Page 17 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking
“I think nothing about you is simple.” The wine was making me bold. “The suit, the car, this restaurant—you’re clearly successful. So why skulk around my shop at night in tennis shoes?”
“Maybe I just wanted an excuse to introduce myself to you.”
My cheeks grew hot. “Now I know you’re lying.”
His eyes darkened. “Do I strike you as someone who needs excuses?”
Before I could respond, a shadow fell across our table.
“Dominic! What a surprise.” A man in an expensive suit appeared, his alpha scent sharp with ambition. The scent of fresh cotton and smoky Amyris wood invaded my nostrils. I recognized him and his scent from Vertex—Marcus Cretch.
Dominic’s expression cooled several degrees. “Marcus. I’m in the middle of dinner.”
“I can see that.” Cretch’s gaze slid over me, dismissive. “But since you’ve been missing our executive meetings, I thought?—“
“You thought wrong.” Dominic’s voice could have frozen hell. “We’ll discuss business tomorrow. At the office.”
The dismissal was clear. Marcus Cretch retreated, but not before shooting me a look that made my skin crawl.
“Sorry about that,” Dominic said once he’d gone.
“Do you always handle your employees so... definitively?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Only when they interrupt something important.”
The wine was definitely going to my head now, making everything soft around the edges. Making Dominic’s intense focus feel like a physical touch.
“Important?” I echoed.
“Very.” His voice dropped to that dangerous register again.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of excellent food and heated glances. Dominic asked about my shop, actually listening as I talked about the craft of cobbling. I found myself leaning forward, drawn into stories about his travels, the way his hands moved as he spoke.
By the time we finished dessert—a decadent chocolate thing with a name I couldn’t pronounce—my head was spinning pleasantly. The wine had softened all my sharp edges, making it harder to remember why I shouldn’t trust the man sitting across the table.
“Let me take you home,” Dominic said, helping me up. His hand on my lower back felt like a brand.
The drive back was quiet, charged with something electric. I watched his profile in the passing streetlights, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. His alpha scent filled the car, making my head swim with more than just wine.
He parked in front of my shop, coming around to open my door. Such an old-world alpha gesture. It shouldn’t have made my knees weak.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said as we reached my door. The words came out softer than intended.
“Thank you for trusting me.” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Even if you’re still suspicious.”
“I am suspicious.” But I was already tilting my face up to his. “You’re hiding something.”
“Yes.” His breath ghosted across my lips. “But not what you think.”
I’m not sure who moved first. One moment we were standing apart, the next his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding. I gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept in, tasting of wine and desire.
My back hit the door as he pressed closer. His hands framed my face, surprisingly gentle for how desperately he kissed me. I clutched at his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath expensive fabric.
A whimper escaped me as he moved to my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. My hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking friction. Finding it. He was hard against me, and the knowledge sent heat pooling low in my belly.
“Dom,” I gasped, rocking against him shamelessly. The wine had stripped away my inhibitions, leaving only want.
He groaned, the sound vibrating against my throat. Then suddenly he was pulling away, putting space between us. The loss of his heat made me whine—the desperate mewl of an omega that I’d regret once sobriety hit.