The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

apartment and descend in the lift.

      ‘Good night, Mr Silverstein.’ I smile as I approach the door. He pulls it inward, a kind smile cracking the lines that form his face.

      He lets out a low whistle. ‘You look mighty pretty, Miss Carmichael.’

      He has a southern drawl a lot like my pa’s. It softens my heart whenever I speak to him.

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Got a club function?’

      I nod, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that I have a sort of date.

      ‘Have fun, be safe.’

      He says the same thing every time I go out at night. I like it. Even though I’m long past the point of needing protecting, it’s still nice to feel as if someone cares.

      Nicholas is waiting just outside, standing on the kerb, the back door of his low-set black car open. A driver sits behind the wheel. I don’t know what I’d expected. A motorbike, maybe? Not necessarily this. But most people I know are chauffeured around. In fact, I’m probably an anomaly for the fact I use cabs or the subway.

      As I step onto the kerb, his eyes trail their way over me, slowly, dragging heat and electricity wherever he looks. My heart stutters, my stomach dives.

      Anxiety is back, pulsing through my veins. I refuse to show it.

      He takes a step towards me, and another, and my pulse races, my heart twists.

      ‘You look good enough to eat,’ he murmurs, holding a hand out to me. I place mine in it; sparks dance the length of my limbs, and my eyes widen in recognition of the strength of this attraction and connection.

      ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

      His eyes show amusement, but he doesn’t laugh.

      Heat explodes between us. I stay where I am; he doesn’t move either. We’re separated by several feet, but holding hands, just staring at each other.

      He’s wearing beige trousers, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket, with brown shoes. He looks handsome, sexy, stylish and wealthy.

      I wish he weren’t wearing anything.

      ‘What are we doing tonight?’ I hear myself ask, my lips shifting into a slight smile.

      ‘Ah. It’s a surprise.’ He jerks on my hand a little, pulling me towards him, and he kisses me on the cheek. It’s so chaste and weirdly sweet that a different kind of heat, a warmth, flows through me. And then, a whisper in my ear, just low enough for me to catch, ‘But I promise it’s going to end in my bed.’

       CHAPTER SIX

      LA CHAMBRE IS one of Manhattan’s chicest, hardest-to-get-into clubs. But I went to school with one of the owners, so my entry is guaranteed, any time.

      I chose to start our night here for a few reasons. Obviously, because it’s exclusive, we can relax in privacy. It’s also named the French word for bedroom because its central design feature is that it feels like an extremely sumptuous and classy series of bedrooms. Each private booth is filled with velvet cushions, soft seats that recline fully, and privacy curtains for intimate moments.

      The food and wine are second to none, and the lighting is dim. But more than that, I’ve done my research. The head chef of La Chambre consults for Est Il Est, the company that has a long history of catering Billionaires’ Club events. Meaning we can totally pass this off as research if anyone from the club sees us.

      ‘It’s like a grand bedroom.’ She looks at me with those huge dark blue eyes, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing at or judging me. A little of both, I think. For someone who’s so wildly abandoned in bed, she’s incredibly strait-laced when out of it. Yes, I see a hint of disapproval curve her lips and I ache to reach around and kiss it away.

      And I will, later. For now, we’re in the dating portion of our night.

      Besides, I’ve found myself wondering about Imogen this week, about more than just what makes her tick in the bedroom. She’s young to be so incredibly successful, and while I know she has the backing of her parents’ wealth behind her, she also has the work ethic of someone determined to make it on their own. I should know—I share that trait.

      ‘Ah, Mr Rothsmore.’ The maître d’ bows as he approaches us, a gesture of servitude I can’t stand but know I’ll have to learn to live with. ‘Welcome back. I’ve reserved your usual table.’

      I nod. ‘Thank you, Jake.’

      He leads us through the restaurant and the hand I place in the small of Imogen’s back is purely friendly, even when I want to dip my palm a little lower, trailing my fingers over the delicate curve of her rear in those—God help me—leather trousers. As if she needed to get any hotter.

      My ‘usual’ table is at the back of the restaurant, a booth that’s set away from the others. The chairs are actually a wrap-around banquette, comfortable and soft. I watch as Imogen shrugs out of her coat and hands it to Jake, then wish I hadn’t watched because the delicate shrug of her shoulders—one bare from where her silk shirt has slipped down—is enough to make my cock hard against my pants in a way that’s almost painful. Then, I see just a few millimetres of lace and know she’s wearing the twin set I bought for her and I’m pretty much done for.

      ‘Everything okay?’ she murmurs, batting her eyelids at me as she sits down. I order a bottle of champagne—my friend’s private vineyard supplies a Legacy collection for special clients—and a soda for myself, then give her the full force of my attention.

      ‘That depends. How do you define okay?’

      ‘You look pale, suddenly,’ she murmurs, her delicious lips quirking at the edges.

      ‘Funny, that, given the fact my blood has rushed south all of a sudden.’

      She dips her head forward, her blonde hair forming a curtain that blocks me from seeing her face. Impatience has me reaching down and pushing it behind her ear so I can see her properly. Her eyes lift to mine, meeting them with a mix of emotions I can’t fathom.

      ‘You come here often?’ she queries and something shifts in my gut. A doubt? Does she not like the restaurant?

      ‘From time to time. Have you ever been?’

      She looks around, her expression impossible to decipher. ‘Nope.’

      I sit beside her rather than across the table. It’s not my usual play but I don’t really want to be separated from her. Once Jake brings our drinks, I’ll have him draw the curtains. Our knees brush beneath the table. She jumps a little. I smile.

      ‘You’re nervous again.’

      Her eyes flex to mine. ‘A little.’

      ‘Why?’ I lift my finger to her perfectly painted, beautifully shaped lips. ‘Don’t tell me. Because you haven’t done this in a really long time.’ Her eyelashes are incredibly long, like wings hovering just above her eyes. They flutter as a bird might flap and I stare at her, transfixed, until Jake reappears with the drinks. He places them on the table and, without looking at him, I say, ‘Close the curtains.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Imogen’s eyes flare, anticipation in their depths. I shouldn’t play with her—she’s too sweet and way too inexperienced—but I pull away from her a little. ‘We don’t want anyone to see us.’

      Her lips part a little. ‘See us doing what?’

      It’s just a question but it might as well be an invitation to lift her up and fuck her right here on this table.

      I’m seriously tempted. But I’ve got the night planned and, for a reason I can’t really fathom, I care