The pressure.
The urge to move. To do something. Anything. Run. Jump. Scream. Strip him naked and straddle him right there at the table.
It didn’t help that Alexandros looked like a Greek god tonight—shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal strong, tanned forearms, that maddening aftershave curling around her like a dark, masculine spell. She could feel the buzz of him—his heat, his awareness—tugging at her skin every time he shifted beside her.
She tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but she knew she wasn’t that great an actress. Holding her breath, counting to one hundred—heck, even thinking of sheep wasn’t working. Her switch had been flipped, and there was no turning it off. She pursed her lips when he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.
“You look a little flushed. Are you feeling alright?”
She forced a tight smile, her voice a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Resisting the urge to fan herself, she knew she had never spoken a bigger lie.
She was on fire.
His concern lingered in his gaze, but he nodded and turned back to the conversation. She barely heard a word. Her eyes flicked to the large windows across the dining room. She couldn’t see the trawler from this angle—but she could feel it, just beyond the horizon, waiting. Beckoning. Teasing her to end this torture by putting as much distance as she could between them.
Italy.
She could go back to Italy, find a quiet harbor, and disappear until her hormones chilled out. That dream tugged at her chest, a false promise of freedom when what she really wanted was sitting right next to her, his leg brushing against hers under the table.
The Italy escape fantasy popped like a soap bubble with a loud bang when Alexandros slid a warm hand gently over her knee. His thumb was tracing slow, soothing circles.
Her skin lit up as if a match had been struck. She sucked in a shallow breath and dropped her gaze to the napkin in her lap as heat pooled low in her belly and between her legs.
He wasn’t even looking at her. He was nodding along to something her grandfather said about family business, acting the picture of composed elegance.
All she could feel was the warmth of his hand through the thin material of her skirt. She didn’t care about dinner, or escape, or her wildly spiraling plans to flee to another continent anymore.
She wanted this—him.
One night—to see what it could be like between them.
One chance to see if the fire between them was real—or just the residue of past trauma, fantasy, or just plain hormones.
Her fingers slid down, covering his. A breath. A choice. A sense of empowerment filled her as she guided his hand higher beneath the hem of her skirt. His fingers stilled for a heartbeat—then trembled slightly as she guided his hand between her legs, letting him feel theheat and ache he had built inside her with every restrained night in her bed.
He inhaled sharply.
She smiled sweetly at the table, eyes demurely lowered.
A heartbeat passed.
His fingers twitched when she rocked her hips ever so gently.
She felt the change in him like a jolt through the air. His hand flexed, the muscle in his thigh clenched, and the air between them thickened to something electric.
“Christ,” he whispered hoarsely, barely audible.
She turned to him, her eyes laughing, teasing. Her hips shifted again, guiding his fingers in a way that made her throat catch.
He didn’t look at her.
He didn’t have to.
The next moment, he dropped his napkin onto the table with a clatter, pushed back his chair, and stood.
“I’d like to take Dani outside,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “To see the moonlight on the water.”
