Then she speaks again, and her voice comes out steady—too steady for a woman with my mouth on her throat.
“Tell me something,” she says, calm as if we’re discussing wine pairings instead of the fact that my hand is under her dress and my mouth is on her neck. “Are you always like this?”
I pause, lift my head, and look at her. Up close, the red gloss is lethal. Her eyes are bright, heavy-lidded, and there’s a sheen to them that has nothing to do with makeup.
“This?” I ask, keeping my voice easy.
She lets her gaze drop to my mouth. “Certain,” she says, and her tone is airy. “Like you can take what you want when you decide you want it.”
There’s a question behind the question. A needle she’s threading.
I rest my forearm on the back of her chair, caging her in again, and let my fingers trace over her bare back. “You’re stillsitting here.”
I dip back to her neck and kiss again.
Her fingers slide into my hair—light, almost lazy—then tighten for half a second, the smallest tell that she’s holding on.
“Maybe I’m just… curious,” she says.
“Mmm,” I murmur, and drag my mouth along the line of her jaw. “Curious about what happens when you stop fighting?”
“No,” she says, and the word is soft—almost amused— “curious about whether you’re like this with everyone… or only when it benefits you.”
I still my mouth against her skin, just for a beat, then I lift my head enough to look at her properly. Close enough that my breath skims her lips. “You think I’m touching you for strategy?”
Her lashes flicker. Her fingers stay in my hair.
“I think you don’t do anything without a reason,” she says, voice airy, dangerous, the warning in it finally getting through to me. “So tell me yours.”
I let my thumb keep moving slowly higher along her thigh, testing the line where the stocking ends and warm skin begins. “My reason,” I murmur, “is that I like the way you taste, and you haven’t told me to stop.”
“That’s a reason,” she says lightly. “Notthereason.”
“You want honesty?” I ask, voicerough.
“I want the truth,” she corrects, and her mouth curves, but it seems self-deprecating more than amused. “Can you give me that?”
I lean closer, close enough that my words brush her lips. “The truth is I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
Her eyes flicker—just once—like something in her wants to believe that, but then her lashes lower, covering her eyes.
“And?” she prompts. “What were you doing while you were thinking about me, Antonio?”
“Working,” I say, curious where this is going.
“Oh?” Her gaze drops to my hand under her dress, then back up. “What kind of work?”
I hold her stare. “I had a meeting.”
Her lashes lift a fraction. “A meeting… on Saturday,” she says, sweet and sharp. “Hmm.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “They happen sometimes, as you well know.”
“Do you know what I did today?” she asks, conversational, like she’s offering a harmless topic.
I blink once. “You got dressed,” I say, voice rough. “You decided to ruin me.”
Her mouth curves again, faint. “That too.”
