And she had every reason to believe that he wasn't going to get her out of it, either – if anything, getting into trouble with him was going to make things harder – and ever so much more tantalizing because of it – for her.
So, before she could rationalize herself out of it, she grabbed his phone and tucked it into her purse, reaching in to grab her own and turn it off, showing him the blank, black screen before putting it, too, into her clutch and snapping the clasp closed with a deafening finality.
"So?" she whispered, barely daring to peek up at him. "Now what?" she asked, half expecting him to jump her or do something equally as odious that would make her instantly regret her decision.
But he did nothing of the sort.
Instead, he leaned forward, until their noses were almost touching and she was certain that he was going to kiss the breath out of her, and said, "Now…we have dessert!"
The words were no sooner out of his mouth when their waiter wheeled a dessert tray into the room – a double-decker dessert tray, at that – and proceeded to describe all of the delicacies to them.
"Oh, I shouldn't," she moaned, her eyes on the slices of death by chocolate cheesecake, Granny's Carrot Cake, the Triple Hot Topping Sundae, with homemade hot fudge, homemade hot caramel, and homemade white chocolate toppings over hand cranked vanilla ice cream, and so many more that she couldn't even begin to decide.
"You should. I insist."
"I-I don't know what to pick!"
"Then give me your top three, and I'll choose for you."
She named something called a Browniegasm, the triple sundae, and the death by chocolate cheesecake.
He whispered his choices to the waiter, who then disappeared to get them what he'd ordered.
"Wait, what did you choose?"
He took a last swallow of the wine. "Let it be a surprise. You know that it will be one of the three things you liked the most. Relax and enjoy the anticipation of something that's bound to be wonderfully pleasant."
She nodded, and he was glad she was willing to go along with him on this – on the cell phone power down, too. He'd been surprised she did, but he was very pleased when she had.
"You don't drink wine, but do you drink at all?"
"Yes, occasionally."
The waiter reappeared in record time. Nico startled her by tugging her onto his lap, so that she faced away from the young man, his arm securely around her waist so that she would have had to cause a scene to try to extract herself from his hold. The server placed the desserts on the table, next to him, where she couldn't see them, then he left as discreetly as he came.
"Do you drink whiskey at all, Celia?" Nico asked, reaching for his glass.
"My dad used to drink it and let me have a sip when I was a little girl, but not since then," she replied, shifting a bit – although trying not to, because she recognized exactly what part of him was prominently poking at her bottom.
His glass – the rocks mostly melted – appeared before her. "I don't think your dad could quite afford this quality of whiskey on his plumber's paycheck." Although she took a sip, Nico had felt her stiffen at his words and wished he had taken more care with them. The last thing he wanted to do was to remind her that he had, indeed, run a background check on her – and a very thorough one, at that – just as things were progressing so nicely between them. "Have another one, take a good, big swallow of it."
She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. –" CeCe stopped mid-sentence and looked up at him.
Just as she expected, just as he would have in a fantasy of him she might or might not have had last night, he was looking down at her expectantly, in a manner no other man ever had that let her know quietly, subtly that there would be consequences if she resisted calling him by his first name again.
"Nico?" she finished, making him grin broadly.
"The thought never entered my mind, Miss Franklin," he purred. "I want you wide awake for later." They both felt her shiver. "But I also want you relaxed, and a few sips of this will go a long way towards that. Have one more."
She did as he commanded, then he took the glass away.
"Close your eyes," he ordered softly.
She bit her lip and stiffened a bit, but he didn't push her one direction or the other. She would have to decide whether she could trust him this early on. He wouldn't force her to.
But he was inordinately happy when she did, still biting that poor lip.
"Open your mouth." Much more gutturally said.
That seemed to be easier for her to do, somehow, and she was amply rewarded when a big forkful of cream cheese frosting, carrot cakey goodness was delivered there, very carefully, so that the tines did not clink against her teeth.
Her ecstatic moan at the amazing tastes made him shudder hard beneath her, and she quieted immediately.
"No, don't stifle your reactions, honey. Despite what you probably think of me, I'm not an animal. I'm not going to throw you on the table and fuck you – unless you think you'd get off on that."
She shook her head slowly, still subdued.
"No, I knew that wouldn't be your preference," he whispered his agreement, then kissed a spot midway up her neck. "At least not so early on, hmm?"
Her breath hitched audibly in her throat at that uncannily astute observation.
But he noticed that her eyes had remained closed throughout their exchange.
"Open your mouth, little bird."
The next mouthful – of what she quickly recognized as the fudge chocolate cheesecake that melted in her mouth – had her with one hand to her lips, the other flailing as if she wanted to slam her fist down on the table, but wasn't sure exactly where it was. Instead, she found his arm, gripping it fiercely.
Damn, Nico thought, if she was like this in response to food, what would she be like in bed, with his tongue eagerly licking her clit?
"Dear God, that was good!"
He chuckled. "I got that idea. Do you need a cigarette after that?"
