Sweet Sinful Nights(31)
She had a purchase to make. She’d show Brent how she liked her sweets.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Temptation got the better of him as he walked to the hostess stand at Giada in the Cromwell, a trendy, boutique hotel on the Strip. Shannon was waiting in the entryway, her back to him, looking far too sexy for him to keep his hands to himself.
Because... that ass.
Small, but firm and round.
And absolutely delicious.
He knew precisely how fantastic it felt to grab that flesh while he sank deep into her. He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water, but it didn’t deter the dirty thoughts that invaded his brain. Hell, they launched a full-scale attack, completely taking over his sense of propriety as he strode up to her. No one but him should be allowed to see her in a skirt that hugged her ass like that. But then, she couldn’t hide that perfect body in a burlap sack if she tried, and he couldn’t hide his rampant desire for her either.
The hustle and bustle of a Saturday evening surrounded him as he crossed the final distance to the restaurant entrance. Music floated through the air, and heels clicked on the floor, and from somewhere he swore he could hear the sound of money even if there were no slots jingling nearby. The thirst for payoffs was never far away in this town.
Three more steps. Two more steps. One more step.
His hands reached out. He couldn’t help himself. Well, he could. He chose not to.
He cupped her ass, and she flinched for a second, but then he brushed his lips against her neck, and whispered, “You are so unbelievably beautiful, that I hope you’ll forgive me for not being able to keep my hands off you.”
She trembled against him, shifting the slightest bit closer, leaning into him. “You aren’t winning any medals for self-restraint tonight.”
“I’m not competing in that event.”
“You never could keep your hands to yourself in public,” she said, but she wasn’t swatting his mitts away, so he ran his hands along the sweet curves of her ass.
“Or in private either. But can you blame me? Have you looked at yourself lately?”
She turned around, breaking contact. Her lips curved in a small grin. “Yes. Why?”
“If I were you, I’d never be able to resist touching myself either.”
She rolled her pretty green eyes. “Amazingly, I can find the will to resist incessant self-touching,” she said, but she wasn’t smacking him, she wasn’t yelling at him, and she wasn’t walking away. Progress. They were making progress from the last few encounters. It was almost as if they’d slipped back in time, forgotten the way they’d split, and had returned to the way they were—good together.
He whistled low in admiration. “Impressive. But then, you don’t always resist. You told me the other day.”
She arched an eyebrow, then trailed her fingertips down the front of her shirt. Oh, hell. She was already playing dirty. Everything she did turned him on, and she knew, she f*cking knew he was done for when she touched herself. When she’d strip for him, or tease him with a dance and run her hands along her legs, or through her hair, he was an oven turned past broiling. What he wouldn’t give to toss her on his shoulder, carry her out of there, and take her someplace right that second. Screw her against the wall. Bent over a bed. In a cab. He didn’t care.
“Do you have a reservation?”
The sweet, cheery voice of the hostess broke the trance Shannon was working on him. He was like a man hypnotized who’d just snapped out of it. He turned to the ponytailed, fresh-faced young lady in a black dress and said, “Nichols.”
His name came out all gravelly. His voice was hoarse with wanting Shannon.
The hostess scanned the computerized list, and then tapped the screen. “There you are. I see Mario has requested one of the best tables for you,” she said, dropping the name of the restaurant manager he’d called in the favor from. “You’ll love this table.”
Shannon turned to look at him, her lips forming a puckered O. You’re fancy, she mouthed.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate him doing that,” Brent said to the hostess.
“Right this way then, Mr. Nichols.”
The restaurant had a soft glow, its lighting showcasing an open kitchen and a wide, expansive floor plan. Too bad there wasn’t much privacy. There were no quiet corner tables, or little nooks. There weren’t even any tablecloths. Damn. Tablecloths were a man’s best friend when dining out with a woman he wanted to touch. The hostess guided them to a table on the terrace, with a view of the fountains at the Bellagio.
“Your table,” the hostess said, then walked away.
Brent pulled out a chair for Shannon, and she smiled at him once more. “This is lovely. Even though there are no tablecloths.”
A rumble worked its way up his chest, and he looped a hand around her waist, tugging her close. She didn’t resist. She moved with him, aligning her body with his. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said, low in her ear, then kissed her there, nibbling on her earlobe.
“Or we could just get a room,” she said sexily, letting her voice trail off.
He wrenched back, looked her in the eyes, and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go. Now.”
“I was only teasing. I’m terribly hungry,” she said as she shook her head and dropped his hand, then settled into her seat. “Besides, I’ve been waiting for a long time to come here.”