But the fingers that keep my hand locked against the table are rigid.
He hates this.
Hates it.
That brings me back to the present and away from his warm mouth and the look in his eyes. I’mdelusionalfor reacting to that. It’s been too long since I had sex, that’s all. I should try one of the vibrators I bought with his card. I did it to piss him off, sure, but if I can get off as well, that’s a win.
A few good orgasms, that’s all I need.
And keeping my fingers out of his mouth.
On the last cake, a passion fruit mousse, he cuts a slice and holds up the piece to me. Like he’s going to feed me right back.
I look at the piece on the fork, and he lifts an eyebrow.Well?The camera keeps snapping. I open my mouth, and he feeds me the piece with such a focused expression that it makes me squirmy. That must be what he looks like when he’s having sex. The full intensity of his focus on one single goal.
I close my eyes and moan at the taste.
I might hate him, but I don’t hate these cakes. This place has earned every morsel of its fame. “That one’s my favorite,” I tell him, and find that he’s still watching me intently. “Can we buy more of that cake just to bring home tonight?”
His jaw works. “Anything you want, darling.”
The photographer lowers his camera and talks with Wren about the images. I look back down at the half-eaten slices of cake on the table. Rafe shifts closer.
Our thighs touch. Our hips touch.
I hate that I’m aware of that, too. Of every inch where we’re rooted together. “That,” he says in a low voice, “was the longest thirty minutes of my life.”
“It made me want to die,” I whisper. “Will you reply to my email later?”
“I’m busy later.” His voice is close to my ear, like he’s murmuring sweet nothings. “I’m testing wines with my wife, and if I’m getting drunk with her, I need to be fully present.”
“I don’t want you laying off any of my staff.”
“I’ve heard you, and I’ll look into it,” he says. “Which cake do you want?”
“You care what I want?”
“We have to make a decision and thank the chef.” He leans forward and touches his lips to my ear. “Choose your favorite and I’ll choose mine. We’ll do separate layers on the wedding cake.”
“That won’t look very cohesive.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear. This must havegotten to him more than he’s letting on, and it sends a thrill through me. “Then I want the chocolate,” I say.
“And I’ll do the Swiss.”
“Good,” I say.
“Great,” he says.
CHAPTER 17
RAFE
When we return, there are wine bottles prepared for us outside on the terrace. Wren, Karim and Antonella are all working together, and the photographer from the patisserie joins us.
I tug at my collar.
