A moment of silence stretches between us. A feeling I’ve never felt before rises up my throat, embracing the intimacy of our words and counting down the inches separating our lips. I glance down to catch a peek of his mouth, and when my gaze bounces back up, he leans forward the smallest bit, gravitating closer to me.
The spell snaps when the waiter returns, this time with food that we didn’t even order. I’m not complaining, though, because it smells so damn heavenly. A creamy pasta is set in front of me. My first bite makes me moan in appreciation, and I blush red when I realize I made the sound out loud.
“How old are you?” I suddenly ask, trying to distract from my awkward reaction to the spiced goodness of the pasta. I bet this plate alone costs four of my school credit hours.
“Thirty-one,” he responds, fork paused on his plate, his rapt attention focusing on me. The singularity of it is a bit unsettling, so I glance back down at my food in search of respite.
“Is that a problem?” He suddenly asks when I say nothing in response.
“I’m twenty-two,” I tell him. He nods his head.
“I know. Does the difference bother you?” Of course, he knows. He seems to know everything about me while revealing nothing about himself.
I consider it for a moment, taking a sip of wine.
“No, not really,” I decide. “Though my mother always told me to watch out for the older men.” The memory makes me smile wistfully, taking me back to our good years. “She’d say: you should wonder why they couldn’t get any of the women their own age. They might’ve just run out of bridges to burn in their own bracket.”
“And what do you think?” His voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw. “Have I burned too many bridges?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.
“Are you close to your mother?” Mikhail asks, smoothly changing the subject before I can answer.
The hazy, warm memory fades out of reach, like limestone crumbling off a cliff.
“Not so much, anymore,” I respond, flicking my fork against the empty plate. I can’t help the frown that overtakes my face, reminding me of the circumstances I’m fighting to fix.
A hand reaches over to brush against mine.
“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” I murmur, moving my gaze to the place where our skin touches. I don’t dare move, not wanting to scare away his touch, even as I wonder if this tenderness is real or just another way to gather information about me.
Instead of pulling back, his other hand comes up to brush my hair back from my cheek. He leans even closer, and my heart pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” His voice is soft and low.
“Yes, I believe you have.”
Another swipe of his thumb against my cheek.
“Will you come back to my place for a drink?”
Mikhail
Ican’t stop touching her.
All night, I’ve taken every little chance I’ve gotten—a grasp against her hand, a brush against her hair. I stupidly assumed I could eventually satiate my potent curiosity after just the first few touches, but each time our skin comes into contact, I find myself wanting more. Needing more.
Even now, as she sits beside me in the passenger seat of my car, I can’t help but brush the fingers of my free hand against her creamy thigh through the slit of her dress.
God, that dress.
When she first met me at the door, chastising me so sweetly for showing up early, I was frozen in confused admiration at the sight of her. Cassandra has the type of beauty that needs no embellishment—her dark hair and bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and rounded lips. She’d probably catch glances of desire wearing a trash bag, barefoot on the side of a road.
When you take all of that and then drape her in a dark, tight dress, hugging all her soft curves and revealing a peek of her pale thigh... I never stood a chance.
When we first arrived at the restaurant, I couldn’t help but study her, memorizing every detail of her reaction. I’m actually quite proud of Batiste. I put a lot of funding and effort into making it the business it is today, even if it does just function as a front for my more profitable merchandising. I found myself waiting with bated breath to find out what she thought of the place, and earning her approval sent undeniable pride thrumming through my chest.
