The more we talk, the more Kennedy settles into herself. Once I steer the conversation into more neutral first date territory, she starts to answer my questions with an easy confidence. For a while, we stick to the basics. How many siblings? Kennedy, one sister. Me, no siblings. “My dad wanted all of his eggs in a single basket,” I tell her with a shrug.

By then, we've each had two glasses of wine, and the color in Kennedy's cheeks is a shade I associate with hot parties on a cold night. She looks divine as she says, “You are one hell of a basket.”

I laugh out loud. 

We trade the names of our hometowns. For Kennedy, it’s Westport in upstate New York. For me, it’s Seattle. Pets? No and no. Kennedy wrinkles her nose. “Too much fur, and the walking—did you know some people hire babysitters for their pets?” 

“I can believe it. But I'm gone too much, living my adventurous lifestyle. I don't want to drag a poor dog all over the world.”

“Hmm,” she says, leaning back to let the waiter pour her a third glass of wine. “I'd have taken you for a cat person.”

“A cat person?”

“I’m kidding,” she says with a laugh that makes me want to keep talking to her, like this, at this table, at this restaurant, on this night, forever. “I'd have expected a man like Gideon Hawke to have a pet that's—that's—” She sips her wine again, rolling it over her tongue. “That's so exotic and dangerous that the world thought they couldn't possibly exist. Like a dragon.”

“Fire-breathing, of course.”

“Oh, no,” Kennedy says, looking mildly horrified. “Can you imagine all the damage that would cause? You'd have people's homes and businesses going up in flames every time—” She stops when she sees that I'm looking at her with wide eyes.

“Kennedy Carlisle,” I say gently. “I think it's pretty obvious that you have an obsession with staying safe, but hypothetical fire-breathing dragon scenarios shouldn't be causing you even a moment of worry.”

“You're right about that.” She spears another bite of steak with her fork and pops it into her mouth. Every bite she takes, Kennedy closes her eyes. “Mmm...”

The sound of her deep satisfaction resonates from somewhere deep in her throat, and all at once, I'm nearly over the edge, my cock straining aggressively against my boxers, against the hard zipper of my pants. “Jesus, Kennedy. Are you trying to drive me insane?”

Her blue eyes fly open, and the expression in those eyes exudes need, pure and simple. “I think I'm past trying.” Her voice is soft, and it takes an extra moment to realize she's shifted the conversation to a level like the one we were flirting with at the club, our bodies consumed by lust and want.

“You're right.” I give her a grin. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“I'm not doing anything about anything until I finish this steak.” She winks.

My God, this woman is amazing.

The waiter comes too quickly to clear our plates. Not too quickly—right on time—because the service at the Pearl is the best in the city. But something about the way he reaches down for the plates causes cold disappointment to form in the center of my gut. I don't want the dinner to be ending, so even though Kennedy protests—a mild, unconvincing protest—I order the chocolate cake for dessert.

When it arrives, we both look at it. It's the most decadent piece of cake I've ever seen, the frosting intricately decorated and fresh, the cake itself so moist that it's practically sweating. The two forks perched on the side of the plate are an open invitation.

“Well,” Kennedy says, and I know exactly what she means. All evening, we've been promising one another that we'd get to the deeper questions—and the deeper answers—when dessert came. Now that it's here, sitting in front of us, I'm having second thoughts.

Not about whether I should tell Kennedy everything, but whether I should do it right now. It seems like a great way to put a damper on a surprisingly hot date. The fact that we haven't kissed, or fucked, seems secondary to the fact that Kennedy is slowly beginning to let me in, and the more I learn about her, the more I want.

When all that remains of the chocolate cake is nothing but a few errant crumbs in the decorative swirl of frosting on the plate, we've declined coffee from the waiter, and he's billed my card with a sleight of hand that lets me avoid the awkwardness of having to sign the slip so I don’t have to consider it in front of Kennedy, she rises gracefully from her chair, gathering up her little purse from the floor.

She remains silent as I offer my arm to her, silent as we walk through the three small dining rooms that make up the Pearl, and silent as we cross the sidewalk toward the car, where John waits to open the door for us. 

We're only a few steps away when she hesitates, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Something shifts in the air, like a cold front about to move in, like a burst of electricity, and when I look down at her, I'm caught up in those blue eyes, the determined expression on her face. “Gideon—”

“It's the same car as before.” I try to keep my tone soothing, staying far away from anything that smacks of condescension. 

“No. No.” She waves her hand between us like she can wipe those words right out of the air. “Gideon—I don't want this to end.” Her voice is taut with urgency, and her grip tightens around my arm. “I haven't felt like this—” She's trembling a little, searching for the words. “I don't want it to end.”

It occurs to me to tell her that we can go on another date—go on a million dates—but the look in her eyes tells me it's more than that. It's something specific. Kennedy doesn't want this evening to end, and she wants it so desperately that she's willing to stop me like this, willing to delay getting into the car if getting into the car means that it's over.

Sheer electricity jolts down my spine, and I feel the grin growing on my face even before I realize what I'm about to say, what I'm about to do.

“Kennedy,” I say, a matching urgency in my own tone that has John lifting his studied gaze from the sidewalk to us. “It doesn't have to be over.”