Losing Control(84)

Ian places his hand around my waist as we wait for the maître d’ to seat us. His arm provides a protective cage, keeping other people out but stoking a slow fire within me. He’s having a hard time of it as well. I can feel it in the tenseness of his body and the way his fingers play with the edge of my shirt.

“Did I forget to give you the bras that we bought together?” he mouths against my ear.

“No, you forgot to buy shirts with fabric in the back. Apparently your money isn’t enough to buy a complete top—only half of one.”

He chuckles and because he’s so close to me I feel the puffs of air against my hair, and it’s as warm as a caress.

“We’ll have to get a new personal shopper who will buy you shirts that have both fronts and backs, because these backless shirts are adversely affecting my ability to be in public with you.” He steps even closer, and I feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. I am tempted to drop my hand and grasp him over the wool trousers, but the maître d’ approaches.

“Kerr for two,” Ian instructs.

The maître d’s hair is a mass of curls, and I can’t stop staring at them as they bounce atop his head when he bends down to check his reservation book. “It’ll be thirty minutes.” He gestures us toward the crush at the bar. Ian doesn’t move and stares at the Harry Styles impersonator with a raised eyebrow. The look is one that clearly says, “We aren’t waiting thirty minutes,” and it flusters the host. He brings up his hands but before another word or gesture is delivered, a loud voice from Ian’s right interrupts.

“Ian Kerr, so thrilled to have you with us tonight.” The voice belongs to a slender, bald man whose pants are so tight I wonder if he can actually sit. He’s sockless and the shoes he’s wearing are bright blue and pointy. “Travis, what do we have?”

He looks down at the screen and suggests, “Private room?”

Ian shakes his head. “No, I want to see how it runs.”

The newcomer nods his head multiples times, so many that he looks like a bobblehead. “Of course, right this way.”

He leads us to a corner booth that is big enough to seat several people. I slide in, stopping at the center, and Ian follows, settling right next to me. His arm stretches across the back of the banquette. “I’m Donatello, and I’m the assistant manager. We were so excited when we received your reservation. The chef has prepared a special degustation for you tonight, and we have an assortment of wines to serve so that you can see the extensive cellar we keep. Our sommelier will be here shortly to describe the sensory journey we will take you on—”

Ian holds up his hand and Donatello stops talking immediately. “The degustation is fine but, please, no other special treatment tonight. As I said, I want to see how this place runs.”

Donatello squeezes his hands together, and his cheeriness seems a little forced. “Of course. Of course.”

I want to lean forward and reassure Donatello that Ian’s always this high-handed, but all I can do is offer the manager a sincere smile and thank you.

“He’s afraid. Be nice,” I warn when the manager wanders off.

Ian looks taken aback. “I didn’t realize you wanted a thirty minute dissertation on the bouquets of wines and their interplay with each little course we’ll be served.” He raises his hand to bring Donatello back, but I drag it down.

“No, just be nicer. He’s trying to impress you.”

He sighs but the next time the manager returns, Ian smiles and says he’s doing a nice job. Donatello floats away. “Not so hard, is it?” I tease.

Ian tugs at my ponytail and runs a hand down the ridges of my spine. “I’m already impressed. Let’s go home now.”

“No way, I put on makeup. Besides, this place is amazing.”

I have lived in the city my whole life and I have seen every street and alley, but tonight the whole of fashionable New York is on display. And I can’t stop looking. Everyone looks amazing. Perhaps it is the dim light or the reflections of the copper plating on the wall, but there are people looking fabulous in tight suits and even tighter pants and that was just the men. A thin, tall brunette with hair down to her butt is wearing a ball gown and a tube top. Two tables down, a man is wearing a leather vest and a collar.

“I wish you could see yourself right now. Your eyes are so big,” he whispers into my ear, and the sound travels all the way to my belly.

“Tiny,” he says, and I can sense that he wants me to look at him. His hand reaches out, strokes my jaw, and then turns my face so that we’re looking at each other. We’re so close on this banquette that I could lean forward and be kissing him. The thought makes me lick my lips, and Ian’s gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. When he flicks his gaze back upward, it’s filled with lust and tenderness. If it wasn’t for the waiter, who coughs to get our attention, I would have grabbed Ian’s head and dragged him under the table with me.