I swallow hard. My throat clicks audibly.
Ross turns his head slightly at the sound, enough for me to see his profile illuminated by the fire. A bead of sweat traces the edge of his jaw, catching the orange light before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths. Too controlled. He’s fighting something.
“You don’t have to stay in here,” I say. “If it’s too—”
“It’s not.” He cuts me off. His knuckles whiten around the poker. “I want to be where you are.”
The naked honesty in his voice sends a jolt through me, a physical shock that makes me clench around nothing. I shift on the velvet sofa, the fabric catching against my jeans, creatinga friction that’s almost unbearable. My body is betraying me, responding to him like it always has, like no time has passed.
He sets the poker down with a soft metallic sound and turns to face me. His pupils are blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of color. He’s hard. The outline of his cock strains against his sweatpants, and he makes no attempt to hide it.
“I said not yet,” I whisper, but my body screams liar with every heartbeat.
“I know.” His voice is gravel. “I’m not asking for anything.”
But he is. His body is asking. Mine is answering. The air between us feels thick enough to choke on.
He stays where he is, kneeling by the fire, but his eyes don’t leave mine. I feel stripped, exposed, though he hasn’t touched me. My skin prickles with awareness. My breasts feel heavy, aching. Between my legs, I’m wet. If he touched me there now, his fingers would slide through slickness without resistance.
The thought makes me press my thighs tighter, creating a pressure that sends sparks through me. A small, involuntary sound escapes me, not quite a moan, but close enough.
Ross’s jaw clenches. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His breathing becomes shallower. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself with a subtle movement that draws my eyes down again.
“Margot,” he says, and my name in his mouth is obscene.
I shake my head. Not in denial, but in desperation. I want to crawl across the floor to him. I want to straddle him right there on the hearth rug, to grind against him until we both break. I want his mouth on my neck, his teeth on my shoulder, his hands spreading me open.
But I stay where I am, trembling with effort.
For the first time in six months, the knot of fear in my chest loosens. He stayed. I said no, and he stayed. He’s hard and wanting and desperate, but he’s keeping his distance because I asked him to.
The realization doesn’t cool my blood. If anything, it makes me want him more, this man who finally understands that he can’t simply take. I pulsate with each heartbeat, a steady throb of need that I refuse to satisfy. Not yet..
Chapter 27
Margot
The pasta water has boiled away. All that remains is a white, salty residue caked onto the bottom of the stainless-steel pot.
I turn the burner off. The click of the knob sounds violent.
6:45 p.m.
Ross said 6:00.
He was specific. The text at 4:30 was clear:Leaving early. Stopping for wine. Home by six to cook the carbonara.
It is now forty-five minutes past the promise.
I stand at the kitchen island, staring at my phone. No text. No call. No update.
The rational part of my brain, the part that knows he quit his job, the part that watched him walk away from a partnership for me, says there is traffic. It says the line at the wine shop is long. It says his phone battery died.
But the traumatized part of me doesn’t care about logic. It is vibrating.
My chest tightens, a familiar, suffocating pressure I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s the physical memory of the old Ross. The Ross who promised dinner and then got sucked into a conference call. The Ross who lost track of time because a design was more interesting than his wife.
He’s doing it again.
