He was more assertive.
His trivia game evolved with him.
Yentzing.
Kinbaku.
Frottage.
Words she definitely looked up.
One afternoon, while Harlan and Coral were in the back garden, Connor came up behind her. He gently but firmly took her hands, pressed them to the table, and breathed against her neck. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against the nape of her neck.
She didn't.
Because she was suddenly, violently horny for him again.
And then, just as Fern was about to give in, he retreated like she had imagined it.
What was he up to?
Chapter 34
Then came the night out.
Chiara had decided that Fern was overdue for, as she put it – a recalibration of your soul and maybe your liver.
Their usual watering hole awaited, and Daurte was joining.
Fern was normally a lightweight and graduated to taking her shoes off and dancing on the table after half a glass of wine, which meant chaos was already pencilled into the evening.
She wore a sparkly red dress that clung and shimmered. It hugged her waist, skimmed her hips, and caught every glimmer of light.
When Connor saw her coming down the stairs, his eyes swept her curves with a heat that almost short-circuited her lady-brain. His eyes promised he was two seconds from tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her back upstairs to give the bedsprings a workout.
Chiara, who was watching the show, couldn't help herself. "We're going out with Daurte! Don't wait up."
Connor's face looked like a thunder cloud as they cleared the front door.
Daurte was waiting for them. He whistled as he watched them walk in, but his eyes were on Fern.
He looked... annoyingly good.
The three of them had gone to university together and had then decided to do the start-up together—Daurte as the techie, Chiara with the content and the face of their company, while Fern did the artwork.They catered specifically to indie authors, helping them get their books off the ground.
Daurte wasn't handsome in the polished, conventional way. He was the kind of man who made you realise too late that you'd been staring. His long dark hair fell in loose waves, framing a sharp jaw and carved blunt cheekbones. His beard was thick and neatly kept, giving him a dangerous softness. And his dark, deep-set, expressive eyes held a simmering intensity that made everything else fade for a few seconds if he turned them on you. He had a small silver hoop in one ear, glinting under the bar lights, making him look like a pirate.
And he had been in love with her for years. Quietly. Respectfully. Painfully.
He had loved her when she got married to Connor.
He had loved her when he watched her as she left for Whitley Bay.
And tonight, he didn't even try to hide it.
"Well, damn," Daurte said, his low whistle ending on a note of appreciation. "If I'd known you were coming dressed like that, I'd have worn something sharper."
Fern snorted. "I am going to be responsible and stick to mocktails. I even wore flats, see?"
