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“I’m always paying attention,” I say. “I’m simply selective about what I let you know I’ve noticed.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking at me across the table. “You want to know what I’m going to do to you in this room?”

“I’m going to assume you’re referring to breakfast conversation and not the wall behind me.”

“The wall’s still on the table,” he says. “No pun intended.”

“How restrained of you.”

“Not really.” He nods toward the sideboard. “I was thinking the sideboard too. Bent over it, hands flat, that skirt up around your waist, pussy out.” He smirks. “Easy access.”

My coffee cup is suddenly very interesting. I examine it closely. My body is doing something I haven’t encountered before, and I’m choosing not to investigate it at the breakfast table.

“You’re very focused on furniture,” I say. “It’s almost architectural.”

“I’m focused on you,” he says. “The furniture’s just what’s available.”

“How practical.”

“I’m a practical man.” He picks up his fork. “After we’re married I’m going to fuck you on every surface in this house. You can think of it as a tour.”

“I’ve already had the tour,” I say. “Your commentary was thorough.”

“That was the preview.” He eats, unhurried, unbothered, like he hasn’t just described a systematic program of sexual activity across multiple rooms. “The real thing’s way better.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You won’t have to.” He reaches for the coffee pot. “How long until the wedding?”

“Twenty-four hours, if your lawyers stop adding clauses I have to reject.”

“What have you rejected?”

“The one that gave you unilateral access to my personal correspondence,” I say. “And the one about financial disclosure that was worded to include assets predating our relationship, which is both legally overreaching and personally insulting.”

He sets his fork down. “You actually read the whole thing.”

“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Reading things is the entire job.”

“Most people just sign.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

He makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “Twenty-four hours,” he says. “Then every surface.”

“You have a remarkable ability to return to a single topic,” I say.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, like he’s telling me the score of a game. “Every hole. Fill you up so good you won’t be able to sit for a week. Shove my cock so far down your throat you won’t be hungry for days. Pull your hair, make you come so hard you forget your own name.” He picks up his coffee. “Not complicated.”

I understand those words. I’ve read them in books. But hearing them said to my face by the man who killed my father produces a response I wasn’t prepared for, and I’m keeping all of that entirely off my face.

I take a sip of coffee and keep my face neutral as I say, “How straightforward of you.”

I mean it to land as dismissal, but of course, he doesn’t take it as one.

He nods like I’ve confirmed something he already knew. “You want it too. Don’t bullshit me.”

“I want breakfast,” I say. “I’ve had it. I’m done now. Thank you.”