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Tristan Caine: And that is?
Me: You'll be on it just once. Been there. Done that.
She waited for his reply. It didn't come.
She felt his gaze on her back, her nape prickling, and deja-vu hit her like a train wreck.
This was exactly where she'd been almost an hour ago. Exactly where she'd been. Same place, same people, same plots.
Except she had changed.
She didn't want to admit it, but she had. Something, very, very tiny, had shifted infinitesimally within the hour, with her acceptance of her desire, her locking of the door, her opening her legs for him. She didn't want to admit it, but it had. And she'd die before she let anyone else know it. Least of all him.
The table broke up finally, people getting up and turning to leave, shaking hands with her father. She stood up as well, standing as tall as she could in her heels, ignoring the ache in her belly and south, one hand holding her clutch and phone, the other beside her hips.
The creeper turned to her, taking her free hand and bringing it to his lips before she could blink. Morana felt her skin crawl, even more than it had earlier when he had been trying to grope her thigh. It was just his lips pressing into the back of her fingers, a gesture so many men had repeated at the end of so many dinners, and while they'd always disgusted her, this felt more intense, more.
She could feel his stare boring into her exposed back, the man who'd fucked her minutes ago a few feet away, the man she hated, while the creeper kissed her hand. His gaze burned on her back, on her neck, on her spine.
'Break his arm next time.'
The stare intensified. She tried to pull her hand back. The man didn't let go.
Her father looked around the room. The stare never left her back. Was he trying to start a war? He needed to look away!
The entire restaurant was on edge, everyone on alert, hands hovering over weapons, tension ratcheting higher and higher as her father's men headed towards the main door.
The creeper finally let go. She picked up a napkin from the table and wiped her hands, insulting him, and her father blatantly.
"I hope we meet again soon," the man told her.
"Sure, if you want another sprain and some broken bones," she said, her words loud enough for people to stiffen.
His gaze lingered. Her body throbbed.
She started walking towards the door with the party, keeping her gaze deliberately averted from the table in the corner, the table from where she could feel his gaze searing her, watching her every move like a panther watched a doe – still, quiet, waiting.
Her phone vibrated in her palm. Turning her eyes away, she peeked at it quietly as the men walked.
She saw the message and everything came rushing through her – the anger, the desire, the hate, the regret ?
?? mixing together in a concoction she barely even recognized anymore.
Her breath hitched.
Her body buzzed in memory on his rough hands and thrusting hips, hips she could still feel against hers, blue, blue eyes staring into hers, with the same emotions mirrored back for the split second the mask cracked.
She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding.
Tristan Caine: Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.
Her father stopped her before she'd processed it, his dark eyes cold, icy on hers.
Her stomach dropped again, for an entirely different reason.
"What were you doing with Tristan Caine?"
Panic hit.
