Page 64 of For the Plot
“Or you’re going to get me arrested,” he barks, frustration written all over his face.
I smile. It’s sharp, unapologetic. “You started it, remember?”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to decide if I’m a challenge or a reward. Then he steps back just enough to let me out. We don’t speak as we walk down the hall, but he places his hand lightly on my lower back when the elevator doors open, guiding me in with a touch that lasts too long to be polite.
The ride is silent. Tense. He doesn’t look at me and I don’t look at him. But the air between us is thick with everything we’ve only just started to say with our bodies, our glances, the reckless things we texted mid-flight like there wouldn’t be consequences.
When the elevator doors part, the hotel driver is already waiting. Reece slides in beside me, and even though we’re not touching, I can feel him—his presence, his heat, the brush of his arm just shy of mine.
But I feel him look at me once, just a flicker, the weight of his gaze dragging down my thighs, but I don’t dare return it. Because if I do, I might lean in. I might press my hand to his knee and slide it up, just to see what kind of self-control this man really has.
We pull up to the restaurant five minutes early.
It’s a sleek, upscale spot tucked between two buildings that look too historic to be trendy. Reece steps out first and offers his hand to help me out. I take it because I want to. Because I like the way his fingers wrap around mine like they own them.
Inside, we’re led to a private dining room already filled with the low hum of conversation and the scent of filet mignon. The team is already seated—three men, two women. Reece introduces me simply as his new executive liaison, overseeing logistics and rollout strategy.
The dinner begins the way these things always do, handshakes, jokes about Boston traffic, and a round of wine poured by a server probably eager for a huge tip. I smile, listen, engage. I lean into the conversation with practiced ease, deflecting one flirty comment with a laugh and redirecting another with a smart remark about numbers.
But I can feel Reece watching me. Not constantly. Not overtly. Just… in the spaces between. When I speak, his eyes linger on my mouth a beat too long. When I cross my legs, his jaw flexes. When someone makes a joke and I laugh, he doesn’t. He just watches.
By the time dessert arrives and the final rounds of wine have been poured, the clients thank us and head out for the night. And the second the last suit clears the room, Reece leans back in his chair, lifts his scotch to his lips, and meets my gaze like he’s just decided he’s done pretending.
He’s looking at me like he’s trying to decide if he wants to be the good guy or the man who ruins me tonight. So I give him a little encouragement by reaching down and unbuttoning my blazer before easing it down my shoulders. I place it on the chair next to me, then reach for my glass, tipping the last of my wine to my lips.
“So,” I say, voice light. “Do you miss it?”
His brow lifts just a notch. “Miss what?”
“Sex.”
He smirks, then he tilts his head, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “What makes you think I’d miss it?”
There’s something dangerous in the way he says it. Insinuating. Like he wants me to picture someone else in his bed, like he wants to see how I’ll react.
I arch a brow. “That supposed to be your way of saying you haven’t gone without?”
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a slow sip of scotch. I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Fine. When’s the last time you had sex?”
That gets him. Not a flinch, not even a blink, but the way he exhales tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
He doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t answer that either. Instead, he says, “Touch. That’s what I miss.”
I sit back, watching him. “Not the act?” I press. “Not the orgasms?”
His voice stays low. Steady. “It’s not just about getting off. Of course I miss that aspect but more than that…” His words trail off for a second. “It’s about the quiet after. The way someone’s breath changes. The weight of their body, the sweat, the need they create in your body for them.”
Jesus.
My heart’s pounding, and he hasn’t even moved. Hasn’t touched me. Hasn’t said a single thing that should make me this wet. I drag my nail along the base of my wineglass. “What kind of touch do you miss the most?”
His gaze flicks to my hand, then back to my face. “The kind that lingers.”
I hum, a low, thoughtful sound. “You like it slow, then.”
“I like it deliberate.”
He’s not flirting. He’s not teasing. He’s confessing. And I want more.
