Our main courses arrived: two plates of perfectly blackened catfish over dirty rice, the spicy sauce drizzled artfully around the edges. We were quiet; the food was too good to waste time talking. Ronan made sounds of appreciation with his first bite that hit me low in my belly, reminding me of other sounds I’d heard him make in more private settings.
When Vincent cleared our empty plates, he returned almost immediately with a generous slice of peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream slowly melting into the warm fruit.
“Compliments of the chef.” He placed the dessert in the center of the table and withdrew, leaving us with the tempting creation between us.
Ronan gestured toward the cobbler. “Ladies first.”
I reached for a spoon.
“Sweet enough for you?” I asked as he finally took my first bite of the cobbler.
He licked the spoon clean. “Yeah, but I might need something sweeter before the night’s through.”
I pulled my lip between my teeth. “Is that right?”
Ronan signaled for the check. The band transitioned into a slow melody, the opening notes flowing like honey. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I knew what was coming before he even opened his lips to speak. My body was already answering yes before the question formed.
Ronan stood and extended his hand, palm up. “Dance with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I placed my hand in his, allowing him to guide me.
We moved toward the small dance floor where a few other couples were already swaying together, lost in their own private worlds. Etta’s rich voice filled the restaurant.
When we reached the dance floor, Ronan turned to face me, his free hand finding the small of my back, as if it belonged there. My body moved into his without hesitation, fitting against his chest like matching pieces. My fingers curled around his shoulder, while my other hand remained clasped in his, held close between our bodies.
“You move like you were made for this,” he murmured.
We moved together, a slow sway that required no thought, our bodies attuned to each other, finding harmony without effort. The bass notes vibrated through the floor, while the saxophone wove between us like another presence, urging us closer.
“I didn’t know the chief of police’s training included dancing,” I teased, tilting my head back to see his face better in the low light.
His infectious grin set the tone, as if he were slightly embarrassed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, Dr. Price.”
“I’m so looking forward to finding out.”
He pressed against my back, bringing our bodies flush against each other. I was fully aware of the hardness of his thigh brushing against mine, but there was restraint. A power move deliberately held in check, waiting for the right time to be unleashed. The knowledge that this man, who commanded such natural authority, was holding himself back for me sent a thrill racing down my spine.
We turned slowly, with my eyes closed, letting the music guide us. Ronan and I moved together, no space between us, my thigh occasionally slipping between his, his hand drifting from my waist and hips just low enough on my backside to send clear messages about where his thoughts were headed.
The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of my dress; his cologne mingled with the natural scent of his skin, creating something intoxicating. I breathed him in, my cheek coming to rest against his chest. His heartbeat quickened against my ear, strong and steady.
Without warning, Ronan dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. The contact was featherlight at first and then more insistent as I responded by arching slightly into him. His kiss turned into a gentle graze of teeth against my skin, sending electricity shooting straight to my core.
“Ronan,” I whispered, not sure if I was asking him to stop or begging him to continue.
His hands went back to my waist, steadying me as he traced a path of kisses up the column of my throat, each one more devastating than the last. Not caring who might be watching, I tilted my head to give him better access, my fingers curling into his shoulder as heat pooled low in my belly.
Two could play this game. I turned my face toward his ear, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below it. Whenhe shivered in response, I grew bolder, grazing my teeth lightly against his earlobe, feeling his sharp intake of breath like a victory.
“You’re playing with fire, woman.”
“Maybe I want to get burned.”
We swayed together, our bodies creating delicious friction; each brush of his hand against my back sent sparks racing across my skin. In this public space, surrounded by strangers and soft lighting and music that seemed written just for us, I felt more intimately connected to him than in some of our most private moments.
And then it hit me, the reason this felt so different, so significant. I wasn’t guarded anymore. For the first time since Devon died, I was simply present. Chosen and choosing.
The realization must have shown on my face.
