Page 58 of Vicious Temptation
“I’ll send Agnes a text. She won’t mind.” I know that’s an understatement. Agnes will be thrilled that I’m taking Bella out to dinner, for all of the reasons that I shouldn’t be doing this. She won’t let me hear the end of it, either; I know that. And I know, deep down, that this impetuous decision is just another symptom of what I should be trying to put a stop to between us.
This is the kind of thing that the man I was four years ago would have done. The younger, more carefree, spontaneous version of me. The more I lean into this, the more I let myself be the kind of man that I want to be around her, the harder it’s going to be to stop.
“Are you sure?” I can hear in Bella’s voice that she’s biting her lip; I don’t even have to look at her to know. “We don’t have to do this, Gabriel?—”
“I know.” I glance towards her, then a sharp, quick look. “Do you want to go back to the house?”
“I—” She hesitates, and that’s all the answer I need. She wants to go out, likes the idea of the impulse decision, but she’s afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, maybe, or what will happen, but I’m in control of that.
It doesn’t have to mean anything. Nothing will happen between us. It can just be something we both enjoy. A moment for us to stop thinking about all the baggage we carry around, all the trauma weighing us down, and just be.
“Where are we going to go?” Bella asks softly, and I shrug.
“What do you want to eat?”
She hesitates. “Um—” A beat of silence passes, and then another, and I can tell she’s not used to being asked that question. But I want her to answer. I want to know what she likes.
I want to know more about her. I like being around her. I like our conversations, and I’ve enjoyed myself more, during every moment we’ve spent together, than I have in years. I want to find out what decisions she makes when she’s the one doing the choosing. What she wants to do when she can pick anything she likes.
“What about steak?” she ventures. “Some kind of steakhouse, maybe. That sounds good.” She glances over at me quickly, nervously, and I see it out of the corner of my eye. “Is that too much?”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Bella, there isn’t a restaurant in Manhattan that would be too much for me. I can buy you whatever dinner you want.” I look over at her as I slow down, making a turn. “But you know that. So that’s not what it’s about, is it?”
Bella sinks back into the seat, and I think maybe I’ve pushed her too far. She lets out a soft sigh. “I don’t want to be difficult,” she says finally. “Or demanding. You don’t need to take me to a fancy dinner. Or anywhere at all.”
“Bella.” It takes me a moment to form her name, because I come far too close to calling her something else, an endearment, a pet name that has no business on my lips. My palms itch with the need to touch her, and I’m eternally grateful that I’m driving, because I’m not sure that I’d be able to stop myself if I wasn’t.
Which is why you have no business thinking about it at all.
“It’s not difficult for me to take you out. It was my idea, remember?” I quickly look at her again, before refocusing on the road.
“I don’t know if I’m dressed for it.” She rubs her hands along her legs, and I don’t need to glance over to remember what she was wearing when we left the house. Dark-wash jeans, a little too big for her frame, and a pale blue lightweight sweater, made out of some soft-looking wool that made me sweat just thinking about wearing it in the summer. Her hair is up in a ponytail, soft and lush, and I have to push that thought out of my head, because it brings to mind this morning in the gym, and the way the small hairs at the back of her neck stuck to her skin, the way I wanted to push them aside with my fingertips, the way I wanted to taste the salt there with my tongue.
My cock, which only just started to soften over the discussion of dinner, instantly thickens along my leg again.
“You look fine,” I reassure her. “I’m in jeans, too. We might be a little underdressed, but it’s fine. Who cares?”
Bella winces. “My father would. He hates the way I dress.”
I hesitate, because I’m not entirely sure what to say on that topic. “I’m not him,” I say finally, and it’s the biggest understatement I’ve ever spoken. My feelings for Bella are a million miles from fatherly, not even remotely close. There’s an age difference between us, yes, but it’s not that wide—I’d guess less than ten years. Seven, maybe, at most. And even if it were wider, none of the thoughts I’ve had about Bella skew remotely close to that.
“I know.” She swallows audibly, as if she can hear what I’m thinking. I can’t help but wish that I had some clue into what she’s thinking at this moment, too. But it might be better that I can’t, because we’re already nearing dangerous enough territory as it is. If I heard an echo of my own thoughts in her head, it would be even harder to steer us away from all those places that we don’t need to go.
“I’m not ever going to tell you what to do, Bella. Not when it comes to things like that. How you dress is your own business. I only care about what affects my house and my family. And I trust you with those things.”
Bella falls silent for a moment, as if taking in what I just said. “That means a lot,” she says finally, her voice soft, and then she looks out of the window, her fingers twisting in the sleeves of her sweater.
I dictate a text to Agnes through the car, telling her that we got hungry and decided to go out to dinner. I get a message shortly after, telling me that’s fine, and that she’ll get Cecelia and Danny fed and taken care of—a clear hint that I should stay out as long as I want to with Bella, and one that I choose to ignore. The message is spoken through the car, though, of course, and I can’t help but wonder if Bella picked up on the same thing.
If she did, she doesn’t say anything. She’s fallen silent, and I turn on the radio again, putting directions into a restaurant that I’ve been to before, and know is good. When we pull up at the curb, I hand my keys to the valet and come around to open Bella’s door, and she gets out, running her fingers anxiously through her ponytail.
The once-over that the hostess gives her before leading us to our table doesn’t help. It’s not very busy—it’s still somewhat early on a weeknight—and Bella sinks into one side of the black leather booth that we’re taken to, chewing on her lower lip.
“I knew I was underdressed,” she mutters, picking at the edge of her sleeves, and I hesitate. “What?” she asks, frowning. “You’re thinking something. What is it?”
The blunt way she asks convinces me to answer, even though I don’t know how she’ll take it. The conversation, like this dinner, is already stripping past the boundaries I have and should set for us.
“It’s not that you’re underdressed,” I tell her carefully. “It’s what you’re wearing.”