“The woman who wants more and is afraid to ask for it.”
I should deny it. I should say something funny. I should remind him this is practice. Pretending.
Is it pretending?
Instead, I whisper, “Maybe she doesn’t know how.”
For one second, his hand goes still.
Then his mouth comes close to my ear, and his voice turns rough enough to make me shiver.
“She’ll learn.”
The server arrives with dinner, and Jordan’s hand returns to my knee as if nothing happened. As if I am not sitting in a restaurant wearing the dress he chose, eating the food he ordered, and trying to survive the knowledge that he knows exactly how to make me fall apart without anyone noticing.
I take one bite of trout. It is tender, buttery, perfect, and cilantro-free.
Jordan watches me swallow.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
His thumb moves over my knee. “Say it again.”
My cheeks heat. “The fish is good.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I meant my name.”
My pulse stumbles.
The man is going to end me before the wedding.
After dinner, the server returns with the dessert menu. I am still pretending to read it when Jordan takes it from my hand, sets it aside, and orders the strawberry tart with two forks.
The tart arrives between us like a dare.
“You heard me that day,” I say.
“Yes.”
A smile slips out before I can stop it.
He reaches over and brushes his thumb near the corner of my mouth, though I am almost sure there is nothing there.
“Wear that smile this weekend.”
The heat in me softens into something much more dangerous.
“Jordan,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“Finish your dessert, Natalie.”
“Why?”
His hand returns to my thigh under the table, higher this time, firm and possessive.
