The VIP Room(86)

“Shall I order for you?” he asked. I nodded, mouth dry.

I looked around the table, trying to pretend Dylan didn’t have his hand between my legs under the table. My mother was smiling at us. Christie and Cathie scowled in confusion. And Peter studied me with a curious, appraising look, as if Dylan’s interest was making him wonder what I might have to offer.

Yuck. He was a perfect match for my sister, with his overly polished good looks and the bank account to match her desire to never work a day in her life. But when you scratched the surface, he was all *.

A few months before, at a dinner to celebrate their engagement, I’d caught him berating the valet driver over a nonexistent scratch on his sports car. This was after he treated our waiter with rude dismissal and then tipped him less than five percent. Not to mention that he’d grabbed my butt on the way out of the restaurant. I’d whirled and hit him on the arm. He’d backed off, but the whole thing made me uncomfortable.

Resolving to ignore him, I turned my attention back to Dylan, whose fingers were slowly inching their way up my thigh. He wouldn’t actually touch me at the table, would he?

Taking in the amused, aroused glimmer in his eyes, I realized that he would, if he wanted to. I just had to hope he didn’t want to. All it took was the memory of what those fingers had done and my body was ready for more.

I zoned out, barely listening to my sisters chatter on about the wedding, something about the flowers, or the place settings, all my attention focused on Dylan and his roving fingers. His right foot hooked my left and tugged, spreading my legs just enough to make room for his hand. I hitched a breath as his thumb skated across my clit.

“What’s wrong with you?” Cathie asked. I shook my head, and grabbed Dylan’s hand under the table, desperate to stop him before I embarrassed myself.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Your face looks weird,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.

I didn’t care; I was more worried that Dylan was going to make me come right there at the table. I knew he could. If what had happened in the hallway was any indication, he could do it before our entrees arrived with time to spare.

“Stop,” I breathed into Dylan’s ear. He shook his head in a barely perceptible movement. Leaning in, he said, so quietly I could only hear a thread of sound,

“You’re going to come. Do you want it here, or upstairs?”

“Upstairs. Please upstairs.”

“What are you two whispering about again?” Christie asked, looking annoyed that we weren’t paying attention to her story about where she’d found her bridesmaid dresses. Dylan straightened, drawing his hand back into his own lap.

“I apologize, that was rude of us. I was just telling Leigha that an urgent message came in on my phone and we’re going to have to excuse ourselves.”

“Oh, can’t Leigha stay?” my mother asked, the only one who cared if I was there or not. I felt a little bad about letting her down, but not enough to stay. Especially not if Dylan was taking me upstairs to give me an orgasm.

“I’m sorry, we have a commitment after this, so she’ll have to come with me. As an apology, dinner is on me. We’ll see you tomorrow. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.”

With a nod, he pulled me from the booth and we were on our way out of the restaurant. Dylan stopped at the hostess station to say,

“Put their dinner on my account, Melanie. And send them a bottle of the Perrier-Jou?t 2006 Belle Epoque Brut. Have our meals sent upstairs along with a piece of the mascarpone chocolate cheesecake.”

“Yes, sir. Office or penthouse?”

“Penthouse.”





Chapter 8





Leigha





We rode the elevator in silence, standing side-by-side, not touching. The lack of contact was excruciating. After sitting so close in the restaurant with his arm around me and then his hand on my leg, the space between us made me feel alone. And nervous. I was pretty sure he hadn’t changed his mind. But what if he had? Halfway through the ride, I couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

“I’m sorry about my sisters. And my mom kind of hitting on you.” I didn’t know what else to say. They were rude, and it was embarrassing. Dylan looked at me, his eyes impossible to read.

“Your mother was fine. Your sisters are atrocious. Did they really steal your boyfriends in high school?”

“There weren’t that many,” I said. “But, yeah. They didn’t want to go out with the guys. They just wanted to, I don’t know, humiliate me? Show me what a dork I was? I was in the math club and the chess club so it’s not like I didn’t already know.”

Dylan gave me another long, unreadable look. I forced myself not to squirm, or tug at the hem of my skirt.

“They’re bitches, Leigha. They’ll probably always be bitches. Don’t let them bother you.”

“I try not to. Mostly, I avoid them.”

“Good.” Dylan turned his attention back to the elevator doors, making me even more edgy. Finally, the elevator stopped at a floor marked P*. Taking my arm, Dylan led me into a luxurious entryway complete with a crystal chandelier and polished parquet floors.

Opposite the elevator hung an oil painting that made me wish I knew more about art. It was certainly original and undoubtedly expensive. Below the painting, a wide, decorative China bowl sat between two fresh flower arrangements on an antique sideboard.