“You came,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I intended, rougher.
She laughs, light and throaty, the sound wrapping around my cock and squeezing. “I did.” Her eyes sweep over my suit, then back up to mine. “You clean up well.”
I stop in front of her, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and seductive—and feel the heat coming off her skin. I can see the little details now—the tiny, shimmering flecks in her eye shadow, the delicate veins in her neck that I want to lick.
My hands are actually shaking a little.
I offer her my arm. “Shallwe?”
She slides her fingers into the crook of my elbow. Her touch is light but electric, sending a jolt straight through me. I can feel the warmth of her skin through my jacket sleeve.
I lead her to the table, my body screaming at me to turn around, to press her against the nearest wall and devour that glossy red mouth, devour every fucking inch of the goddess in front of me. To get down and worship because I am… Not. Fucking. Worthy.
I pull out her chair for her. A ridiculous, old-fashioned gesture I had drilled in me a long time ago.
She lowers herself into the seat, the slit falling open again, and my brain short-circuits for a second, the glimpse of thigh enough to make me dizzy. I see the top of her stockings. The little clasp holding them up.
Fuck. Me.
I take my own seat opposite her, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to be the composed, confident man I’m supposed to be.
The server appears out of nowhere, pours the wine, and then melts back into the shadows.
She raises her glass. “To… what, exactly?”
“To tonight,” I say, my gaze locked on hers. “And the fact that I might not survive it.”
Her smile widens, and there’s a flicker of something hot and triumphant in her eyes. “We can only hope.”
Chapter Fourteen
Elsa
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, acutely aware of how his eyes track my mouth.
His line—I might not survive it—should make me laugh. It does, technically. A small, controlled sound that comes out exactly the way I want it to: on the surface. Light. Teasing. Delighted.
Inside, it hits like a bruise.
Because he looks wrecked. He looks hungry.
And that should satisfy me. That was the whole point.
I wanted him struck dumb. I wanted him to appreciate what he touched last night and what he thought he could use. I wanted him to feel the loss of control in his own body the way I felt it in mine.
He did.
I can see it in the tension at his jaw, the way he’s holding himself still too carefully, like he’s afraid his hands will betray him. I can see it in the way his gaze keeps dipping,keeps getting caught on the slit, the neckline, the parts of me I stopped letting people look at.
Delight flares hot and sharp in my chest.
And then the hurt follows, quieter and worse, curling under my ribs where I can’t claw it out.
Because none of this would matter if last night hadn’t mattered.
If he hadn’t made me feel like he wanted me—not the leverage attached to my title, not the advantage attached to my decisions, not the name he somehow knew before I ever gave it to him.
I smile anyway. I tilt my head slightly and let my eyes travel over him, slow enough that he notices. If he’s going to look, I’m going to look back. Calm. Appraising. Like I’m the one deciding whether he earns the right to be in my presence tonight.
