‘Would it help if I said please?’
The waiter approaches the table, saving me from deciding between a witty comeback—currently not available—and the ridiculously compelling notion of crawling onto his knee.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I ordered.’ Changing the subject, he tries to control his growing smile.
It’s a bit late now, I think, if I did as the table is filled with enough food for triple our number. Warm flatbread, a vermillion coloured dip he callsmuhammara, dainty morsels of chicken and bowls of delicate salads. Taking a plate, Kai begins to fill it.
‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like,’ he says neutrally, spooning on an assortment.
I don’t answer and can only watch, confused by a sudden riotous need in the face of his outward calm. I know my feelings aren’t one-sided, he almost said so himself. Maybe his control is greater than mine, and if my poker face is rubbish, maybe his has been perfected to a fine art.He’s obviously had lots of practise. I push away the thought as I take the proffered plate.
‘Eat.’
‘Inappropriateandkinda bossy,’ I snark, sliding the fork into my mouth, a little unnerved by his sudden flash of teeth.
‘Down to a tee.’
The undercurrent in his quietly spoken words washes over me. I blink and swallow slowly, the fork forgotten in my hand.
‘Eat,’ he repeats quietly.
So I do. Savouring each fragrant mouthful, my eyes continually drawn back to Kai. I study him with the fascination of an anthropologist, each small movement observed. His jaw working as he chews, the powerful movements of his throat. I want to place my tongue there, feel the muscles. Lick a trail to his mouth. My pulse hammers as I devour the line of tendons in his forearm and the smooth hollow peeking from his shirt. Long fingers touch a button at his chest fleetingly, my eyes drawn to the action as I follow the row of tiny hindrances coming between me and his skin. I recall the trail of hair from his navel to, well...
‘Enjoying yourself?’
My body jumps. ‘Sorry, w—what?’
‘Eye fucking isn’t talking,’ he prompts, amused. ‘Not that I’m complaining, just say the word and I’m there.’
Flustered, I stammer my answer,my blush no doubt confirming the conviction lacking in my words. ‘What makes you think I was checking you out?’
‘Denial?’ he breathes, wide-eyed.
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘You can’t tell what was going on in my head.’ I push away the plate, no longer hungry. Not for food, at any rate.
‘True,’ he shrugs, ‘but I can read your body well enough.’
‘No way.’ I was just sitting there barely moving, he couldn’t possibly know.
He doesn’t answer, just continues to look at me, his eyes now dark and full of knowing. Or guessing. Who can tell?
‘Go on then,’ I dare, ‘do your best.’
‘Your skin has heated,’ he says huskily, ‘colouring your cheeks, chest and,’—his eyes flick down my body—‘lower.’
‘You can’t see that,’ I murmur, hoping to qualify my statement and move the conversation away from my heated crotch.
‘And,’ his voice drops to a mocking whisper, ‘you leaned forward ever so slightly in your chair.For pressure. Next, you licked your lips a little, very inviting, too, then your gaze followed my hand to a button, then went the rest of the way... all...by...itself.’
‘That’s not fair, you played me!’ Given that he’s right, my indignation sounds slightly hollow.
‘I’d like to play—’
‘What happened to talking?’ I interject.
Leaning back in his chair, he smiles benignly. ‘Rubbing off again?’
‘Just keep your hands where I can see them.’
