Page 25 of Not Over You

Date five had her ready to end things right then and there, but then when he said he made reservations at Ellapora since the owner was a friend of a friend, she decided she’d at least see how date seven went before she decided to cut the hot, celibate cop loose.

She did another little hip shimmy and smiled to herself when he groaned and his cock jerked in his dress pants against the crease of her ass. “Careful,” he warned.

“Or what? You’ll spank me? Because at this point, dude, I’m up for anything. You want to bone on our table right here in the restaurant, then let’s go.”

“Rayma …” His tone was hoarse and had her nipples pebbling to painful points beneath her bra. “Watch it.”

“Just trying to get the unflappable Constable Lassiter to maybe …flapa bit.” She wiggled her butt against him again and this time there was no denying what was pressing against her crease. She let out a soft, barely audible moan. “You’re torturing us both, Lassie, and I don’t understand why.”

He glanced behind them, there were two other couples behind them, but they were a party of four and animatedly chatting among themselves, paying Rayma and Jordan no attention. He slid his hand up from where it held his coat tight around her at her waist until his fingers cupped her throat. He applied just enough of a squeeze that breathing wasn’t totally easy peasy, but not enough to make her face turn blue. His mouth rested beside her ear and he kept his voice dark, low, and all kinds of sexy. “By the time I finally take you to bed, Rayma, you will be begging to suck my cock. Begging me for everything. For my cock everywhere. You will be so wet your panties will drip. Your mouth will water before Iletyou wrap your lips around me. You will beg me to swallow.”

Her heart raced. Holy fucking shit. Who knew quiet, shy rookie cop Constable Lassie had his PhD in Dirty Talk?

His hand shifted slightly on her throat so that his thumb could tug down her bottom lip, and like there was an invisible but very strong cord attached to her bottom lip and her pussy, the harder he tugged the more her pussy clenched.

“Are you wet right now, Rayma?” Oh, that voice. Was that his bedroom voice? He didn’t always talk like that, did he? Now she couldn’t remember. Where was she? What was her name? What did vanilla smell like? Did it smell like the number yellow?

She was losing her damn mind and it was all Jordan’s fault. And yet, she absolutely did not want him to stop.

“I asked a question,” he said, his voice taking on an even more gravelly tone that had her knees trembling. “Are. You. Wet?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Hmmm.”

Holy flying fuck balls. He had turned the tables on her. Here she’d been goading him, teasing him about not kissing her and the two of them having sex on the restaurant table, just to get some kind of a reaction out of him, but he’d gone and flipped the narrative. She’d been giving him a piece of her horny and sexually frustrated mind, and he just whipped it all around leaving her a panting, drenched mess in his arms. She would literally do anything this man asked of her right now, and the worst part of it all was that Jordan fucking knew it.

Where on earth did this Dom side come from?

If he asked her to drop to her knees and suck him off right there in front of everyone, she fucking would. She was that riled up, that turned on, that desperate for all of him that she’d do it. And she’d love it.

He was right. By the time they finally got around to sleeping together she was going to be begging him, she knew it. He knew it. Hell, everyone standing in line for the restaurant probably knew it.

“Lassiter, table for two,” the smartly dressed host with suspenders and a bowtie announced from his black podium thing.

“Right here,” Jordan said, his voice back to normal. He released her and she swayed where she stood for a moment, collecting her scattered thoughts and sending strength to her legs, otherwise, she was going to topple over.

But Jordan was there, and he wrapped a protective—and possessive—arm around her and led her into the darkly lit restaurant where they followed the host to a secluded, green-velvet cushioned booth at the back.

Jordan let her slide in first, which allowed him to catch her eye and see every filthy thought parading through her brain. His lips lifted slightly as he slid into the booth beside her, his big frame crowding her, his heat making her light-headed, and his fresh, masculine scent driving her positively bonkers.

She didn’t hear a damn word the host or server said, she was too caught up in her own mind and the way that Jordan’s fingers danced along her bare thigh beneath the table.

“We’ll have a bottle of the malbec,” Jordan said. “And the dozen raw oysters to start.”

The server grinned. “Excellent choices. I’ll be back shortly.” He dashed away, leaving Rayma, her increasingly torturous one-track thoughts, and Jordan and those damn fingers.

“What are you doing?” she asked under her breath as she reached for her ice water.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said, humor littered through his tone. His soft, sultry chuckle had her groaning against her will.

“Your fingers on my thigh.”

“Oh. Do you want me to stop?”

Yes. No. Yes.

Fuck.