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“So you are hungry, after all?” Marcus asks, spearing a circle of calamari with his fork.
“For pizza? Always.” I bite into the slice and close my eyes, almost moaning out loud as the taste of gooey melted cheese and perfectly seasoned tomato sauce fills my mouth. Swallowing the bite, I open my eyes to lick the drop of sauce from my fingers—and pause at the hungry look on Marcus’s face.
“Want a slice?” I offer, realizing I’m being rude by hogging the entire pizza to myself. It’s a small one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share. Marcus is watching me eat so intently it’s as if he wants to devour me instead of the pizza.
“No, thanks.” His voice is slightly hoarse as he reaches for his glass of water. “You’re welcome to the calamari, though.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I bite into the pizza again. The taste is just as orgasmic as before, but I manage to keep my eyes open this time—and see Marcus’s jaw tighten as he watches me chew and swallow the bite.
He’s not eating; he’s just staring at me, and it makes me distinctly uncomfortable.
“You sure you don’t want some?” I ask after I swallow my third bite. “I’m happy to share, honestly.”
“No, I’m fine. Please, enjoy.” He picks up his fork again and starts eating the calamari. I decide that turnabout is fair play, so I openly watch him as he consumes his food. It’s amazing, but he somehow makes even the mundane act of eating seem powerfully masculine. The muscles in his jaw flex as he chews, and his throat works with each swallow, drawing my attention to the strong column of his neck. I’ve never thought of eating as a sexual act, but with Marcus, I find myself mesmerized by the way he brings each ring of calamari to his mouth and decimates it with his straight white teeth. My breathing speeds up, and the dampness in my underwear intensifies as I picture his mouth engaged in other, much dirtier activities.
To distract myself from the bizarre urge to lick a bread crumb off his lip, I focus on devouring my pizza. When only the crust remains, I look up.
“You never told me how your dinner with Emmeline went,” I say. “Did your matchmaker do a good job?”
Marcus puts down his fork and very deliberately finishes his calamari. “She did,” he says, patting his lips with a napkin.
“And?” I prompt when he doesn’t elaborate.
“And nothing.” His face is expressionless. “Emmeline fits certain criteria I have, that’s all.”
That’s all? The pizza in my stomach turns into a brick. “If she’s so perfect, then why—”
“Here you are. The squid ink risotto,” the waiter announces, placing the dish in the middle of the table with a flourish as a busboy clears off the remnants of the appetizers. I clamp my lips shut, forcing myself to stay silent as the waiter puts clean plates in front of each of us.
As soon as he’s gone, I open my mouth to resume my questioning, but Marcus shocks me by reaching across the table and covering my hand with his. His palm is dry and warm and so large I feel engulfed by the heat of it. My breath catches in my throat, and my heartbeat skyrockets further as he leans in, his blue eyes locked on my face.
“Emma, listen to me,” he says quietly. “Emmeline has nothing to do with this. I’ve only met her once, and there are no commitments of any kind between us. As you might’ve guessed, I’m attracted to you—very attracted—and if I’m not mistaken, you’re not completely indifferent to me either.” His thumb brushes across the pulse in my wrist, which is hammering wildly, corroborating his words. He must feel it too, because his eyes darken and his voice deepens, turning low and seductive as he murmurs, “Why don’t we just enjoy this meal and see where things go from here?”
I swallow thickly. I don’t know what to say, or even to think. A part of me is bizarrely hurt that this other woman fits some predetermined criteria of his, but what he’s saying makes sense too. One dinner doesn’t make her his girlfriend, any more than it gives me any rights over him. If anything, his honesty is a point in his favor; he could’ve lied about meeting Emmeline, and I would’ve been none the wiser. At the same time, I’m aware that I’m not thinking clearly, that his touch is heating me from within and turning my brain to mush.
“I, um…” Pulling my hand away, I fight to regain my composure. “I think you should eat your risotto. It’s probably getting cold.”
He regards me wryly, and I have a feeling he knows exactly how he’s affecting me. “Of course, the risotto. We don’t want it to get cold,” he says, and I let out a relieved breath as he reaches for the dish.
