CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake
I left the apartment at seven, my nerves frayed and my heart thudding. As I walked down the stairs and to the underground parking area I found my mind running down several trains of thought at once, something it hadn't done since my bar exam.
Is Ainsley going to think I look okay? Will she like the restaurant? What the hell am I going to do about Liam? Does anyone suspect me?
I sighed. Took a deep breath. Then I looked for my car. I found it eventually – I was feeling so scattered and nervous I could barely remember where I'd left it – then I slid into the driver's seat and pulled away.
The company car – a magnificent BMW 2-series coupe – was one of my favorite perks from my job. Yes, I was here to expose corruption, and I was steadily doing it. But I couldn't help the fact that I had to dress the part. At least, that was my excuse and I was sticking to it. I did feel a bit guilty – I was, after all, profiting from the thing I was trying to fight. I had made a mental promise to myself to sell the Rolex, the expensive shoes, the swag – if I came out of this job a free man. But for the moment, I had to admit I enjoyed it.
And now I get to share it with Ainsley.
My heart beat with a mixture of excitement and anxiety as I pulled away smoothly up the street, looking for her apartment.
When I found the place – a multistory block in a surprisingly quiet neighborhood – I leaned against the steering-wheel a moment or two to collect my thoughts.
If I play my cards right, I might be lucky tonight. The thought made my heart thump with excitement. I drew in another breath to control it. Whoa, big boy, I told myself crossly. She's not gonna go there. She doesn't trust me that much yet. I don't blame her.
I sighed and got out of the car, giving the seats a cursory look-round as I did so, to check everything was clean and presentable in there. Then I headed up the stairs to find the bell. She was number forty-two, or so she'd said in her message earlier. I held my breath and pushed.
“Hello?”
Her sweet voice drifting down the intercom was reassuring. “It's me,” I called.
“Okay. Come in,” said a sultry voice.
I felt a surprising stab of arousal as she said that. Dammit, was she torturing me on purpose? I sighed. If she was, I likely deserved that too. I had been bad to her. I should have at least let her know I was back in the country.
The buzzer let me in and I headed up to the lift. “Forty-two,” I said aloud, stabbing the number into the keypad. Then I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I scratched around the white collar of my shirt, feeling sweaty and nervous. Dammit – do I smell? I hope not. I breathed in experimentally, but all I could smell was Brut cologne. Good.
She opened the door to me. I stared at her. “Uh, hi,” I said.
In a knee-length dress of lace or crochet – how would I know – with that lovely blonde hair loose about her shoulders and a pair of subtle gold earrings, she looked stunning. I found my eye drawn to the square of cleavage at her neck and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Hi,” she said shyly. “Shall we go?”
“If you're ready,” I shrugged. Dammit – I felt like I was breathing through treacle and, as she turned, dainty on those little high-heels, I felt my cock start to swell.
I cleared my throat and waited for her to appear, a brief cardigan slung over one arm, small handbag hung stylishly off the other shoulder.
“Let's go,” I said.
She giggled and smiled up at me, her lips pale pink and wet with some sort of gloss that made my poor dick ache just looking at her little pink tongue lapping out against them.
“Let's,” she said.
We headed into the lift.
When the door closed I leaned back on the wall. I was aching to touch her, to pull that sweetly-rounded body into my arms and push those lips apart with my tongue. But I couldn't. She didn't want me to. Not yet.
I coughed and focused on the wall of the lift opposite. It seemed to take far too long to go down but eventually we reached the bottom and the doors opened. Ping. We went out.
“Wow,” she said, looking at my car. She looked at me and raised a brow. “Great wheels.”
I blushed, feeling at once proud and vaguely embarrassed. “Company car,” I managed in a strangled voice. “Not mine.”
“Well, it's nice, anyway,” she said. She let me open the door for her and slid in. I fought not to stare at her long, smooth leg as she showed all the way to her thigh climbing in, then swiveled, arranging her skirts carefully over her knees.
“Thanks,” I managed.
I slid in beside her. In close confines, I could smell the herbal scent of her shampoo and the sweet smell of her perfume, something light and floral that I associated with her. I clenched the wheel with my fists, resisting the urge to reach across and slide my hand along that pale thigh.
We reached the restaurant in silence, more or less. Besides pleasantries about the weather, I couldn't really think of anything to say. My mind was a wasteland, all thoughts driven out of it by my immense desire and rapidly erecting cock.
In the restaurant, we were led to the table I'd booked. The Drover was the restaurant on the second floor of a particularly posh hotel, and I'd chosen it to be impressive, let's face it. All the same I felt a mix of pride and nervousness as Ainsley walked in beside me. Would she like it?
She looked around and looked at me. “Wow. Stylish,” she said. “You've upgraded a lot since I last saw you.”
I chuckled. “I was a student then,” I excused myself reasonably. “I think I always wanted to be able to take you places like this.”
She gave me a smile laced with melancholic sweetness. I felt my heart turn over.
“Thanks,” she said. She swallowed and I watched her blink those beautiful soulful eyes. Then I was pulling out the chair for her and she was lowering that pert, sweet backside to the seat opposite me.
“Great,” I said, taking a seat and lifting the wine-list. “Shall we see what's on offer?”
