Tempting Little Tease Page 2

  He leans forward, his suit jacket pulling attractively against his torso, and I hold my breath. “It’s Quinn, please. And, Alessandra,” he whispers softly an Italian phrase I have to mull over for just a second.

  The laughter that breaks the quiet isn’t recognizably mine until I cover my mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper with a hidden grin, “but you just said you wish to breed with me.”

  “Oh, shit,” he murmurs under his breath. “You can guess that Sal and I never really exchanged such words. I suppose I need the practice.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to make up for any lack in your education so far.” What am I doing?

  “I look forward to it,” Quinn says and pushes to his feet.

  He offers his hand to me, and I accept the gesture greedily. We stand like that, hand in hand, for longer than a courtesy.

  “Our time is up.”

  He can’t be right, can he?

  “Really?” I say, like Erica when I tell her it’s time for bed. I cringe at how young I must seem to him, and he smiles. And that’s when I remember that I was late tonight.

  “Perhaps we could make up for the time lost over dinner tomorrow.”

  Despite his consistent forwardness, the invitation still sneaks upon me as a surprise. I open my mouth to respond, yet all that comes out is a soft whimper as I try to compose myself. The way he tilts his head to watch me has me tingling all over.

  “Alessandra,” he says, and when he says my name, I nearly drop dead. “How old are you?”

  Ah. The fun’s over now. I remove my fingers from his warm, open palm.

  “Twenty-two,” I respond, all business. Good-bye, my sweet flirtation. It was lovely.

  “Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

  Is that the glow of the sunset warming his cheeks or a faint blush? Maybe this doesn’t have to end so soon after all.

  “I like how you put yourself out there,” I say to reassure him. “It’s refreshing. New.”

  His gaze flits back to mine. I was staring, wasn’t I?

  “How long has it been since you asked a gi—a woman,” I say quickly, correcting myself, “on a date?”

  “A long while.” There’s no shame in his voice. Just something like loneliness.

  I turn away from our spot near the window and approach his desk. Picking up a pen, I jot my phone number on a notepad sitting in the open. “Last time I gave a guy my number, he sent me nothing but unwarranted pictures.” I feel him standing behind me, maybe inches between us, and I turn around to meet his gaze.

  “I would never give you anything you didn’t ask for.”

  Holy hell. “Text me if you’re serious about continuing lessons with me. And I’ll think about dinner.”

  “I will. Ciao, Alessandra.”

  “Ciao.” With that, I walk out of the office, my boots tapping on the marble floors past reception and into the elevator.

  I stand tall until the doors close, at which moment I melt into a puddle. My red-hot cheeks glow in the elevator’s mirrored wall, and goose bumps race up and down my arms. It takes a moment to regain feeling in my fingertips, but when I do, I rub them against my lips.

  I’m hungry, starving, and I didn’t know it until it was right in front of me.

  Until he was right in front of me.

  I survived this round, but would I manage an entire meal with this man? His intensity is contagious, but can I keep up? He has sixteen years on me.

  On me. What would it feel like to have Quinn Kingsley on me?

  • • •

  “I bet he’s experienced as hell.”

  My friend Deanna knows exactly where my mind has traveled. We’re sitting in a corner of our favorite bar, tucked away where we can whisper our dark secrets over Moscow mules. Tonight, she told me about her latest sexcapade with a coworker. In return, I told her the whole story of Quinn Kingsley.

  She takes a dainty little sip of her drink, her eyebrows waggling. “And I don’t mean in Italian.”

  “Oh, my God.” I groan, dropping my head into my hands with every kind of frustration imaginable. Namely sexual.

  “Come on. What are you so panicked about? A sexy, wealthy older man wants to take you on a date. Or—wait—did I totally misinterpret this story? He’s sexy, right? Not creepy? Am I already drunk?”

  I laugh. “No. He isn’t creepy. The opposite, actually. I feel like the creepy one.”

