Then he stands up.
My breath hitches. My entire body tenses, a bowstring drawn taut. I watch him, every nerve ending alight, waiting for what he’ll do.
He doesn't say a word.
He walks around the table. The server, materializing from the shadows, makes a move toward him, a polite inquiry on his lips. Antonio doesn't even look at him. He just holds up a single finger. The server freezes, then, with a barely perceptible nod, melts back into the woodwork.
It’s a display of power so subtle, so absolute, it’s more terrifying than a shout.
He reaches my chair.
The world narrows to the space between us.
I look up at him, my heart beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. I can’t look away. I’m trapped by the heat in his gaze, by the sheer magnetic pull of him.
He places a hand on the table next to me, caging me in. The other comes down on the back of my chair, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of my back.
I flinch. A tiny, involuntary shiver that I know he feels.
A slow, triumphant smile touches his lips.
I hate him for it. I hate him for seeing it. I hate him for making me feel it.
He leans down, bringing his face close to mine. I can feel the warmth of his breath, smell the clean scent of his cologne, the faint hint of wine on his lips.
“You wanted to know the real reason we’re here,” he murmurs, his voice a low, intimate caress that sends a shiver down my spine. “This is it.”
His eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the truth in them, raw and unvarnished. He’s not playing anymore. This is not a game.
This is the checkmate.
I want to run. I want to shove him away and bolt for the door. I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the raw, dangerous energy radiating off him.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
My body is a traitor, rooted to the spot, every cell screaming at me to stay.
His gaze drops to my mouth, to the slick, wet red gloss I know he’s been thinking about all night. “You wanted me to look,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “So I’m looking.”
He’s so close. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer presence of him, and my body is responding, a wave of heat washing over me, a tight, aching need building between my legs.
“You wanted me to want you,” he continues, his lips now so close to mine I can feel the vibration of his words. “And I do. God help me, I do.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, a raw, vulnerable confession that catches me off guard. For a second, I seesomething else in his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like desperation.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that same burning intensity.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “But you think this dress is a weapon,” he whispers. “You think it gives you power. You think it makes you safe.”
His knuckles trace a slow, deliberate path up my spine, a whisper of a touch that makes my back arch, a silent plea for more.
“It doesn’t,” he says, his voice dropping even lower. “It just makes it easier for me to get to what I want.”
His other hand moves from the table, coming to rest on my thigh, just above my knee, on the skin exposed by the slit.
My breath catches in my throat.
