Which makes me want to ruin it.
“I can do small talk,” he says.
“I’m sure you can,” I agree, sweetly. “You can do almost anything.”
A beat of silence.
He studies me. “That sounded like a compliment.”
“It was,” I say, and let the word sit there like bait.
His eyes flick down to my lips again. He looks like he’s imagining the taste of the red gloss. He looks like he’s imagining smearing it, ruining it, taking it off with his mouth.
My body reacts on instinct, heat pooling between my legs.
I hate my body for being so stupid.
I keep my face composed and lean forward just slightly—enough that his attention drops, enough that he stops breathing for a second.
Instinctively, he leans in, and I know I have him fully wrapped around my finger if he’s mirroring me.
“Antonio,” I whisper seductively.
“Yeah?” he responds.
“Tell me about the rest of your day.” I sit back, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate care. The slit opens. I see his eyes drop, see the way he tries to stop himself and fails. His hand tightens once on the edge of the table.
Delight flashes again.
Then the hurt, because I remember his hands on me. His mouth. His voice in the dark. The way he made it feel like I was the only thing he could see.
And now I can’t stop wondering if he was seeing me at all—or if he was seeing a door he wanted to unlock.
“My day?” he asks, hoarsely.
I let my smile widen. “You said you could do small talk."
He laughs, but it’s short. Harsh.
He knows I’m pushing him.
I want him to push back.
I want him to show me the man underneath the expensive suit and the polished words, the one who knows my name, the one who left me feeling like I had been hollowed out.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he leans back, too, settling himself into the chair, a clear attempt to regain control, to shift the energy between us. “Fine,” he says, and his tone is a challenge now. “My day was… productive.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Productive.”
“Very.” He takes a sip of wine, and this time, he’s the one who makes it look deliberate, slow. A provocation. “Went home, had a shower." He gives me a wicked smile. "Would've beenbetter if you were there."
The image hits me so fast and so clear, my brain actually stumbles. Him, in the shower. Water slicking down that muscled chest. Me, stepping in behind him, pressing myself to his back. My hands sliding over wet skin.
My stomach clenches.
My breath hitches.