Do you know that scene in a movie where the man of your dreams is cooking dinner for you, his red tie thrown over his shoulder as he paces around the kitchen? Yeah, that’s happening right now.

Malcolm invited me to have dinner at his apartment, and that’s where I am right now. Sleek and modernist, his home is even better than I remember it from the booty call night, but what else did I expect from a man famous for how much money he has? Still, even though I suspected there was actually no dinner involved and that it was all a ruse to get me to be alone with him, I came all the same.

After all, dinner or no dinner, it sounded good.

When he opened the door and invited me in, though, I couldn’t help but be surprised: with his tie thrown over one shoulder, a kitchen towel draped over the other, I quickly realized that yes, there was actually going to be a dinner… and Malcolm was the one cooking.

I’m leaning against one of the kitchen walls now, watching as Malcolm stirs a pot and tastes the sauce with his wooden spoon. “Perfect,” he whispers to himself, and then looks back at me over his shoulder. “Spaghetti carbonara. I know it sounds simple, but wait till you try it.”

“Don’t tell me … that’s your specialty?” I ask him with an amused tone. Turning on his heels, he closes the distance between the two of us and crushes his mouth against mine, one of his hands on my waist.

“Among other things, yes,” he whispers and then, just as fast as he came, he goes back to the oven. He takes the pot out and then arranges the spaghetti in two dishes. Folding the kitchen towel over his forearm, he grabs the two plates from the counter and starts walking toward the dining room.

I follow after him, and I stop frozen in place as I see the table he has set in the middle of the room; it’s small and intimate, a red tablecloth thrown over it, and there are three small candles burning in the center of it. It’s like something out of a dream.

“Come,” he tells me as he sets the plates down on the table. He pulls one chair back as he speaks, and then waves me toward it. My feet carry me there, and it feels as if I’m walking on clouds.

“Thank you,” I tell him, feeling like a girl on her first date.

Uh-uh, this isn’t good, Athena. Remember what happens when you fall in love. Men are all the same. I hear that voice again, one of distrust and fear, and I do my best to push it to a dark corner in my mind. Right now I don’t want to be bogged down by cold rationality; I want to enjoy the moment, to be swept off my feet and treated like a real princess.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Malcolm says as he sits across from me, and I just smile at him, completely at a loss for words. Wetting my lips, I then manage to form a coherent sentence.

“You really know how to impress a woman, don’t you?” I ask him, not even bothering with hiding the fact that I’m impressed by everything he has prepared for the evening.

“Just wait till I put on a Michael Bublé record,” he laughs quietly, and then just offers me his delicious smile.

“I thought you were more of a Michael Bolton kind of man,” I shoot right back at him, enjoying our little back and forth banter.

“Maybe that’s my dark secret,” he starts, but then his smile becomes a more serious one. Not really,” he says, reaching across the table and laying his hand on top of mine. His touch is warm and soft, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “I’ve actually never tried to impress a woman … and I never cooked for one before. As weird as it may sound.”

“It does sound weird, yeah. But I’m flattered,” I laugh as I look him in the eyes, the warmness of his touch spreading all over my body. Seriously, why can’t I be around him without feeling like this? I just can’t think straight whenever I’m close to him.

“But then again, I’ve never failed to fuck a woman when I wanted to… until I met you,” he says, his soft smile turning into a wicked grin.

“So romantic,” I say with a teasing smile and he smirks at me.

I take a deep breath. I need to keep my cool.

But I forget all that. Because that's when he looks into my eyes with his intense eyes.

“I’m not like other women. You know that now,” I tell him with a gentle purr, feeling a wetness taking over my pussy and drenching the fabric of my thong. Right now, I have no idea how I’ve managed to resist the urge to spread my legs for him and have his cock inside of me.

“No, you’re better than all other women,” he replies quickly, leaning back against his chair and keeping his eyes focused on mine. “Everything about you is so much better, Athena…” he trails off then, lowering his voice as his eyes fall down toward my cleavage. “And I mean everything.”

“You sound like a true romantic right now,” I say, laughing coyly, but my voice is as heavy as the world. God, I want his body pressed against mine so fucking bad. I just want to jump on the table, crawl toward him and kiss those delicious lips of his… And more than his lips, I want—no, I need—to feel his huge cock.

“I’m a romantic at heart,” he continues, “Didn’t you know that?”

“Does that mean you’ll propose before you try and get inside my panties tonight?” I whisper, suddenly feeling the warmness under my skin turning into a scorching white heat.

“Well, I’m not that big of a romantic. It’s mostly a part-time thing,” he grins, and in his eyes I can read it all: he’s dying to fuck me.

And, God, I’m dying for him to fuck me.

I look down at my plate, watching the tomato sauce dripping over the spaghetti he cooked, and I suddenly realize that I’m not even hungry anymore. It seems that whenever I’m around Malcolm, eating is almost impossible. Remember what happened at Masa? Yeah.

“We can always reheat those,” he tells me, as if he can read my mind right now.

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say today,” I whisper, running my tongue between my lips.

Oh, it's on.