Page 64 of Midnight Enemy

“Dive in,” Orson says, and he dips his spoon into his side of the dish, then has a mouthful.

I do the same, close my lips around the spoon, and taste the dessert. My eyelids flutter shut. Oh my God, it’s amazing—rich, creamy, and sweet, with the taste of coffee and, I think, a touch of brandy.

“Damn,” Orson says.

I open my eyes to see him watching me, his brows drawing together. I lick my lips and swallow. “What?”

“It’s backfiring on me,” he mumbles, helping himself to another spoonful.

I blink at him. Then, slowly, I dip my spoon in and eat another mouthful, keeping my eyes on him as I eat the creamy mixture, then turn the spoon over and suck it clean.

He gives a short laugh, and I chuckle too.

“Minx,” he says, his eyelids dropping to half-mast.

I have another spoonful, my heart racing. I’ve never felt that I’ve had power over a guy like this before. All the guys my age in the commune are like kids compared to him. He’s so… capable, and confident, and in control. I’ve never met anyone like him. He fascinates me.

“You were about to tell me what you do in your spare time,” I say. “I know you like motorbikes.”

“Not for a while,” he says ruefully.

“No, of course not, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s okay. I shouldn’t really be tearing around the city at my age anyway.”

“You’re only twenty-seven,” I say, amused. “You’re hardly drawing your pension.”

“I’m a respectable businessman.”

“That sounds like your father talking.”

He just gives a wry smile, so I know I’m right.

“So come on,” I tease, having another spoonful of Tiramisu, “you must do something other than business from time to time.”

“I’m at the club past midnight several nights a week.”

“Socializing?”

“Networking mainly. And I meet with the other members of the Midnight Circle to talk business.”

“And when you’re not at the club?”

“I work out at the gym. Read a bit. Play PS5 games. Watch TV. The usual.”

“Nothing creative?”

“I’m a left brain kinda guy.” He smiles. “You look puzzled.”

“I can’t imagine not being creative. Barely a day goes by when I’m not making something. Music, art, stories.”

“Love?” His eyes crinkle at the edges.

“You know the answer to that,” I tell him wryly, having a sip of my champagne.

He finishes his half of the Tiramisu and pushes the dish toward me. I have the last few spoonfuls, then lean back with a sigh. “That was delicious.”

“The best in the city.”

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