  “Why?” Deanna whispers, scandalized. “Did you, like, get caught ogling his package?”

  “No.” I laugh again, taking a sip. “He’s my student. Isn’t there supposed to be a decorum between teacher and student?”

  “Like what? Thou shalt not fuck?”

  “Deanna!” I never know what this girl is going to say in public.

  “Aly, you’re both adults, and you’re leaving in a few weeks. Live a little. But don’t live so much that you don’t spend any more time with me, ya feel?”

  Smiling, I take her hand. “Yeah. I feel.”

  And, boy, do I ever.

  Chapter Two

  Quinn

  Tempting.

  So. Fucking. Tempting.

  And sweet. And innocent. And gorgeous.

  I should stop my brain from cataloging all these thoughts about my twenty-two-year-old Italian tutor, but where would the fun be in that?

  I’ve yet to get any actual work done this morning, because all my brain wants to do is focus on the woman whose scent still lingers lightly in my office from the night before.

  But, Jesus, she’s twenty-fucking-two.

  My lesson with Alessandra was anything but expected. I’ve been meeting with Sal once a week for a year. Learning Italian has been part of my plan to capture some of my family’s heritage. With both of my parents out of the picture, the way we grew up, there wasn’t time for discussing the family tree or swapping stories on genealogy. And now that I’m older and have more time on my hands, I find it’s something that interests me. And since I know my mother was Italian, it was a logical place to start. I figured I’d learn a little of the language and eventually take a trip there, immerse myself in the culture.

  But meeting Alessandra? Swapping flirty remarks in a foreign tongue? It’s been the most exhilarating part of my new little hobby. By far.

  Rising from my office chair, I take a deep breath and stretch my shoulders. Fuck it. Work can wait. It’s not like I’m getting anything done anyway. Strolling around my desk, I stop in front of it and look down at the notepad with Alessandra’s neat handwriting. Inspired, I grab my cell phone and begin a new message.

  Buongiorno, bellissima, I type and hit ENTER. It means good morning, beautiful.

  I don’t have to wait long for her reply.

  Hello, Mr. Kingsley. ;)

  The formality she’s used in combination with the winking-face emoticon makes me smile. She’s so adorably young. God, the things I could teach her. Suddenly, I’m hit with an image of her on her knees before me, those wide brown eyes looking adoringly up at me as her fingers timidly fumble with my belt.

  My cock gives a twitch behind my zipper, encouraging the naughty little daydream.

  Instead of giving in, I take a deep breath to clear my head and type a reply.

  Have you given my proposal more thought? I’d love to take you to this great little Italian place I know.

  As I wait for her reply, I wonder if there’s some sort of protocol I should be following. I know there’s something about waiting three days before calling, but I never really learned the rules on dating. Even worse, though, is the thought that she may be the type to play games or blow me off. Alessandra and I are a generation apart. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, preferring to say plainly what I want and go for it.

  But then her reply comes in. Sounds great. When were you thinking?

  Are you free tonight? I type.

  It’s Friday night, and as soon as I click SEND, I could kick myself. Of course she’ll have plans. She pr
obably has a healthy and thriving social calendar—unlike me. My brothers tease me endlessly about the fact that I’m a homebody.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I take a deep, steadying breath as I glance down at Alessandra’s reply.

  Yes, I am. Just let me know the time and place, and I’ll meet you.

  My heart rate bumps up a notch as I type out the address and hit ENTER.

  In this moment, I know two things for certain. One, my evening just got a whole lot more interesting, and two, I won’t be getting a bit of work done today.

  • • •

  I arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early, wanting to greet Francisco, the owner, and ensure my reservation is set. This is one of the most popular restaurants downtown, and I had to work my connections to secure us a table on such late notice.

  “The eldest Kingsley.” Francisco grins and takes my hand, pumping it up and down.

  He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s appraising me, wondering why it’s me here on a date rather than Gavin or Cooper. To say I’m rusty would be an understatement. I haven’t dated in God knows how long.

