I watch him as he places three thick, perfect slices on my plate.
Then he leans over me—way too close—and carefully sprinkles salt and pepper with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ritual magic or foreplay.
I think he’s going to walk away.
Bet he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns that molten golden gaze on me.One large, warm hand wraps around the back of my neck.
Not rough.Not threatening.But firm.Possessive.Like I belong to him.
He tilts my chin so I’m forced to look up at him, and holy hell, my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out.
I want his mouth on mine so bad it’s embarrassing.
I swear I might be drooling.
And I never drool.
“Eat your dinner, Megan,” he says, voice like whiskey and want.“Only good girls get dessert.”
Then he squeezes.Just enough to make my thighs clench under the table.
Just enough to brand me with the promise in his words.
And then?
The man has the audacity to step back and return to his seat like he didn’t just light me on fire.
The dirty, rotten tease.
I take a bite of tomato and almost moan.It’s perfect.Ripe, juicy, sun-warmed.
And no, I’m not going to read into the symbolism.
I’m not.
Look—I know we have a job to do.
He’s right.
We can’t just throw ourselves at an angry Warlock ghost with nothing but salt and confidence.
We’ve got a meeting tonight with Preacher and Esmerelda.I’ve done the reading—Warlocks who go dark are bad news.
Twisting death magic, feeding off spirits, cursing bloodlines—yeah, we need a plan.
So really, this little dinner break is timely.
Necessary.
Smart.
And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I’ll stop imagining what dessert looks like with him.
There are other ways we could be spending this time—ways that involve a lot less clothing and a lot more noise—but damn it, I know better.
I’m a professional.
