Page 56 of That Moment
I realize what I said was too late. “That’s not— I meant hypothetically.”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, gaze steady and dark. “Darlin, there’s no need for big words. If you want me to fuck you again, I’ll fuck you again.”
I roll my eyes, attempting to sound unaffected, but it comes out breathless. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah, and for some reason, you seem to like me that way.”
“So, are you always this attentive afterward? Attending to your flavor of the month’s muscle soreness afterward?” I try to sip my wine again, but my hand shakes enough that I set it down instead. Ugh, I sound pathetic again, mentioning other women, but the jealousy keeps wanting to rear its ugly head, and I let it.
He smirks. “Only the ones who make me forget how to breathe.”
I kick at him under the table, more to cover the flutter in my stomach than to argue. He catches my ankle before I can pull back, palm warm around it.
“Hey,” I warn, trying to sound stern.
“Hey, what?” His thumb drags slow, lazy circles along the inside of my ankle, and my voice forgets how to work.
“That’s cheating.”
He grins. “All’s fair when you’re tryin’ to distract a woman who’s clearly thinking about something else.”
I scoff. “I’m not thinking about anything.”
“Liar.” His tone softens. “You’ve had that look since we sat down.”
Before I can stop myself, the question tumbles out. “Where were you last night?”
His thumb pauses mid-circle. The night air seems to still with it. I blink, realizing what I just said, and rush to fix it. “Forget I said that.”
He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. His smirk spreads lazily. “Why? You jealous?”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I was just curious.”
“Curious.” He draws the word out, his thumb tracing higher over my skin in a deliberate motion. “About what, exactly?”
“Nothing. I—” I swallow. “You weren’t home.”
He leans back in his chair, still holding my foot. “Wasn’t I?”
I glare, but it’s weak at best. “Apparently not.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough, vibrating through the night air like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “You got yourself worked up over that?”
“I did not.”
“You did.” He takes a sip of wine, eyes never leaving mine. “Relax, sweetheart. I was at The Place. Had a beer with Ranger.”
“Oh.” The single syllable comes out smaller than I meant it to.
“Oh?” His brow lifts. “Why, were you followin’ me?”
My jaw drops. “What? No!”
He laughs, and while I’m embarrassed, I’m also fully relieved that he isn’t freaking out over it. And at the fact that he wasn’t on a date or at someone else’s house.
“You sure about that?”
“I just—” I stop, because the truth sounds worse. “I stopped by your house. Once.”
