I hesitate responding. I’m a horrible liar.

“Um, just . . . I’m just trying to give you the best listening experience. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Brooke.”

We stop at a red light. I look over at Mason, and suddenly feel guilty for pulling away from him. He doesn’t look angry, or annoyed, or even like a person who just witnessed an act of insanity.

His eyes are tender, full of understanding.

I feel like I want to crawl under my seat and hide. I can’t remember the last time I felt this uneasy.

“I don’t have to hold your hand,” he tells me, smiling ever so slightly. “I wanted to, but I don’t have to. You can go easy on my audio settings. It’s okay. Really.” He moves my hand back to my lap and releases me, only to rest his hand on my thigh. “But, I do want to touch you somehow while I drive. Just a little.” He gazes at my body. “God, you look incredible. I’m trying to be decent and not throw you in the back, but it’s bloody torture with you in this skirt.” He slides his hand a bit higher, inching it closer to the apex of my thighs.

Throw me in the back? Yes! I want that! Screw decency!

I suppress a moan, trapping it on my tongue. I don’t want to sound too anxious, even though I’m close to jerking the wheel and pulling us off the road, which will in turn free him up to focus solely on me.

He gives my thigh a gentle squeeze. My toes curl. Desire blooms low in my belly.

“Did you wear this so I could slide my hand between your legs? I think you did. I think you wanted to drive me a little mad, yeah?”

I watch the path his hand is taking. “Yeass,” I breathe. My mouth falls open.

Yeass? Did I really just combine yeah and yes? Think before you speak, Brooke!

He chuckles as the car rolls forward.

I try and spread my legs, grant him access, ease the ache I’m feeling that’s now pulsing with a demanding rhythm, but my legs are pinned together, restricted by the form-fitting motherfucking material of my bloody skirt.

I grunt in frustration, until I remember the use of my own hands.

Do I mind sitting bare-assed in Mason’s vehicle? Nope. Not one damn bit. And now would be the worst possible time to start feeling shameful about anything.

I grip the hem of my skirt and ease it up my legs. I’m expecting Mason to dive right in, but before I can reveal the fact that I’m going commando under this thing, he slides his hand in the opposite direction it needs to be going and thwarts my progress, smoothing out my skirt and resting his hand back on my thigh, closer to my knee, far, far away from where I need him.

“What? Come on. You can’t be serious.” I turn my head. His hand goes stiff when I try and pry it off my leg. “Give me your hand. I want to hold it.”

His profile lifts as he stares ahead at the road. “Yeah? You want to hold it?”

“Yes.”

“With what? That sweet little cunt you were just trying to show me?”

I gape at him. Good Lord. Did he just say . . .

That accent, paired with anything even remotely filthy is enough to put me in the record books as the first woman in history to ever have an orgasm without any touching. I am now officially the wettest I have ever been in my entire life. No panties? What a dumbass decision. If I get up and there is a damp spot on this seat, I’m never showing my face around this man again.

He briefly looks at me. “Well?”

I shoot him a steely look. “You have no proof of that. Maybe I just remembered how much I liked holding your hand . . . with my hand, pervert. Okay? Maybe I miss it.”

He squeezes my thigh. “I think I’m going to keep it here. I like it here.”

I slump back against the seat like a child on the brink of a tantrum. “Fine. I like it there too, so . . . whatever. Do what you want. I don’t care.”

I drown out his laugh by cranking up the volume on the stereo again.

By the time we park and walk to the restaurant, everything south of my waist seems to be back in check. I’m no longer ready or willing to beg for some sort of physical contact. And fuck! I should be the one driving him crazy with lust. Teasing him. Making him so fucking hard he can’t see straight.

Well, the night is young, and I plan on regaining some of my feminine power and working him up. If he thinks he’s getting through this meal without getting an erection, he’s sorely mistaken.

Giovanni’s is a dimly lit restaurant in the heart of the city. I was right, I’ve never been here, and I think that’s because it is a lot fancier than any place I’m used to dining at. Mason checks us in under our reservation while I admire a piece of artwork on the wall. My nephew can manipulate a paint brush and create something similar. Three colors congregating in one messy swirl. I’m betting this thing costs more than the rent I couldn’t afford in my old apartment.

We’re seated at a table draped with a white, crisp linen by a large window. A small vase containing a beautiful arrangement of flowers sits in the center, which Mason quickly slides to the side so that we can see each other better.

I admire the mural painted on the ceiling. The chandelier lighting. The attire of the wait staff.

“This might be the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Are you trying to get laid?”

Mason glances up from his menu. I immediately lose the smirk when he doesn’t mirror my playfulness.

Shit.

A deep frown settles between his brows. He looks put off. “No. I thought it looked nice. I wanted to take you here the moment I saw it.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “I’m curious, Brooke. Do you always go out to eat with the expectation of sex afterwards? Do you never just sit and talk with someone? Learn about them?”

My face heats. I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees in this moment.

Hello, mouth? Let me introduce you to my foot. Go ahead and eat it. You’ll be doing me a solid favor.

I grab my menu and flip it open. My gaze lowers. “No. Of course not. I was just making a joke. I’ve never been anywhere this nice before. I think the atmosphere is making me nervous or something.”

Or, its you. The way you look at me. The things you say. That could be it.

He taps his menu against mine.

Our eyes meet, and the moment he smiles, maybe a bit apologetically, I forget all about my secret agenda to tease him and get him hard underneath this table. The way Mason is looking at me . . . it’s sweet, and candid, and maybe I’ve never had a man take me to dinner without the expectation of sex, but I don’t want to admit that, and I’m also bizarrely happy Mason isn’t doing this for that same reason. I no longer want to take away from the conversation or anything else this dinner will entail.

And I also don’t want to think about how strangely okay I am with that revelation.

He jerks his chin, motioning for me to pick out my dish.

I resume looking at the menu, really focusing in on the words in front of me for the first time since I opened it. Everything is in Italian. Even the drinks.

What the . . .

My gaze travels the length of the menu, right, then back to the left. My eyes narrow. I lean closer. I have no idea what I’m reading. Well, not reading. Reading implies understanding, and that’s definitely not what’s happening here. It’s more of a guessing game, really. Maybe when the waiter arrives I can just point to the cheapest entrée and hope for the best?