  “Table for one?” he asks.

  I give my head a shake, and that’s when I see her near the hostess station.

  Alessandra. She’s here.

  She looks stunning, wearing a simple black skirt paired with a fitted white top. A delicate gold necklace rests against her collarbone. Her long hair is curled over one shoulder. She looks unsure, slightly nervous. Her mouth is painted the most distracting shade of berry, and I find I want to kiss her like I’ve never wanted anything in my entire life.

  I take a deep breath and force myself to relax.

  “Alessandra,” I say, approaching where she stands. “You made it.”

  She bites her lip and then flashes me a grin. Her gaze travels along the front of my torso, and I’m suddenly thankful for all the extra hours I spend in the gym.

  “Mr. Kingsley,” she says, her mouth curving into a full-on smile now. It’s so bright and transformative, it takes over her entire face, lighting up her eyes and making my knees weak.

  I take her hand and lift it to my mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. This small gesture seems to mean something to her, and I’m hopeful my manners and charm make up for the fact that she’s totally and completely out of my league.

  "Call me Quinn," I correct her.

  Francisco clears his throat next to me. I’m not sure when he approached, but his look is bemused as he watches me with Alessandra.

  It’s then that I realize how absurd this is—her and me.

  She’s barely legal, so supple and fresh. Jesus. I want her like I’ve never desired another woman in my entire life. Even though I know we make no sense, I realize I’m committed to seeing this through. The thought of bantering with her in Italian is almost as intoxicating as the thought of having her in my bed.

  “Table for two,” Francisco says. “Right this way.”

  Alessandra and I are seated and order a bottle of merlot from our waitress. When it’s delivered and uncorked, I raise my glass to hers.

  “Cheers,” I murmur.

  “To?” she asks, her eyes flashing on mine seductively.

  “Would it be too cheesy if I said ‘to getting to know each other better’?”

  She laughs, the sound lively and uninhibited. “A little, but I’ll admit, I like that idea, too.”

  “Good. Because I’d like nothing more.”

  “All right, then.” She translates our toast in Italian and in that moment, I’m speechless. Everything feels so surreal in that moment and I can’t take my eyes off of her. Who is this vixen who has my mind so tangled up? I just sit there and stare at her, her glass raised as she awaits my response.

  I’m only able to respond back with, “Saluti.”

  We peruse the menu and make small talk. I’m curious to know how she ended up studying Italian.

  She shrugs, looking contemplatively into her wineglass. “Huge Italian family. I guess you could say I’ve been studying it since I was born. But then in college, I began my more formal education in the language, fully immersing myself in the history with courses taught completely in Italian, a full immersion program without actually being in Italy, which was great because then I was able to converse more deeply with my grandmother before she passed two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” I reach over and take her hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “She was eighty-six and had lived a great life. We should all be so lucky.”

  At this, we both lift our glasses and drink.

  “What about you?” she asks. “Tell me about your family. Are you from Boston?”

  “Born and raised. Last year, I became interested in studying my ancestry, and since I knew my mother’s family was Italian, I sort of fell into it. I began studying the language, even took a cooking class on Tuscan techniques, and I’m looking forward to traveling there soon, too.”

  Alessandra nods. “I think that’s great. And your parents?”

  I shake my head. “It’s just my brothers and me now.”

  “I see.” She looks deep in thought, and I wonder what she could be thinking.

  “Have you decided?” I gesture to the menu she’s still holding.

  “Not yet. What about you, since you’ve been here before, what do you recommend?”

  I give the steaks and seafood listed barely a passing glance. “All of their pasta is homemade.”

  “Those are my two favorite words.”

  “Then we should indulge.”

  She grins, closing her menu. “Pasta, it is.”

  We share a caprese salad and enjoy it with generous chunks of bread dipped in the most delicious olive oil.

