Blue Hill always dims the lights in the evening. That, along with the soothing sounds of the water flowing down the river rock wall, and the lit candle on the table, all makes the tone of the evening extremely romantic. The other guests are quiet, so the only really sound is the clinking of silverware and glasses as I wait for Jules to walk through the doors.

My fingertips brush over the silver tines of my salad fork as I stare straight ahead toward the entrance and maître d'. Guests have come and gone since I sat down twenty minutes ago, each one catching my attention and disappointing me. I glance down at my watch again; she still has five minutes until she’s late.

I make a habit of being early, but I’m regretting it this time. Every minute that passes makes me more and more eager to leave. Curiosity is the only thing keeping me here in my seat. The door opens, and the soft cadence of heels clicking on the slate floor reverberates in the room.

She’s here. Jules slips her grey wool pea coat off as she walks in, and then places it in her arms as she walks to the maître d'. I stand before she can utter a word and button my suit jacket as I walk toward her. I’m only a few tables down and she sees me just as the man asks her if she has a reservation.

“She’s with me.” My voice comes out deep, confident… and possessive. As she turns toward my voice, the hem of her plum-colored dress swirls around her thighs. It’s tight around her ass and waist, showing off her curves and reminding me how she looked beneath me last night.

“Of course,” the maître d' nods.

“Thank you,” Jules says sweetly, giving him a soft smile and looking back at me. It’s only a quick glance before a blush rises to her cheeks and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and walks toward me.

She has that shy elegance about her, but there’s more to her than that. I want to dig a little deeper, if for nothing more than curiosity’s sake.

I gesture toward the table, pulling out her chair for her like a gentleman. It’s not in my nature, but I have enough manners to impress a woman at least.

“I’m surprised you wanted to see me again,” Jules says as I take my own seat.

Before I can respond she adds, “Thank you, by the way.” Her eyes flicker from mine to the candle. I don’t miss how she takes a few glances around us as if she’s searching for someone.

I nod my head once easily, setting the napkin in my lap and giving her a moment to get comfortable. The waiter quickly pours her a glass of water.

“Good evening. May I start you off with something to drink?” The young man squares his shoulders and waits, holding a glass pitcher at attention. He’s dressed in a crisp white button-down and dark grey slacks that match his thin tie.

“A bourbon for me please,” I answer him and look back at Jules. Her slender neck and shoulders are on display. The way the thin straps of her dress lay across the very edge of her shoulders makes me want to pull them down. A simple thin silver necklace sits right in the dip of her collarbone with the word “happy” etched in the middle. It’s the only piece of jewelry she’s wearing. The fact there's no ring on her finger doesn't escape me. I’m tempted to ask her about it, but I don’t.

“A glass of chardonnay, please?” she says.

“Right away,” the waiter says and nods, leaving us alone and once again Jules squirms uncomfortably. I love her nervousness and how she has a habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. It only adds to her innocence.

“No tequila?” I play with her.

She huffs a small laugh and rolls her eyes. “No,” she says as she unfolds the napkin in her lap, smoothing it out. “No tequila tonight.”

I shrug, waiting for those soft baby blue eyes to look back up at me. “I didn’t mind the tequila,” I whisper across the table. There’s not a damn thing dirty that I’ve said, but she still blushes. There’s an attraction between us that’s undeniable. It’s easy and carefree. But the air is tense as she looks to her left again and then back to me.

She hesitates to say something, but then changes her mind and clears her throat as she picks up the menu.

She starts talking without looking at me. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

“Like what?” I ask her.

“Like, seeing someone.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” I ask, slightly amused. “Seeing each other?”

She puts her menu down and looks at me with a serious expression. “I have no idea.” The sincere answer and complete honesty in her voice forces a rough laugh from my chest. I was only teasing her, but she’s too sweet and sincere for me to get a rise out of her.

“You can laugh all you want, but I have no clue what’s going on.” She picks her menu back up and says, “I’m just along for the ride, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Is that so?” I ask playfully and pick up my glass of water as the waiter comes back over to us, setting down my drink and then hers.

“It is,” she says absently, smiling into her glass and taking a sip of the white wine. She closes her eyes and lets out a barely audible soft moan of satisfaction. My cock starts hardening as I remember last night, and the same sweet sound slipping from her lips as I thrust into her over and over again.

She’s completely oblivious.

“So what changed in your plans?” I ask as she eyes the menu again. I don’t bother picking mine up. I know exactly what I’ll have.

A short, feminine laugh makes her shoulders shake as she pulls her long blonde hair over her shoulder and then brushes it back again. She shrugs and then finally answers, “I thought this would be better than what I had planned.”

Bullshit. I can tell she’s lying from a mile away.

“And what did you have planned before?”

She takes a sip of wine and then answers, “Writing.”

“Writing?” I ask.

“I like to go to Central Park to write,” she says, slipping her hands into her lap and leaning forward.

“Are you a journalist?”

