There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(39)
Author: M. Leighton

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits, his eyes dark and steamy.

He says nothing else, just leaves me to my thoughts as he steers the car off the highway and onto a secondary road that’s lined with restaurants.

When he stops in front of a seafood place with an outdoor patio that overlooks a stretch of river, I have to wonder why he chose it. He answers my question before I can ask it, though. “Since we’re on a pretty strict timetable, we need to be quick.” He cuts the engine and removes the key from the ignition. Before he climbs out of the car, he turns those hot eyes to me and says, “Just so you know, though, ‘quick’ doesn’t mean ‘less satisfying’ when you’re with me.”

He leaves me with that sentiment as he gets out and walks around to open my door. When I slide my fingers into his, I feel the friction in every nerve of my body, like his touch is rasping along each one, bringing them to screaming life. He says nothing more as he closes my door and places his hand at my lower back to guide me inside. And I’m glad. With Jet touching me, I don’t think I could concentrate on what he was saying right now anyway.

Jet requests the outdoor area, so the hostess leads us to a table in the corner of the patio. The day is already very warm, but the ceiling fan helps keep the area cool.

Our waitress brings some water and two menus. I look at mine with unseeing eyes, every bit of my attention focused on Jet’s knees where they’re brushing mine under the table.

“Have you ever had raw oysters?”

“Like on the half shell?”

“Yeah.”

“Ummm, once.”

“And?”

I shrug. “They were okay.”

Jet grins. “Well, today they’re going to be delicious. Because I’m going to show you how to eat them the right way.”

“I’m game,” I reply, still feeling a bit dumbstruck by the increasing tension that seems to permeate our every look and word.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says again, his grin devilish.

Since they don’t have to be cooked, the waitress returns with our food within minutes of Jet placing the order. She sets two flat platters on the table, each filled with ice and topped with oysters sitting prettily inside the bottom half of their shell.

I watch as Jet loosens each of the two dozen oysters from its shell and then grabs the hot sauce. It’s sitting on the table with the salt and pepper, like it’s a normal condiment. Of course, in a place that serves raw food, it might be a normal condiment.

He sprinkles a few drops on one of the oysters and then looks up at me to ask, “Would you rather eat it out of the shell or with a fork? If you eat it from the shell, don’t be surprised if you get a little bit of grit from it. But don’t worry, it’s nothing that will hurt you.”

I don’t know how, but I manage to keep my top lip from curling up in a sneer of distaste. Proud of my self-control, I give him my answer calmly. “Fork please.”

Jet uses his fork to stab the oyster and then hold it out to me. “Come here,” he says huskily, his smoky eyes telling me that he’s looking forward to putting something in my mouth. And, if I’m being honest, now I’m looking forward to it just as much.

I rise a little from my chair and lean forward, just enough that I can easily take the food from his fork. I watch his eyes as I do. They are dark and sensuous, and glued to my mouth.

I’m barely aware of the salty, spicy, slimy oyster sliding down my throat. All I feel is the heat of Jet’s gaze. I lick my lips and Jet does the same, as though he’s wishing he could taste mine instead.

Finally his eyes rise to mine. “Good?”

“Delicious,” I respond, not in any way referring to the oyster.

Jet lowers his fork as I resume my seat. He says nothing for a few seconds as he watches me. “As much as I would love to feed you every oyster on this damn table, I’m not sure we’d make it out of the parking lot before sunset if I do.”

“Why is that?” If I weren’t so entranced by him, I would be surprised at my curiously brazen question.

“Because,” he says, reaching across the table to wipe my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, “I can’t watch your lips close around my fork or watch your tongue lick them without remembering what you taste like. And then wondering what you taste like everywhere else.” Suddenly, the air seems warmer, thicker than it was a few seconds ago, and I feel a flush flood me from my cheeks to my core. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I’m breathless and completely mesmerized by his words and the images they bring to mind. “No, of course not,” I say automatically.

“That’s kind of a shame, because if you really, really wanted me to continue putting things in your mouth, you are the one thing I’d miss this meeting for.”

Pleasure races behind the gush of heat that moved through me, pleasure that he’d blow off something so important to be with me.

“I couldn’t let you do that, not even if I wanted to.”

Jet’s grin is devilish. “The fact that you might want to gives me something to look forward to.”

I say nothing. I can’t admit that I would even consider it—but I am. Not only am I considering it, but I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the trip.

Finally, when the silence drags on and the tension is nearly unbearable, Jet speaks. “Eat,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”

It’s a promise. Not only the words, but the look in his eyes. And as often as I’ve told myself that this is a mistake and that I shouldn’t get involved, I know there’s no going back now. It seems that as much as I tried to avoid it, as much as I’ve tried to explain it away and lie to myself about it—just like an addict would—I’ve finally found my weakness.

It’s Jet.

THIRTY: Jet

I don’t know how the hell I’ve made it this far without putting my hands on Violet. It has to be the anticipation of tonight. It’s keeping me going. That has to be it. If I didn’t believe relief was right around the corner, I don’t think I’d have made it this far.

But here I am. Standing in the lobby of a posh, historic hotel in the heart of New Orleans, waiting to get checked in.

After watching the clerk frown and tap furiously at his computer before picking up his phone and speaking softly into it, I’m not surprised when I see the concierge approach, wearing a smile that says he’s ready to kiss ass.