Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away first, focusing on her plate.
Good. One of us needed to maintain sanity.
Because I was rapidly losing mine.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and careful control. I asked Megan about her day. Complimented the food again. Tried to act like a normal human being having a normal dinner.
All the while my body screamed for something I couldn’t have.
All the while my mind supplied increasingly detailed scenarios of what I wanted to do to the woman across from me.
All the while I sat there with an erection that showed no signs of fading, trapped at this table by propriety and my daughter’s presence.
This was torture.
Exquisite, agonizing torture.
And when Cate took her last bite, closing her eyes and making that soft sound of satisfaction one more time, I knew I was in serious trouble.
Because I wanted to be the one making her sound like that.
I wanted to be the reason she closed her eyes in pleasure.
I wanted to taste her the way she’d tasted this meal—slowly, thoroughly, savoring every moment.
“That was so good,” Megan declared, pushing back from the table. “Can Cate cook dinner every night, Daddy?”
“That’s not part of her job description,” I said, my voice strained.
“But she’s better than you!”
“She is.” I looked at Cate and saw the pleased flush on her cheeks. “Exceptionally good.”
The words came out lower than intended. More intimate.
Her eyes widened slightly. She’d heard the subtext.
Good.
Let her know what she was doing to me.
Let her feel even a fraction of this want that was consuming me.
“I should help clean up,” she said, standing quickly. Too quickly. Nervous.
“You cooked. I’ll clean.” I stood as well, grateful for the excuse to move, to put distance between us before I did something irreversible.
Like pulling her against me.
Like finding out if she tasted as good as I imagined.
Like forgetting every reason why this was a terrible idea.
“Megan, go get ready for bed,” I said. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“But—”
“Now, please.”
