She arches an eyebrow playfully. “You also think I should partake of all the pleasures? Wine, food, dessert?”
“I think your friend Elise is brilliant, and I think you could even expand that list of pleasures.”
“And what else should I put on my list? Maybe languages?”
I blink. That’s not what she’s supposed to say. “Languages?”
She smiles, big and wide. She sets down her glass and spreads her hands on the table. “As I said, I have a proposition for you. Here it is.”
“Yes, hit me up.” Obviously, it’s the language of sex she wants me to teach her. The words and phrases that will take her straight to O-town every night. Funnily enough, I’m pretty damn fluent in that language as well as the many others I speak. “I’m conversant in many tongues.”
She laughs, tossing her head back, her throat long and inviting, her red hair curling in lush waves over her shoulders and down her chest, curtaining those fantastic breasts. I nearly growl with the realization that I will finally get properly acquainted with those beauties.
“You and your talent with tongues.” She shakes her head, amused, then clears her throat. “That’s actually what I want to talk to you about.”
I was right. Fist pump.
I’ve never answered an implied question faster in my life. “Yes. The answer is yes. We can start tonight if you want.”
She furrows her brow. “We can?”
“Absolutely. After dinner?”
“Really? You don’t want to start, say, now?” she asks, stammering a bit as if she didn’t expect my response.
I’m surprised, too, since I didn’t peg Joy as the get-it-on-at-a-restaurant kind of woman. But I pride myself on being flexible. I glance around the room, scanning for an opportunity. French bathrooms are notoriously tiny. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. I can make it work. Or maybe she has something else in mind. The tablecloths do afford some nice coverage. A little under-the-table manual fun? Count me in.
“Now works for me.” Just so she knows I’m game for anything, I reach a hand under the table and gently stroke her knee.
She flinches for a brief second, then her eyes go hazy and she inhales sharply. “Now for wha . . .?”
“Whatever you want,” I say, running my hand up her thigh.
Her breath catches, and a faint pink flush runs up her neck. Jesus. She’s so incredibly sexy. She’s so responsive, and I’m going to get to play her beautiful body like an instrument.
“What I want . . .” She says it as if she’s mesmerized, like she can’t form words because she’s already so turned on.
“Anything you want.” My fingers travel higher up her thigh, and her eyes flutter closed. Her breath seems to come in a rush.
She swallows then says in a bare whisper, “I want . . .”
She doesn’t finish. She lowers her hand under the table, and her fingertips graze against mine. Electricity surges in me, sparking through my veins. Lust vibrates everywhere as my dirty mind spins so many possibilities. Places, positions, times. How she’ll look as a flush crawls up her chest and she arches beneath me, losing control, letting go.
I lace my fingers through hers with agonizing slowness, making it clear I’ll savor her, make her feel so good. I clasp them around hers possessively, so she’s keenly aware of how we’d come together. When our hands lock, she opens her eyes, and her hot gaze meets mine. Those green eyes of hers are flooded with lust, and a desire that matches mine.
“Have you decided what you want?”
The voice of the waiter snaps her focus from me.
I look up at him, silently cursing him with my eyes.
Joy snatches her hand away and sits tall. She fumbles with the menu then orders the Nicoise salad with salmon, and I choose a roast chicken dish.
“Very good. More wine for you?”
I nod. “Another glass, please.”
Joy nods.
He fills our glasses and leaves.
I practically rub my palms together because we can return to the main attraction.
But when I meet her gaze, her jaw is set, her focus dead-on professional. “Griffin, I need to learn to speak French. Will you teach me?”
I freeze. What the hell did she just say? My hand tightens around the stem of the wineglass. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes widen, an apologetic look crossing them. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. That’s why I asked you to dinner,” she says quickly. And holy balls, she did proposition me. But it’s not for sex. It’s for words. I’d like to say my heart sinks, but it’s another part that deflates. Along with my ego, which has been massively punctured, too.
“That’s why?” I ask cautiously, making sure I don’t completely cock this up, too.
“My proposition is that I’d like to pay you myself for you to spend more time with me, actually teaching me the language.”
So yeah. I basically felt her up under the table, and she wants me to teach her how to say table, fingers, and hands, instead.
“Foolishly, I thought I would learn the language simply by being here,” she explains. “I figured I’d pick it up the way young people do, through TV or whatnot. Except, I hate television. I suppose I could find some French language school, but I thought maybe if you wanted to pick up any extra work or hours . . . I can pay you well.”
Her voice rises at the end of her explanation, almost as if she’s embarrassed to be asking. Or maybe she’s embarrassed that I came on so strong.
But, in my defense, she sure as hell did seem responsive under the table.
I blow out a long stream of air, trying to reroute my errant, filthy thoughts. I reach for the glass of wine and take a hearty drink. I give myself another moment to adjust to the shift in plans, and in my pants for that matter, as well as the fact that I hit on her like a total wanker sidling up to a woman at a bar.
She
