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My heart flutters from fond nostalgia. “Yes… like how you told me sometimes breaking the law is justified. Your example was a mother trying to feed her starving children.”
“That’s right.”
“And someone defending themself against their abuser. I didn’t realize until years later that you were…”
He raises a brow. “I was, what?”
“You were… talking about yourself. Maybe subconsciously.”
“But you get it now. You see that sometimes it’s justified. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”
I smirk at him, plucking up my wine glass for another sip. “I already have, and I will again.”
“You won’t as far as Polk’s concerned. Not in the manner you’re insinuating. Thenyou’dneed an attorney.”
“I can defend myself. I’ll be my own attorney.”
“Phi.”
He speaks my name as a wolfish type of growl, and it immediately does things to my nether region. I throb in a mix of excitement and lust.
It’s just that simple between us—one look, one touch, one littlesoundcan put us in the mood.
Our sex life has been less consistent in recent weeks. First, I was working long hours, and lately it’s been Salvatore burdened by work.
As I bring my wine glass to my lips, I realize I’m not the only one fiending for it. His gaze follows, tracking how I part my lips and swallow a sip of white wine. My tongue pokes out for a brief lick of my bottom lip, and the blue-green colors in his eyes darken. I can practically read his dirty thoughts, feel the masculine, sexual energy he exudes from across the table.
I’m hot, my skin warming up. I clear my throat and seek out distraction in our meal.
But Salvatore doesn’t just sound like a wolf. He is a wolf in this moment, sniffing out his prey, picking up on my weakness. He pins me with this same wolfish stare that leaves me feeling as if I’m about to be consumed whole.
Devoured in every way.
A sense of breathlessness captures my lungs, making it harder to breathe.
I meet his gaze with defiant boldness, challenging him to do just what’s on his mind.
We know each other better than anyone. We can communicate with looks alone. The glints and flickers in our eyes as we stare across the table at each other and the atmosphere fills with the sexual tension that’s so often inevitable.
Our hunger for each other is unparalleled, matched only by how deeply we love.
Salvatore moves in a flash. He vaults out of his chair and swings an aggressive arm at the arrangement on the table. The plates, glasses, and silverware go flying, crashing to the ground with a great clang. I react by popping to my feet too, my heart instantly beating hard in my chest.
He reaches me in a single stride, gripping the side of my neck, and drawing my mouth to his. I’m barely registering what’s happening before we’re locked into a hard, passionate kiss.
But I match his energy anyway.
I fist his shirt and stroke my tongue against his. I mold my body to fit him, my soft curves and his sculpted muscles, wrapped up in each other’s arms. He hooks an arm around my waist and my feet leave the ground. I’m set down onto the table and his hand disappears under my crop top.
Because of the nature of my top, I’m not wearing a bra. Just nipple pasties.
He growls when he feels them attached to my nipples, ripping them off. I gasp into his mouth, a sudden tingle prickling my breasts. The feeling’s quickly assuaged by his massaging hands. He gropes them, his touch warm enough to make me shudder.
“Salvatore,” I breathe between our kisses. “The server.”
It’s the second time I’ve uttered the words tonight. I almost smile after I do, knowing his response.
He kisses me harder, one hand gripping my thigh, the other still playing with my breast. “Don’t care,” he answers finally. “They know to stay their ass in the kitchen unless they’re needed. The cook too.”
