"And keep your foot exactly where it is."
He does.
He orders the tiramisu without looking at the prices, and that's when my chest really swells. I watch him eat it, wanting to taste the flavors off his lips, his tongue.
I could eat him up.
There's no one in this room. Henrik won't return until I ring the bell at the sideboard now that dessert has been served. I let myself watch him longer, openly, his eyes fluttering shut at the second and third bite, his tongue catching a smear of cream from the corner of his mouth, the soft hum he makes that he isn't even aware he's making.
I'm hard against the inside of my thigh. So fucking hard I think I’m lightheaded.
I haven't been hard at a dinner table since I was a teenager. I'm currently hard at a dinner table while my stepbrother eats tiramisu, and the thought that should mortify me does not.
Iwanthim.
I want him under me. I want him out of this suit and into my hotel room within the hour, and I want him to know exactly what he's done to me to get there.
He opens his eyes.
He catches me looking.
He puts the spoon down, dabs his mouth with the corner of the cloth napkin, and leans his elbows on the table.
"Atlas?"
"Hm."
He clears his throat, his eyes lowering. "You're hiding something."
I feel his concern and hurt through the bond and the moment shifts. I’m sitting up taller, unable to parse out what he means.
But I take a slow sip of wine and pretend to keep my cool.
"What gives you that impression?"
"Richard mentioned that you'd be traveling for some long project and I haven't known what to do with that piece of information for over a week. So I've been waiting for you to bring it up. You haven't. Tonight you took me to a restaurant I'm goingto think about for the rest of my life and you bought me a suit and you've been looking at me across the table like—"
He stops.
"Like what?"
"Like you’re saying goodbye or something." His brows knit.
I set the glass down.
The bond between us has gone alert. He's reading me through it the way he's reading me from across the table, and I have the distinct sensation of being out-strategized—gently, carefully, by someone who's been patient enough to let me think I had time.
I exhale.
"I was going to tell you tonight."
"When tonight?"
"After."
"After what?"
"After I'd taken you to the hotel."
