning my coat, I smile up at Marcus. “This looks like a very nice place. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“My pleasure. Here, let me take your coat.” He reaches for it, and I have no choice but to let him help me. His fingers brush over my shoulders in the process, and despite my sweater wrap, a tingle of heat radiates from the spot where he touched me.
God, if he ever puts his hands on my bare skin… Just the thought of it makes my insides tighten.
A short, dark-haired man of indeterminate age approaches us. “Mr. Carelli, welcome.” His Italian accent is strong, and his dark eyes twinkle brightly in his thin face. “Please follow me.”
He leads us to the corner table. As we walk, Marcus places his hand on the small of my back, and I suck in a breath, stunned by the unexpectedly possessive gesture. My heart hammers faster, and the hot tingling spreads throughout my body, centering low in my core. Marcus’s touch is light, solicitous, but there’s no mistaking the purely male intent behind it. He’s staking a claim, announcing to the other patrons in the restaurant that, for this evening at least, I belong to him.
It’s something a man might do with a woman he’s had sex with—or one he intends to have sex with very shortly.
Stop it, Emma. He’s just being a gentleman. Even as I tell myself that, my pulse picks up further, and the images from my sex dream return in all their graphic glory.
“Are you okay?” Marcus asks, glancing down at me, and I realize my burning face must match my hair.
“Yes, of course,” I say, trying to ignore the feel of his large palm resting on my back. “I’m just a little hungry, that’s all.”
“Then let’s feed you,” he says, dropping his hand as the waiter pulls out a chair for me. Marcus steps around the table to his side, and I sit down, grateful for the reprieve from his devastating nearness.
“What would you like to drink?” the waiter asks, hovering next to our table.
“Just regular water for me, please,” I say.
“Same for me,” Marcus says without missing a beat.
I smile, pleased he didn’t try to force an alcoholic beverage on me. Some men like to do that, as if a woman drinking plain water somehow offends their masculinity. I’m no stranger to alcohol—I got puking-drunk in college more than once—but I don’t enjoy the taste of wine and beer enough to have it with every meal.
Picking up the menu, I study it carefully. The only thing that looks to be within my price range is the pizza appetizer, so that makes my choice easy. I look up to find Marcus watching me with strange intensity.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re just really cute when you’re concentrating.”
Treacherous heat blooms in my cheeks again. “Um, thanks.” The words come out on an awkward mumble. Clearing my throat, I ask in a steadier tone, “What are you getting?”
“I’m thinking of the calamari for the appetizer and the squid ink risotto for the main course. You’re welcome to share either or both with me,” he says, closing his menu. “What about you? Anything in particular look appealing? If you’d like, I can recommend a couple of dishes, depending on what you’re in the mood for.”
“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks. I’m going to get the pizza appetizer.”
He smiles. “Good choice. It’s excellent here. What about the main course?”
“I’m not that hungry, so I’ll just stick with the appetizer.” It’s not a lie, because I had a peanut butter sandwich before leaving the house. It’s my way of ensuring I don’t get starvation jitters while waiting for the food to arrive—and that I don’t blow through my monthly food budget in one meal.