She blushed prettily, but refused to answer.
Her next mouthful was of the ice cream sundae, after which he brought a glass to her lips.
She balked. "I don't want any more whiskey."
"No, baby, this is relatively warm water – I don't want you to get an ice cream headache."
He had managed to impress her again with his caretaking tendencies, although she was still trying not to let him get too far into her head, even when he delicately dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
The Browniegasm was last, and she wondered if the reason he'd saved it was because he'd had one before, because it very nearly lived up to its name.
"Holy – that's – that stuff is downright dangerous!"
"And I thought that was me!" he tried to sound insulted. "I fed that to you last because I wanted the last thing you tasted from me to be at least part of an orgasm."
CeCe snorted. "It was damned close to more than just a part, let me tell you!"
"I'll have to remember that," he murmured huskily. "I don't need to touch you, just feed you?"
She colored at that, and he wondered why.
His curiosity was satisfied – however unsatisfactorily – when she confessed, "Well, I'd be skinnier if that wasn't true…"
Suddenly, she felt his mouth pressed against her ear, and she could smell the 'gasm on his breath, too. "You had better be grateful, my dear, that the table is still strewn with desserts that I don't intend to waste, or you would find yourself bent over it, your panties around your ankles, and your bottom being set afire for making a remark like that. I will not tolerate such things from you – whether or not we become closer this evening. If I wasn't attracted to you – to you," he emphasized, his arm tightening around her. "Then you wouldn't be here. And I will not have you questioning my taste in the matter, even in such a roundabout fashion."
While she didn't exactly feel scared, CeCe did feel excited by the passion in what he was saying – and how he was saying it.
<
br /> "I'm sorry."
He was, too, for disturbing their little game, but he hated it when smart, funny, gorgeous women ran themselves down, almost because they thought they had to, or that he would expect it, which was the furthest thing possible from the truth.
"Can I open my eyes?"
"May I," he corrected gently, adding, "No, you may not." He had a feeling she'd want off his lap next, and then she'd stop eating the caloric treats altogether.
He didn't expect them to polish off all four of them, but they made a reasonable dent in each before he stopped, although he'd eaten the most of all of them. When he indulged – which he didn't do all that often – he did so without guilt.
"Coffee?" he asked, still keeping her on his lap, after finally giving her permission to open her eyes.
"Yes, please. That sounds wonderful."
He let her retreat to her own seat, then proceeded to reach out and, with a hand grasping the cushion between her legs and one at the back of the chair; he proceeded to pull her seat right up against his knees.
"You were sitting entirely too far away from me," he explained unrepentantly.
Chapter Three
CeCe couldn't think of anything to say to that – even less when he left his hand there – right there – between her legs, beneath the almost non-existent skirt of her dress. He still really wasn't touching her anywhere – even there – but it felt as if he was. He was disturbingly close to her; the strong column of his muscular arm making her hold her legs further apart than she would have normally, the potent heat and scent of him surrounding her as surely as if he was holding her to him.
When the waiter came with their coffee, he left his alone while she doctored hers, trying desperately not to notice where his hand was and failing miserably.
"When you're done with your coffee, I'm going to take you back to my place and show you the house I grew up in."
As intriguing as that statement was, she couldn't begin to take it in – she was much too distracted.
Nick was surprised when she didn't respond to him, but then he realized that he could literally feel her shaking and he asked softly, under his breath, "Would you prefer to just go? I have coffee at my house."
When she looked up at him, he could see just how unsure she was – about him, about the relationship they were on the verge of. He knew that she, more so than probably any other women he'd been with, since he generally found it easier to be involved with women who were a bit jaded and knew the score, had to be wondering how in the hell she found herself there with him. Having revealed so much about herself, and she was understandably uncertain about whether or not she should take this step with him.
He wondered if she was a virgin, not that he considered that a negative – he just wanted to know so that he could act accordingly towards her, but then he remembered that he had read in the dossier he had received on her that she had been married before – a short, starter marriage – when she was barely out of college.
The thought blew into his mind that – virgin or not – she was pretty much the first woman he had been interested in, who was the type of woman he would love to bring home to his mama.
And he dismissed that errant thought immediately, not wanting to consider it since his mind had already gone so many prurient places with her, regardless.
He stretched a long, thick finger out to cup her chin and used it to turn her to face him so that she had to stop staring into the coffee she had about stirred into the ground. "We've both decided to check out tonight, right?"
She nodded slightly.
"Thank you for doing that with me. I have a feeling that you don't do it very often, yourself, and I know I don't let myself off the treadmill very often, but I can tell that you're worth it."
"Stop. You'll make me blush."
"I certainly hope so," he chuckled. "For tonight, though, I want us to take that a step further – to indulge ourselves completely." He leaned in, pressing his forehead to her temple. "I want to be your fantasy. I want to do anything and everything that turns you on, and I think I have a fair idea of what that might be." He felt her shivering increase at what he was saying to her. "And the marvelous thing is, that the very idea of what you want me to do to you – if I'm reading you right by some of the things we've said and done since we met yesterday – and I think I am – is exactly what has had me hard as a rock since the moment I laid eyes on you."
