“You could?” Declan’s eyes widen with surprise. He leans in further, with a sexy growl in his voice. “You have a place in mind?”
I pull back a bit, a little unnerved by his reaction. Wow. He’s really aroused by small plates, huh?
I know the resort next door is expressly forbidden, so I lob the question right back at him. I still can’t believe my mom and dad called off dinner, especially for Donnie and Marie.
What’s next? Breakfast will be canceled by Wayne Newton?
“Um, not really. No place in mind. You know the town better than I do. How about you pick? I want the absolute best tapas bar in town,” I reply.
I know from obsessive research that not only is Grind It Fresh! considered the best coffee house in town, so is the tapas bar next door. The word best is a dog whistle. Declan has a fine-tuned radar for wanting to give me the best of everything, so I’m stacking the deck.
Which is what you do in Vegas, right?
He struts across the room like a peacock, all buoyant and suddenly a little too happy. Picking up his phone, he taps a few times and murmurs, his conversation muted by his cupped hand over the phone. The conversation ends and he turns to me with a big wide smile, those green eyes glittering like emeralds, a flush to his face and hooded eyes taking me in.
“You.” The word comes out in a lustful roll.
“Me, what?”
“I’m the luckiest man in the world.” And with that, I’m in his arms, his tongue between my lips, sweeping and searching, the kiss dizzying in its intensity.
Geez. All this over some goat-cheese-stuffed figs and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus?
I’ll take it.
The buzzer in the room goes off, indicating our limo is here. Declan groans, his hand up my skirt, fingers digging into my ass. I come up for air.
“Ah, well,” he sighs, lips on mine as he talks. “We can always come back and have this later. Let’s go have a different kind of fun.”
“Right.” I lick my lips as he watches me straighten my skirt. “I sure am looking forward to some fine sampling.”
I reach into my purse and discover it’s a giant mess, filled with a bunch of ones and fives that Amy gave me the other day in exchange for larger bills. She’s been waitressing a couple of shifts a week, and needed to make a fast ATM deposit. The smaller bills made too large an envelope to fit in the machine slot. I pull them out and make a neat, orderly stack, which I shove back in my purse.
When I look up, Declan’s gawking at me. Mouth open and everything.
“I had no idea,” he says, almost gasping. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
I shrug.
“I’ve heard about all the great places here in Vegas, especially the ones run by the pros, but I’ve never been here. Now’s our chance!” I explain.
Declan’s hand goes in his pocket and he adjusts himself discreetly.
“You seem pretty, uh, excited yourself,” I point out as we take the elevator down to the private garage.
“Of course I am!” he replies.
Right. Of course he is. That makes sense. As a high-ranking man in the hotel and hospitality industry, a person who sets trends rather than copying them, he’d want to make sure he’s on the cutting edge of culinary trends. I start to wonder which place he’s picked.
Knowing Declan, it’ll blow my mind.
We get in the limo and drive through the center of the Strip slowly, pedestrians thick in the streets, drawing out the trip. Sadly, we drive right past the resort next door. No convenient tapas bar for me, one where I can run over to Grind It Fresh! and test how fast I can suck down a clandestine small latte.
First world problems.
Meanwhile, Declan’s hand is on my thigh, and he’s sliding up, up, up, fingertips a little too close to heaven.
“I thought you said that was for later,” I whisper. “After we have our fill of something exotic.”
He stiffens. “Define ‘exotic.’”
I search my brain to think of a tapas menu item that Declan might never have heard of, because my idea of exotic and his idea of exotic are likely two different things.
“I’ve heard that Moroccan melon can be really tasty. Some people think that it’s better if you lick it before you take a bite.”
Why is he looking at me like that?
“Other people prefer a Mexican mocha with a fish flavor on their melons. It’s all about individual t-t-tastes,” I stammer as Declan peers at me.
“Two years,” he huffs.
“Two years what?”
“I’ve been with you for more than two years and never knew about this adventurous side of you.”
“You can make it up to me! Now that you know, think of all the great things we can put in our mouths and savor. If we find something we really like, we can share and go back for more.”
He starts coughing uncontrollably.
The limo halts in front of a dark building with blue, glowing LED rope lights around the perimeter. We get out. Geordi, the limo driver, smirks at me.
“Have a lovely evening, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Geordi. I’m sure whatever Declan has picked out for me will leave me sated.”
The men exchange an inscrutable look as Declan sweeps me toward the door.
The restaurant is smoky, but everywhere allows smoking in Vegas. I need to get used to this. A slow, twisting Euro technobeat fused with jazz pounds through the speakers. There’s an enormous stage with tiny lights along the bottom, but no one’s on it. We’re seated at a large table with a cream-colored leather sofa in a semicircle around it. Two bottles of my favorite white wine are already there.