“No,” she says and shakes her head, “I’m an author.” She takes a sip of wine again and I watch as she fiddles with the stem and continues. “I’m not well known or anything. I just write poetry.” She tries to wave off her insecurity and then adds, “It doesn’t really make much money, but it’s the career I chose.”

She’s already justifying her life, and I don’t like it. She should be proud of herself.

“I think that’s wonderful. It takes a lot of work and diligence to write a novel of poetry.”

Her eyes light up, and she visibly relaxes as she says in a delicate voice, “Thank you.”

“Who’s your favorite poet?” I ask.

“Robert Frost,” she answers quickly. “Hands down.”

“I’ve read a bit of Frost.” It’s true albeit years and years ago in grade school, and I’m pretty sure I hated every minute I was forced to read it. It doesn’t matter though, because my remark makes her calm and that sweet smile comes back.

I clear my throat, smoothing the napkin on my lap and trying to remember what Mrs. Harper, my favorite teacher in tenth grade taught me. “‘Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought,” I look into her eyes and try to say the second part correctly, “and the thought has found words.’ I believe it was Frost who said that.” Her entire demeanor changes to one of surprise and ease. I’m shocked that I remembered it myself.

A sweet smile looks back at me. It’s amazing how something so small can make her genuinely happy. She nods and says, “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”

The moment between us is filled with a comfortable silence as we each take a sip of our drinks.

“So what do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a property developer,” I answer shortly. I don’t think she has any idea of the connections. I don’t intend to lie to her, but I don’t need to give her anything to help her connect the dots.

“Oh, in the city?”

“Brooklyn mostly, although we’re currently under contract with the city to renovate and rebuild some properties in Manhattan.”

“Oh wow, what’s that like?”

“Being a developer?” I’ve never had anyone ask me that before. “It’s… challenging at times, and it pisses me off most days.” I smirk at her as she laughs into her glass at my answer. “Isn’t that what all jobs are like though?”

She nods her head, setting the glass down but then her expression changes.

“I’m not sure I should be doing this,” she tells me with her forehead scrunched.

“Doing what?”

“This,” she says and gestures between the two of us.

“We aren’t doing anything.”

Her eyes narrow and I ignore the accusatory stare, picking up my bourbon and taking an easy drink of it. It burns just right on the way down, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

“I just want to feed you,” I say in a voice that I hope comes out somewhat innocent.

“And fuck me,” she says so softly and with a roughness I haven’t heard from that sexy voice of hers. I look up, daring her to blush, to be embarrassed by it, but she only stares back with desire in her baby blue eyes.

“Yes, and fuck you,” I admit. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she clenches her thighs. “You want that, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure I should be fucking you,” she says simply, but with a firm resolve in her voice. My heart beats in a way that makes my chest feel tight. Like there’s not quite enough room for it to beat again.

“Are you fucking someone else?” I ask her. My knuckles brush against the white tablecloth as my hands start to clench into fists. I stop them and try to keep my body from showing what I’m really feeling. She better not be fucking anyone else.

She loses the conviction in her voice when she answers, “No.”

“Then why not?” I ask her, glancing at the waiter as he starts walking toward us.

“Because-” Jules stops as soon as she notices him. She puts on a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and waits patiently for him to address her.

“Are you ready for me to take your order?” he asks me, but I gesture to Jules, taking another drink to settle my irritation.

“For you, miss?”

“May I have the herb-grilled salmon, please?” She passes her menu to him and rests her hands in her lap, giving him her full attention. Meanwhile I can’t take my eyes off of her and thinking about why the fuck she thinks she shouldn’t be seeing me.

“Are the grilled vegetables alright with that?” he asks her. It pisses me off how she smiles back and answers, “Yes, that's perfect.” It’s irrational, but I just want to be alone with her.

The waiter scribbles in the notepad in his hand and then turns toward me.

“Sirloin, medium rare. Vegetables are fine.” I preemptively answer his unasked question, still staring at Jules. The waiter takes the hint, nodding once and immediately leaving us.

“You were saying?” I ask her, picking up my bourbon.

“I-” She hesitates, sensing the change in my temperament. “I don’t know if I should really be seeing anyone,” she says.

I wait for more, taking another sip.

“I’m not sure how to,” she waves her hand in the air at a loss for words. “I’m still-” She can’t put a sentence together.

“I want to fuck you, Jules. Give me one good reason why there’s a problem with that.” I hold her gaze listing all the reasons in my head, but ignoring every last one of them. She needs someone to fuck, to hold her, someone to make her smile. I can do that; I can be that person.

“It’s just sex?” she asks me.

Fuck, I wish it were. I can’t explain why I want her this badly. It’s more than physical attraction, but I’ll never admit the truth to her.

“Just sex,” I lie.

She licks her lush lips, looking down at her silverware and then up to me. “I’d be using you,” she confesses as if it’s a sin.

A bark of a laugh leaves me, and my tense muscles relax.

“Use me, Jules.” I stare into her eyes, feeling the tension between us morph into something sweeter, something darker and depraved. “I want you to.”