Page 54 of Stroke of Fate

“Do you think it hinders your performance?” I volley back.

“No. With a proper warm-up routine and stretches, it’s manageable.”

“What stretches?”

“It’s my turn.” He leans his forearms on the table, bringing his face closer to mine. His voice drops so that only I can hear his words. “Did you touch yourself after I left on Saturday?”

I feel the color drain from my face, but blood immediately rushes back, coating my cheeks.

Our eyes lock. Mischief dances in his, and I don’t know what he sees in mine, but I can imagine it’s a mixture of terror and desire. My body remembers precisely how I touched myself. And how I imagined it was his fingers and not mine. And now I’m thinking about how much better his fingers would’ve been at helping me climax.

The space between us snaps and crackles with heat, and I resist the urge to squirm in my seat.

My hand curls around my water glass, hoping the condensation dripping down the sides will cool my blazing skin.

He waits and watches, expecting me to answer, or maybe he doesn’t because even saying nothing feels like an admission of guilt.

I shake my head, keeping my eyes trained on the white linen tablecloth.

“No, you didn’t? Or no, you won’t answer?”

“I don’t want to answer,” I whisper.

“We had a deal, remember?”

“I- yes, I did,” I admit, peeking at him.

Levi’s lips twitch before stretching into a full-blown triumphant smirk.

I just played right into his hands.

Any attempt at pretending I’m not ridiculously attracted to him has been blown to smithereens.

The server chooses that moment to stop by and collect our empty plates, unaware of what he’s walked into.

“Any room for dessert?” He asks cheerfully.

“I’m stuffed. What about you, Bear?” The question drips with an innocence that wasn’t there moments ago, and I can’t even look at him.

It takes everything in me to form a coherent sentence, but somehow, I mumble a “No, thank you” without bursting into flames.

“I think we’ll take the check, thank you,” Levi says, the intensity of his stare never wavering.

By the time our server returns, I’ve composed myself enough to argue with him about who has to pay.

Another battle I lose.

***

The walk back to the apartment feels strained. I’m so turned on that I can barely think straight. My confession at the dinner table and spending hours in Levi’s company has left an ache between my legs that’s become impossible to ignore.

I try to listen and be an active participant in the conversation, but all I can think about is Levi shirtless, him running his hands down my body, him touching any part of me.

By the time we’re outside my door, I can hardly hold myself together.

“Tonight was very helpful. Thanks again for paying.” The words rush out of me.

The sooner he leaves, the sooner I can deal with this problem alone.

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