Page 18 of The Unexpected

He sets down the fork, leans back in the chair. “What’s weird is pretending this is a problem that can be solved with talk therapy.”

I stare at the table, tracing the grain in the wood. “That’s what people do, right? When they’re having a—” I gesture, helpless, “—thing?”

He huffs a laugh. “Most people who fuck their relatives don’t consult clergy first.”

I flush, prickling all over, but I refuse to look away. “We’re not related.”

He shrugs. “Tell that to your father.”

I want to argue, but instead I drain the rest of the wine. The taste is sharp, cherry and something darker underneath. It makes my lips go numb.

Hunter pours himself a refill, the decanter glugging softly. He doesn’t offer me more.

“I just don’t want to ruin anyone’s life,” I say, finally. “Least of all mine.”

Hunter’s face softens, just a fraction. He laces his fingers together, elbows on the table, and regards me over the little cathedral of his hands. “If you want to stop, then say so, Stella. I’m not holding you hostage.”

The thought is absurd—me, standing up and walking away, as if my own feet would even know where to go. But I pretend to consider it, just so he knows I’m not afraid. I even set my glass down gently, like I’m about to rise.

I don’t.

He watches the performance with the patience of a python. “You’re not quitting.”

“How do you know?”

A slow, small smile. “Because you like this. You like the danger.”

“I do not.”

“Liar,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “If you hated it, you would have let that little boyfriend fuck you last night and never looked back. But here you are.”

I stare at the flames on the candles, picking out the little movements, the way the light gutters when I exhale too hard. “You’re a narcissist. And an asshole.”

He considers it. “Maybe. But I’m also right.”

There’s a long, charged pause. My chest is tight, my pulse a hard, fluttery thing in my neck.

“I think you like it too much,” I say, barely above a whisper.

He leans in, blue eyes gleaming. “Maybe I do. Maybe I like corrupting you. Maybe I like the way you taste after a night of sin.”

His words send a bolt of heat right through me. I try to mask it by smoothing the napkin over my lap. “You’re disgusting,” I murmur, but I can’t keep the tremor out of my voice.

Hunter lifts his glass. The gesture is almost a salute. “You have no idea how disgusting I can be, sweetheart.”

The silence after is as thick as pudding. I can’t look at him, not with my skin on fire and my stomach a knot of nerves and want. I focus on the candles, the wine, the way my own hands shake just a little as I gather the plates and try to look useful.

I don’t get far. Hunter stands, the chair pushed back with a low scrape, and crosses the distance between us in three measured steps. He towers over me, blocking out the candlelight, a presence so physical it might as well be gravity.

He puts a hand on the back of my chair, leans down so his mouth is at my ear. “When we’re done with this church discussion,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, “I want you on your knees again.”

My pulse spikes. I can’t help it. The memory is too fresh, too raw—the taste of him, the ache in my jaw, the feel of his hands tangled in my hair. I clench my thighs together, willing myself not to react.

I fail.

He sees it, of course. “Look at me,” he says.

I do.