My stomach flips, and I stare at the words like they’re a command and a promise at the same time.
I type.
Me: You’re insane.
Ethan: I’m patient.
Ethan: And you like it when I tell you what I want.
My fingers tremble, and I curse under my breath, then I slide my palm along my thigh, just above my knee, and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for permission.
I swallow hard and type back.
Me: Fine. Now what.
His reply comes immediately, like he’s been holding it.
Ethan: Come out.
Ethan: Look at me when you sit down.
Ethan: Smile at Priya like nothing’s happening.
Ethan: And keep your legs crossed, since I’m going to spend the rest of the night imagining what I’m doing to you when we get home.
I close my eyes for a second, and my breath comes quicker, and I press my fingers to my stomach again like a grounding habit.
Then my phone buzzes one more time.
Ethan: Tell me you want it.
I stare at that line, heat in my face, pulse everywhere, and I realize this is exactly how I end up in trouble, since I’m stubborn, I’m turned on, and Ethan Cross is apparently the kind of man who weaponizes dessert and a bathroom break.
I type two words, and my hands don’t shake this time.
Me: I do.
Then I unlock the stall, wash my hands like a normal person, and practice my calm face in the mirror, since I’m about to walk back into that table with my friends and my boss and my future, and I’m already thinking about getting home.
26
LILA
Once we’re back, he unlocks the door and lets me step inside first.
That alone sets my nerves humming, since he’s been doing that thing all night where he’s close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. His hand lingers at my back, steady, possessive without pressure, then he pulls away and shuts the door.
I turn, already warm, already expecting him to crowd me.
He doesn’t.
He shrugs off his jacket, sets his phone on the counter, and walks toward the kitchen like he’s done with the night. No kiss. No hands. No claim.
“Ethan,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me. “Go upstairs.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
