In his presence, I don’t have to be on alert, watching myself. Being playful comes naturally. I feel safe. Such a wonderful thing I never thought I’d experience.
Inside the dining room, we face one another across the table, not taking our gazes from each other, not even when the staff brings the soup.
“It’s Noemi’s birthday this Saturday, and she’s wondering if you’d like to come,” he says, lifting a spoonful to his mouth.
Even that gesture is sexy. Damn, I have it bad for him.
“Yes, of course.”
The first impression was positive, and she’s family now. I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. I like both the women in the Syndicate and the ones from BRACON, but letting my guard down in the underworld is reckless.
Finishing our soup, I pat the linen napkin at the corners of my mouth when he asks, the playfulness gone. “Will I have you for more than one night?”
One night will turn into two. Two to three. Three to four. And after that, I won’t want to leave. I know it in my gut. How? It eludes me.
Why it would be wrong remains unanswered. He is my husband. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, so why am I so torn when it comes to him? Why does a part of me want to run straight to him while the other wants to run as far as possible?
I rim the glass of wine with my index finger, fully in a flirtatious negotiating mood. “How many would you like?”
He cocks his head, tapping his fingers on the table, emanating such raw masculinity it dazes me. “All of them.”
I cast him an intent stare. “Don’t be greedy, Vian.”
“Seven.”
I raise a brow. “A month?”
“A week.”
I throw my head back and laugh so wholeheartedly, tears gather in my eyes. “Hard negotiator. Two nights at your place.”
He leans over, steepling his fingers. “Six.”
“Three is my last offer,” I breathe out.
“What do I have to do for a fourth one?”
Four nights a week? The number feels excessive yet simultaneously insufficient.
“We’re on your turf. Pick a challenge. I will win it.” He challenges me like no one else, making me want to prove him wrong.
“So sure of yourself?”
He smirks, winking at me. “Always when I want something, and I haven’t wanted anything more than you.”
My mouth dries and I rinse my nerves with a long gulp of wine. “Fine. You’ll get your chance. Let me guess, you’d like to spend that time at your place.”
His jaw sets in a hard line, that I expect him to crack his teeth. “I can’t live here.”
“Of course not. You scream of a city person.”
“I’ve grown up in a city most of my life, but it’s not that,” he grits out, staring out the window with violence burning in his eyes.
“Nothing could happen to you here. You’re safe,” I say lightly, trying to diffuse the tension.
Hardness eases from his face, but his taut body betrays he’s still tense. “Taking care of you is my job. No rest for the wicked.”
“We live dangerous lives. It is what it is.”