She grinned. “Sure.”
We perused the menu. There was, fortunately, a selection of vegetarian dishes. I made my choices absently, my whole mind and body focused on the five-foot-ten of lovely curvaceous-ness sitting in the seat opposite.
“You had a good day?” I asked.
“Mm,” she nodded. “Productive. Yours?”
I chuckled. “I try not to think about work on the weekends,” I said. “Gives me nightmares.”
She smiled. “What is it you do, exactly?”
“Well...” I closed my eyes a moment, thinking about what to say. This was the first time we'd addressed my job, besides when she seemed so disgusted by my sudden transformation over to the dark side of corporate law. “I just look after the legal side of big companies,” I explained. “Consult with them on their legal issues. Not just Steelcore, obviously. But several big companies.”
“Oh.”
She was looking at the pitcher of water in the center of the table with its small arrangement of flowers. I tried to fathom what the “oh” was about, but couldn't guess. She didn't seem cross, but she didn't seem too impressed either.
“I never asked you about your work, either,” I said, carefully changing the subject. “You say you translate books now?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, reaching for the wine-list and having a look through it as we spoke. “I like the work. It's always bringing me new challenges.”
“I'm sure,” I said. “Not that I know anything about translating books, mind you.”
She chuckled. “It can be tricky. Sometimes I feel like my brain's splitting in half – a French half and an English half. I don't know what language I think in sometimes. Though I guess you know what it feels like to live a double life?”
I stared and put down the menu. How the hell did she know that? “I'm sorry?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Don't look at me like that, Drake. I didn't mean to insult you. I just meant that...well...I never imagined you selling out to big business. It must be hard to keep that balanced with the “other” Drake. The caring one.”
“Oh.” Whew. I tried not to look to relieved. That was all she meant! I had thought for one crazy minute that by some strange means my double life had become public knowledge and it was only a matter of time before people at work knew. Crazy. It's the stress getting to me. And Liam and his worrying. Calm down. “I guess it is hard,” I said tentatively.
“I imagine,” Ainsley nodded. “You ready to order?” she asked.
“I sure am,” I nodded. “I'll have a Neapolitan salad as a starter. Yourself?”
“Um, the crostini.”
“And to follow?”
“I think the chicken risotto.”
I grinned. “I'm stuck with the eggplant lasagna.”
“I wouldn't pity myself if I were you,” Ainsley said wryly. “If that's what I can smell from over there, it's awesome.”
I breathed in, noticing she was right – the diners at the next table had ordered the lasagna. Just seeing it made my mouth water. That, together with the stimulation of my other appetites, was making me profoundly restless.
“So,” I commented, as the waiter came over to take our orders. “Had to do any interesting translating work lately?”
She gave a big sigh. I gave our orders to the waiter as she explained. “I had a really tough author to please last week,” she explained. “A French lady, writing a book dealing with immigration and its impact on culture.”
“Hell.” I raised a brow. “That sounds like heavy stuff.”
“It was,” Ainsley agreed. She took a sip of water and licked wet lips and I coughed as my erection got bigger.
“I don't have to do such demanding stuff,” I said, reaching for my own water and hoping it would be iced and able to cool me off.
“I'm sure your work has different demands, though,” Ainsley commented.
“Not really,” I smiled. “Mostly legal stuff is boring.” I let my foot move forward under the table and my ankle subtly rested against her leg. I watched her face and saw, with some delight, how her eyes went big and her lips parted, just a little. Then she settled herself, composing her face into a smooth neutrality.
But her ankle stayed where it was.
I drank water and tried to remember how to breathe. Suddenly, dinner seemed like a challenge in staying in my seat without leaping over the table and pushing my tongue into that sweet pink mouth. I drew a long breath. I could do it.
We chatted idly about our colleagues, the football season, the décor. The first course soon arrived. As I crunched through my salad and tried not to watch her lips gently enfold a slice of toasted roll, incising it with small white teeth, I let my foot creep forward under the table, rubbing her ankle with mine.
She swallowed her mouthful and her eyes met mine. She moved her foot, but forward, not backward and away, as I might have feared. Boldly, her knee pressed mine. I almost lost consciousness with the wave of longing that surged through me.
Easy, Drake, I told myself. This is the challenge. Sit still.
I managed to keep my hands at my side, my leg rigid, but remaining where it was, pressing gently against hers. She gave a little sigh and stretched, seeming full after her first course already. I watched the contented expression on her face and tried not to imagine it in my bed.
The second course arrived as soon as the first had been cleared and I relished the soft, slightly-spicy lasagna. It was really good.
“Mm,” I commented. “This is good. You're right.”
She laughed. “I'm glad. So's mine.” She dabbed her pretty lips with a linen square before laying it in her lap again. I sighed.
I wish I was that napkin. I wouldn't mind being on her lips or in her lap right now.
I smiled at my wild imagination. She raised a brow at me.
“What?”
I looked steadily into her eyes.
“Nothing,” I said.
Her gaze held mine and it seemed like we both knew exactly what it was that neither of us would say. I felt my heart thump as she leaned forward and let her knee push, very gently, between mine. I gasped.
“Should we stay for dessert?”
“No,” I said in a husky whisper. “Let's take that home.”