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“It’s okay, Luck. You can tell me how wet it’s making you. How badly you need to come already.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Open it,” he urges, holding the box closer.
With a nod, I reach for it.
My heart jumps into my throat.
This one has to be jewelry.
The thought of him buying me a new ring flickers through my mind, but I quickly shut it down.
Tomorrow, the facade will be over.
Lifting the top, my breath catches when I find a pair of diamond-encrusted angel wings staring back at me.
My eyes burn with emotion.
“They open,” Kieran says softly as I pull the necklace from its silk cushion.
“Oh my god,” I gasp when I separate than, finding a photograph of both of us and Grams at one of his high school football games. “Kieran, this is?—”
“I had to put myself in there too,” he says. “Didn’t want you to forget about me.”
I sniffle, desperately trying not to ruin my makeup already. Something tells me he’ll want the pleasure of doing that a little later.
“As if that’s possible,” I whisper, my voice cracked with emotion. “Thank you.”
As I move to put it on, he’s out of his seat and coming to help me.
“She’ll always be with you, Effie. But now, she really is right here,” he says, tapping the wings that lie beside my heart. “And so am I.”
He’s gone before I can blink, and I watch as he lowers himself back into his seat.
He’s wearing a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the first three buttons undone. It’s understated but hot as hell. So are his black slacks that fit him like a second skin. They’ve been custom-made; there is no way a pair from a store would hug his ass and thighs the way they do.
“I ordered all your favorites,” he informs me before a knock sounds and a man with a tray appears.
A basket of calamari is placed between us and my stomach growls.
“Wine?” he asks, gesturing to the ice bucket beside the table.
“Thank you,” Kieran says, speaking for both of us.
The server fills our glasses before he disappears again.
“For someone who doesn’t date, you’re doing a pretty good job.”
His smile grows. “I don’t date because I don’t want to, not because I can’t. And…is this a date?” he asks, quirking a brow.
“Looks like it.”
“A pretty dress. A fancy meal. Enough orgasms until you pass out. I guess it sounds like it too.”
I laugh, although there isn’t much humor in it. Just sadness laced with a powerful coating of desire.
Tomorrow, this is all going to be over. Is it bad that I’m already mourning the loss?