Cece heard him take a deep, shuddering breath, just before his hand finally moved to capture hers as he stood and began to leave the room, pulling her along behind him in his haste, eating up the floor with his long strides until he realized that she was having to practically run to keep up with him.
He immediately adjusted his steps to accommodate hers, looping his arm loosely around her waist to keep her next to him as he did so.
When he guided her into the back of the waiting limo, he immediately pulled her to his side, kissing the top of her head and almost scolding softly, "I realize that you have to trust me tremendously – and on short acquaintance – to allow yourself to become close to me; I understand that, and I'm honored by it."
CeCe was thinking that this man saw entirely too much about her – or was the fact that she had never allowed herself to be wooed into a one-night stand also in the report he'd gotten about her?
"But I have to trust you, too – that you'll tell me if I do something you don't like or don't feel yet or that you find distasteful." He gave her a devilish grin, continuing, "I won't promise you that you'll get off on everything I might do to you, but I have a thorough respect for safe words if you should feel the need to use yours. What is it, by the way?"
She certainly knew what that was, but she had never had occasion to have to create one, and it had her laughing, although stiffly.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"I-I don't know what my safe word is."
He didn't know why, but he found that equally as endearing as arousing. She'd never indulged in what he intended for them this evening, although he would have said it was as natural to her as breathing.
"Well," he breathed roughly. "We'll have to find you one tonight, won't we?"
Her head shot up, eyes locked to his, her lower lip between her teeth, looking hesitant, and he realized he could feel her still shivering, although he'd checked that the heat was up as soon as they'd gotten into the car.
She wasn't cold – she was so nervous she was terrified, doing her best not to let it show on her face, although her entire body was betraying her to him anyway.
He lifted her onto his lap and proceeded to cocoon her with his warmth, figuring it couldn't really hurt. He tucked her head into his shoulder, both big arms surrounding her, holding her close. Several of his lovers had mentioned that he was something of a furnace, and he hoped that the proximity as well as his body heat might help her become calmer.
Despite the fact that she was on his lap, perched atop what was a veritable mountain of an erection, he didn't commence to pawing or groping her. In fact, it seemed that everything he did was designed to help her relax.
He began to talk to her, even more than he had in the restaurant, about what it was like growing up in his father's house, surrounded by members of his family as well as members of the family when his father was the lone holdout. The only male in generations who hadn't succumbed to the lure of relatively easy money – and, in exchange, sometimes an early violent death – and, although she was grateful that he felt comfortable telling her all of that, CeCe knew that she wasn't going to remember a single word of it.
Her mind was definitely elsewhere – worrying, wondering, obsessing…
But his tone was deep and soothing, and, almost against her will, her muscles gave up the ghost, and she sagged into him.
The house he brought her into – after tipping the driver – as he had their waiter at the restaurant – extravagantly – was big, as most turn of the previous century old houses were that had escaped being chopped eith
er into apartments or condos. But it certainly didn't look as if the man who controlled the largest syndicate on the Eastern Seaboard lived there, which was probably an advantage.
"I can still smell my mama's sauce cooking on the back burner of the stove sometimes when I come home," he confessed, his eyes automatically settling on what was, undoubtedly an updated stove from what his mother had had, but still. It was right in front of where he remembered she'd spent all of those hours standing, making meals for her family.
He took CeCe's coat, and she looked about as he put it away, taking a deep breath. "It smells like a family home – like a lot of life happened within these walls – laughter and tears and angst and problems and celebrations and parties and wakes…"
"You're very right. Despite my father being the black sheep, this was always where everyone gathered – probably because my Uncle Enzo never got married."
"I've always had a thing for old houses. If I hadn't been a writer – well, more accurately, if I wasn't trying to be a writer – I'd probably be a real estate agent – although I'd be in trouble there, too, because I'd probably want to buy every house I saw!"
He guided her into the living room, then past it, to what might be referred to as a rumpus room, where he turned on a small but powerful stereo and the room filled with Frank Sinatra, as he commenced moving all of the heavy furniture up against the perimeter of the room as if it was matchsticks.
"Can I help?" she offered, standing at the end of a huge leather sofa.
"No, you may not," he answered, one eyebrow raised at her pointedly. "Except by standing out of my way until I'm done here."
She frowned, but removed herself to a neutral corner until he had created a lovely big space in the center of the room.
Then he came to stand in front of her, hand out, palm up. "May I have this dance, my Celia?" he asked, bowing formally.
"I-I don't know how to dance."
He caught her hand and used it to gather her into his arms. "Then I will teach you."
And he did. He was marvelously patient with her, ignoring how many times she crushed his feet in a misstep, until, before she knew it, it just clicked for her and suddenly she knew where her feet should go to avoid stomping on his.
Lion Page 3
