Don't look at me like that, wench.
"Samson is coming back with dessert." She closes her eyes, smiles, and gives a small, unselfconscious wiggle in her chair. "Fair warning. I'm a dessert whore."
I pause.
“A dessert whore?”
"Completely unashamed." She looks up at me. "Don’t judge me."
She’s so fucking adorable.
No, she’s not. Ugh. I need this night to end.
I pick up my glass of whiskey and down it like a shot.
"Hey, Bennet?"
I look up. Her head is tilted and her expression is sheepish. She’s got the most expressive face I’ve ever seen, so quick to display everything she’s feeling. I used to appreciate how easy it was to read her; apparently, that hasn’t changed.
"I didn't tell you any of that stuff earlier to make you feel sorry for me," she says, a soft smile on her lips. "You can still hate me in private."
Fuck you, Blaire Alexander.
"Who said I wouldn't?" I wink.
I fucking winked. At her. My face did that completely without my permission, and I have no explanation for it.
Stand your ground. Stop it.
"As long as we're on the same page," she says, and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.
My cock registers the movement immediately. I shift in my chair.
Absolutely not,I tell him.Sit down.
He does not sit down.
Ten years of solitude and self-preservation and carefully maintained distance. Two weeks of Blaire Monroe and I am seventeen years old again, doing long division in my head to talk myself down from something I have no business feeling.
Samson appears at the table with two dessert plates, and I could kiss that man.
"Tiramisu," he announces, setting them down with a flourish. "On the house. For one of my two favorite Monroes and this piece of shit." He thumbs in my direction while smiling down at Blaire.
"It looks perfect," Blaire says, eye-fucking the plate with zero shame.
Samson claps me once on the shoulder and disappears back toward the kitchen.
When I look back at Blaire, she has her eyes closed, spoon raised, doing a small dance in her seat — her ass shifting side toside, the spoon conducting in the air above the plate. She hasn't even taken a bite yet. I don't know if this is some kind of dessert mating ritual, but I cannot look away from it.
Then she focuses in, takes the first bite, and lets out a low, guttural groan that travels the length of my spine and arrives somewhere it absolutely should not.
I drop my spoon.
"Good?" I ask, practically panting, watching the spoon slowly ease from between her lips. “You like it?”
She points at me with the spoon. "Don't look at me while I'm eating this." I almost laugh.
She takes another bite.
