Page 141 of They Are Mine

Just enough to make my stomach tighten.

He lifts the spoon to his lips, takes a slow, thoughtful bite.

And I watch.

The way his tongue flicks out just slightly, the way his lips part, the way his throat works as he swallows.

Oh. Oh.

I imagine that mouth against my skin.

I imagine him pressing me against the desk in his office, cool wood beneath my palms, his fingers curling around the back of my neck as he tilts my chin up, making me look at him.

You want this?he would murmur.You want to be a good girl for me?

And I would breathe,Yes, sir.

He clears his throat.

I blink, heart skipping, breath catching.

He’s watching me.

Oh, God.

I press my fingers to my lips, feigning shyness, letting my lashes flutter just slightly.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I got lost in thought.”

His eyes gleam, sharp, knowing. “About?”

I could tell him. Tell him how I want him pinning me to the bed, so he can see how perfectly I belong beneath him.

But instead, I tilt my head and say, “You.”

Elliot’s spoon pauses. His lips twitch, his gaze skimming over me, like he’s piecing me together, bit by bit, layer by layer. Like he’s undressing me in his mind.

Oh, love, I’ve already undressed you in mine.

“And what about me,” he says, voice steady, “Has you so deep in thought?”

I let my fingers trace the rim of my wine glass, letting my eyes flick down to the Keats book beside me, playing with it, tilting it slightly.

“I suppose I was wondering what your favorite poem might be,” I say softly.

A pause.

Then, just as I planned, his gaze drops to the book.

It’s a subtle thing, but I see it.

I see the way his fingers tighten slightly around the spoon.

How his breath is just a little slower.

He noticed. He sees that I have good taste.

He hums low in his throat, setting his spoon down, lacing his fingers together. “A woman who reads Keats?” he muses.

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