“And the boat.” His fingers stilled in my hair. “Did you see his face when they asked about the boat?”
I tilted my head back to look up at him. “You’re really invested in?—”
The words died in my throat.
He wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at me—eyes dark and focused with an intensity that made my pulse kick up, made heat bloom low in my stomach. That look. I knew that look. That was the look that had gotten me into trouble in college more times than I could count.
“We’re finishing this documentary,” I deadpanned.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got worse—or better, depending on your perspective. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered there, then traced down my throat to where my pulse was doing something embarrassing and visible.
“Jack. I’m serious.” I tried to sound firm. “We are watching this all the way through. We never finished a single documentary in college because you—” I gestured vaguely at his face. “You’d get that look and then we’d miss the entire second half and I’d have to rewatch it alone later.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice was perfectly innocent. His hand, however, had abandoned my hair and was now trailing down my arm—slow, deliberate, leaving heat in its wake.
“That exact look. The one you’re doing right now.”
“I’m just watching the documentary.”
“You haven’t looked at the TV in three minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re not thinking about the documentary.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking about?” His fingers found the inside of my wrist, traced the delicate skin there, and I felt my breath hitch.
“Because I can feel what you’re thinking about.” I tried to shift away but his other hand settled on my hip, holding me in place. Not forcefully—just enough to let me know he didn’t want me moving.
“Jack. Those eyes aren’t going to work on me tonight.”
“What eyes?”
“The eyes you’re making right now.”
“I’m not making eyes. This is just my face.”
“This is not your normal face. This is your ‘I’m about to make you forget what we’re watching’ face, and we are not—” I sucked in a breath as his hand slid under the hem of my shirt, palm warm against my stomach. “We’re not doing this. The documentary. The missing woman. We need to see how it ends.”
“Mmm.” His thumb traced slow circles just above my waistband. Not moving higher. Not moving lower. Just existing there, making me conscious of every nerve ending in my body.
“I know how it ends,” he murmured. “The husband did it. Boat accident. Insurance money. We’ve seen this before.”
“That’s not—you don’t know that for sure.” My voice was less steady than I wanted it to be. “There could be a twist.”
“There’s no twist.”
“There’s always a twist.”
His hand slid higher—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten, my breath come shorter. His eyes never left my face, watching every reaction with the focus of someone conducting an extremely important experiment.
“Jack Specter, if you don’t stop?—”
“Stop what?” His voice was infuriatingly calm. “I’m just sitting here. Watching the documentary. With my girlfriend.”
“Your hand is under my shirt.”
“Is it?” He glanced down like he’d only just noticed. “Huh. So it is.”
