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He dropped his hands, reached for one of mine, and tugged me toward the door. “Now let’s go eat. Chop House is delicious and I’m famished.”

* * *

The Chop House was the sort of restaurant where couples went to celebrate anniversaries and birthdays. It was the kind of romantic, expensive restaurant where there were more forks than courses, scarlet red table cloths and black, cloth napkins folded into origami shapes and settled on top of crystal plates. Crystal champagne glasses were already settled at the tables, in assumption champagne—expensive and sweet champagne not the tart sort of chilled I would buy at the local liquor store—would be ordered for the romantic meals. Private rooms where wedding receptions and fiftieth anniversaries were celebrated among the closest and richest families and friends.

In short, it was the sort of restaurant I’d only seen in online photos and never stepped foot inside.

Perhaps that was part of the reason why I’d questioned Bennett would ever take me there.

We had nothing to celebrate, no relationship deep enough to warrant a trip to such a spectacular restaurant. Nor had we, at the time, been committed in any way that would explain his need to have us seated at a table for six, completely private with red velvet drapes closing us off from the rest of the main restaurant, giving us the best views of the city overlooking the river.

The table had been set for two, precisely like our reservation required. Yet as the host ushered us behind the curtain, my breath caught in my throat when I saw that instead of the table being set at opposite ends in a table for six, a smaller, circular table had been brought in.

Candlelight flickered and danced across the closed curtains once we were secluded behind them, a vase of beautiful and thick calla lilies settled in the center.

“Your table, Mr. Ashby,” the host said.

“Thank you,” Bennett replied, giving the host a look that suggested he get gone and get gone quickly.

The host nodded, almost bowing, and clasped his hands together in front of him. “Your server Maurice will be in shortly. Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, awe thick in my voice at not only the gorgeous surroundings but the enigmatic man in front of me. At my house, Bennett had been wearing a wool coat, but as he peeled it off and hung it near our table, my mouth went dry.

Black dress pants, shiny black shoes, a thick black belt and a red dress shirt that matched the curtains. I no longer wondered where the devil on my shoulder came from. He was in front of me, dressed and wicked with his large and bulky frame, his powerful thighs and veins popping on the backs of his hands as he reached to help divest me of my coat as well.

“You’re flushed,” he said, his voice as husky and raspy as I knew mine would be.

“You’re hot,” I answered.

His low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against my skin and he pulled out my chair for me. As he helped adjust it to the table, he leaned behind me, lips brushing against my collarbone. “And you’re delicious. Sensual and seductive and much more glamorous than I ever thought possible. Every table we walked by tonight, heads swiveled in your wake, men unable to decide if they wanted to taste the creamy expanse of your cleavage or dig their hands into the globes of your ass as you ride them.”

My flushed skin burned brighter and hotter until I was the blue flame in the fire.

“Bennett—”

“Don’t argue with me.” His lips pressed against the top of my head and he stepped back. “I’ve got a dick so I know what they’re thinking, and my hands hurt from balling them into fists at the urge to pommel everyone who glanced at you for more than a fleeting moment.”

Coarse and rude, I still shivered at what he said. The confidence and arrogance in his voice told me he believed every single word he spoke.

“I won’t argue,” I whispered, barely able to catch my breath.

I picked up my menu, and then set it down when he moved.

He didn’t take the chair across from me. Instead, he moved the lilies to where his place setting was, picked that up, and brought everything next to me before taking his own seat.

“I spoke to the host while you were using the restroom when we arrived. There’s champagne and water on the way. Is there anything else you’d like to drink while we look over the menu?”

“No.”

His thumb pressed against my chin and he tilted me to look at him. “You’re smiling because I ordered you water?”

His lips were lifted into a grin, assuming it was the same way I looked. I shook my head. “No, I’m smiling because you’re sitting next to me, this restaurant is spectacular and the view is gorgeous.”

“It is. The view is the best I’ve ever seen.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off me, so I knew he wasn’t talking about the twinkling lights and the river.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “You’re very thoughtful.”