I look out my apartment window and see a black limo pull up to the curb. The limo's windows are deeply tinted, so I can't see who's inside, but I know it's Ethan Kane.

He's right on time.

I check myself for the last time in a full-length mirror turning around in a full circle to consider how this dress looks from all angles. I smooth the fabric with my hands.

Based on our last encounter where he nearly made my heart leap through my throat by sneaking up behind me—I wasn't expecting him to find me like that, but I guess I should've been more careful—I knew I needed to gain his trust and attention tonight.

I bought this dress specifically for tonight's dinner. The goal was to find a dress that would stop traffic. I don't want him to be able to take his eyes off of me.

On the tag for this dress, the color was listed as Russian Roulette Red.

I figured that's exactly the kind of high-octane stakes I'm faced with, and I bought it.

This was a good purchase, I say to myself, after coming to the conclusion that it's going to be a good fit. I'll admit that it fits me better than a glove.

It's an iconic cocktail dress—the kind of dress that hugs your every curve like a second skin. The neckline is built to plunge deeply between my breasts and is held up with a single halter-top that clasps with a gold buckle. My back is exposed, and the dress's hemline ends well before my knees.

I think this dress will do the trick tonight.

I've added an extra wave to my hair with a curling iron, and I carefully applied a smoky eye shadow with a healthy layer of mascara. And this look wouldn't be complete without a classic red lipstick, so I add that too at the last minute.

I hear another knock at the door, and I open it.

Standing outside is Ethan. He's wearing a suit that looks like something out of a James Bond movie. My god he's hot… so clean cut and … chiseled under that form-fitting suit.

"You look beautiful," he says, extending me his hand. He carefully walks me to street.

"I'd say you clean up nicely as well," I grin. Together we walk to the limo where his driver is holding a door open for us. We slide into the cold leather seats, and I scoot close to him, inhaling his masculinity.

"Where are we headed?" I ask.

"Are you ready for amazing views of the city?" he asks.

"I'm intrigued," I say. "And I do love a good view."

"Rockefeller Center," he replies. "We're going to the very top."

"You certainly have good taste," I purr, running my hand across his chest. I lean in and bring my lips to his, pressing against him softly—just enough to give him a taste—and I pull away. He gives me a devilish grin, but before he can say anything, the limo stops and the driver opens our door, ushering us out.

That was a quick ride. Time flies when you're with a hot man.

We walk into Rockefeller Center, and once we take an elevator up to the restaurant, I find myself with a world-class view of New York City. Thousands of lights glitter and dance across the landscape as if a diamond necklace has been draped across the skyline.

I don't care how many times I've seen this view. It never gets old.

The waiter approaches and offers us a wine from their extensive wine list. Ethan orders us a Pinot Noir. I watch as it's carefully poured into an oversized wine glass and the deep aroma fills my head before the alcohol does. I take a sip and feel myself floating on its rich, velvet blanket of earth and berries.

I extend my foot under our table until my heel reaches Ethan's leg. I slowly drag it upwards until I know that I'm inches from his cock.

He shifts in his chair and we lock eyes. He reaches toward me with his own leg, but I move just out of reach. He seems disappointed, but the waiter interrupts and brings us a dazzling plate of oysters on ice, which momentarily diverts our focus.

"These are deep, cold-water oysters," Ethan says after the waiter walks away. "They're saltier than the other varieties. Eating one of these is like being slapped by an ocean wave."

"Hmm… a salty slap. I like the sound of that," I wink.

I reach over and grab a wedge of lemon and squeeze it on top of one. I watch as the oyster seems to shiver and recoil under the acidity.

"I think it just moved," I say.

"It should. The best way to eat an oyster is to eat a live one. Don't settle for anything less."

"I never knew you were such an authority on this subject."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," he grins. He reaches over to touch my arm. I let him for a moment, but pull away. I can see the confusion on his face.

But I know I need to gain his trust, so I grab another oyster, squeeze lemon on it and bring it to my lips.

I tilt my head back, exposing my neck to Ethan, and I part my lips just enough to take the oyster in and allow it to slide down my throat. He watches me, never lifting his gaze.

I smile and grab his hand. Placing one of his fingers between my lips, I suck on it. "I don't know what's tastier, you or this oyster," I purr.

"I like that sound of that," he smiles. He reaches up to stroke my cheek, but again, I pull away.

This game of back and forth is driving him crazy.

By the time our waiter brings out the final course—a decadent serving of chocolate lava cake, I've already been teasing Ethan for the entire night. In one sense, I feel bad. I honestly do.

I find myself feeling wildly excited by his advances; I'm like those oysters every time he responds with my skin rippling in anticipation. I want his touch so bad. I crave his touch. But this is supposed to be a job. I have to keep that in perspective.

But if this is just a job, why am I feeling this way? Why am I desiring his touch? Normally, I do my job. I seduce men. I follow through, and that's it. I don't feel anything inside. But this is so different. My mind is reeling.

I push my spoon into the crust of the dark chocolate cake. The warm, gooey liquid leaks over the spoon, and I bring it to my mouth, extending my tongue and carefully licking off every warm drop.

Ethan is entranced.

"I didn't realize how hungry you were," he says with a grin.

"This is just the beginning," I purr. "My hunger goes beyond the food on this table."

When the meal is finished, I bring my hand softly on top of his. "Thank you, that was one of the best meals I've ever had," I say.

"There's a lot more where that came from," he smiles. "I can show you a good meal at my apartment—maybe satisfy your real hunger?"

His leg is pressed up against mine, and he has his hand on my arm. I know where he's going with this, but I can't. I can't go back to his apartment. Do I want to?

Yes, of course! My body is practically screaming out for him. But I really can't. Because if I go back to his apartment, you know what's going to happen, don't you? And I can't sleep with him. Not tonight. That's definitely not part of the formula for this evening.

"Not tonight," I say, pulling my arm back. "I can't."

He looks frustrated. There's something in his eyes that says he's not going to give up that easily. He's not going to take no for an answer. He stands up from the table and clears his throat.

"Everyone, can I have your attention?" his voice booms across the private dining room. The wait staff all stop and stare at him.

He now has a captive audience and he continues, "I need everyone to leave."

There are some low murmurs as people decide if he's serious. When he doesn't sit back down, and instead looks across the room to ensure people are following orders, they begin to file out—waiters, bussers, and other diners.

When the last person leaves, the room is silent and Ethan looks at me.

"What is it that you just said?" he asks me.

I don't immediately respond and he continues.

"Did you say you can't? Because it looks to me like you can."