She cut off another slice and pinched it between her two fingers. Making sure no one watched, she raised the tablecloth and held the bit of meat to John. He clasped her hand with his own and brought her fingers to his mouth, taking the bite and licking her fingers clean.
Repressing a smile, she patted his head.
A dog under the table, indeed.
***
Clearly, he had not thought this all the way through.
John accepted the next tidbit from Netta, but his stomach yet rumbled. And his arse was going numb. His mind had whirled at the delightful possibilities of being hidden under a table at Netta’s feet, but after the game was over the reality of him being stuck under said table for the rest of the meal hadn’t crossed his mind.
He rubbed Netta’s bare knee. Her restraint had been magnificent. She deserved to win this one.
He blew out a breath. Which meant he had to confess his past.
He trusted Netta, but he had never told a living soul about his work as a spy. Yes, some people had heard rumors. Too many people. And his friends’ wives had all learned the truth, but John had felt nothing but irritation when his friends had spouted off about their jobs with the Crown to their women.
How they would laugh at him now.
And how would Netta react? Would she recoil from a man who had spent his adult life doing unspeakable things in the name of his country? Or would she accept him as he was?
The back of his throat ached. If anyone could accept him it would be Netta. She’d already seen more of him than every other woman of his acquaintance put together.
The Italian lady crossed her legs and bobbed her toe inches from his nose.
John eased away, and brushed the trousers of the man opposite.
Sod it all to hell and back. Montague needed a larger dining table. For a duke, it was positively disgraceful to have one under five feet wide.
The man in question said something at the end of the table, his voice muffled. All the chairs but Netta’s scraped backwards.
John heaved a breath. Finally. Dinner was at an end.
“I’ll be right there,” Netta called to someone. “There’s a pebble in my slipper I wish to remove.”
After a moment, she raised the tablecloth and waved him out.
“A pebble in your slipper?” he asked as he rolled out and to his feet. He stretched, a bone in his back popping.
“Better than saying a thorn in my side.” She rose and planted her fists on her hips. “Really, John. At a table full of guests? What were you thinking?”
As a delightful post-orgasm flush still graced her cheeks, and a smile twitched about her lips, he didn’t take her scolding seriously.
“Was that a whimper I heard when I first used my tongue?” He clucked that organ against the top of his mouth. “You disappointed me, Netta.”
“You heard no such thing and I never disappoint.” She patted her hair, making sure everything was still in place.
He grabbed her hips and tugged her into his body. “Of that, you are absolutely correct.” He rested his chin on top of her head. He didn’t want to lose this. Lose her. Would she be amenable to his offer ofcarte blanche? She should be. Their fun would go on and he was, after all, a desirable match.
But still a niggle of doubt wormed its way under his skin.
He kissed her hair. “You won. It is time for me to talk.”
“Must we?” She clutched his arms and looked up at him. “Can we wait until we get home at least?”
“The words won’t change depending on location.”
She sighed. “I know. But everything else will change. I just want a few more minutes of…this.”
