“This weekend, I will have the emotional support of cake.”
“You’ll have me.”
The words are too quiet and too steady to be flirtation. They land somewhere deeper.
Then his thumb moves over my knee, and it becomes dangerous.
I grip my menu. “Jordan.”
“That’s better.”
“What is better?”
“You said my name instead of pulling away.”
“I am holding a menu hard enough to injure it.”
“You are still here.”
His hand moves an inch higher.
My brain becomes a white, sparkly void.
The booth hides us from most of the restaurant, but not enough for my nerves to understand privacy. I grab his wrist under the table.
He stops instantly.
“Should I stop?” he asks.
The question is serious, and that seriousness makes something warm unfold inside me.
I shake my head.
His jaw flexes. “Words, Natalie.”
“No.”
His fingers tighten once, then relax. “Good girl.”
I almost slide under the table.
His hand stays on my thigh while the server brings wine and water. I smile like a normal person. I may deserve an award.
When we are alone again, Jordan leans closer. “This weekend, when I touch you in front of them, remember this.”
“This restaurant?”
“My hand on your thigh. Your pulse racing. The fact that you didn’t tell me to stop.”
My breath catches.
His thumb strokes once beneath the hem of my dress, higher than before, where my skin is softer and much less prepared for public lessons.
“Jordan.”
His eyes darken. “There she is.”
“Who?”