  “This is incredible,” Alessandra says, her voice low.

  The restaurant’s soft lighting and the flickering candle on our table give everything a romantic glow, and so while it should feel too intimate for a first date, it’s actually perfect.

  “I’m glad you said yes.”

  Her gaze is on mine again. “Me, too.”

  Our food is delivered to the table, two large porcelain bowls heaped with the most delicious-looking pasta. A simple, classic spaghetti Bolognese for her, and penne with olive oil and grilled shrimp for me.

  The expression on Alessandra’s face is pure delight as she digs in and tastes her first bite of pasta. “Oh, dear God,” she says on a moan.

  Watching her eat is more enjoyable than partaking myself, and I take a sip from my glass, appreciating the view.

  “To your liking?”

  She nods enthusiastically, wiping the corner of her mouth with her white cloth napkin. “Amazing.”

  “Vuoi venire a casa mia per mangiare pene?” I ask.

  Alessandra’s eyes widen, and she pauses with her wineglass halfway to her lips, looking alarmed. “Penne is pasta. Pene is something else entirely,” she says, her tone hushed.

  I push my plate toward her. “I was trying to ask if you wanted a bite of my pasta.”

  Her mouth curves into a grin. “You asked me if I wanted to eat your dick.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I set my fork down and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I meant to save that question for after dessert.”

  This earns me another laugh. It’s honest and raw, and I love the sound of it already.

  “Probably a good idea,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Call me old fashioned, but tiramisu first, and then dick-eating.”

  Alessandra laughs again before taking me up on my offer and spearing a forkful of penne pasta from my bowl.

  It’s strange. The conversation flows as easily as the wine. While we should have nothing in common—her, a young twenty-something fresh out of college; and me, a late-thirties CEO who’s grown a little jaded on the world—yet here we are, laughing and smiling and having an amazing time.

  As the evening rolls on, I find myself more and more enamored with her. And as nice as it is to spend time with her, I alr
eady know how the evening will end. I’m a gentleman, and I’m not the type to sleep with a woman on the first date.

  In my younger years, I was no stranger to one-night stands, but this is different. Alessandra isn’t some random girl I’ve met at a bar who’s looking for a quick roll between the sheets. And if I’m being honest, there’s something I like about this slow seduction—the back and forth of getting to know each other, the flirting. I know it will make it that much more intense when we do finally come together.

  We finish dinner, lingering over wine. I'm not quite ready for the night to end, and I can't help but sense Alessandra feels the same.

  "Dessert?" I ask.

  "Next time," she says, and I can't help but watch the way her lips move. I'm equally thrilled about the possibility of there being a next time as I am about watching her eat dessert from my spoon.

  After paying the check and adding a generous tip, I usher Alessandra to the door and out to where the waiting cab is that I’ve called. It’s too late for her to take public transportation alone. We stop on the curb together, huddled close.

  “I had a wonderful time,” I say, watching her eyes as she tilts her face up to mine.

  “Me, too,” she murmurs, her tongue coming out to wet her bottom lip.

  Blood surges south, and the desire to take her home nearly overwhelms me. Instead, I place my hand on the back of her neck and guide her mouth to mine.

  The moment our lips meet, it’s fucking electric. Our lips move perfectly in sync together, and the second her mouth parts, my tongue sweeps against hers, tasting sweet wine and her. It takes every ounce of self-control I have to pull away, and when I do, the dreamy half-lidded look on her face is everything.

  I take a deep breath, fighting to compose myself and the erection I can feel nudging the front of my pants. “Good night, Alessandra.”

  “Good night, Quinn.”

  I open the car door and tuck her inside, and when she pulls away, I’m filled with a sense of buoyancy and hope that I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Chapter Three

  Alessandra

  Saturday mornings are reserved for sleeping as late as my body will let me, a desperate attempt to make up for all the REM cycles I miss out on by waking up at sunrise to play “Mom” for ten hours a day during the week.