I smile, soft, sweet. “A woman who enjoys poetry.”
“Mm.” His fingers tap slowly against the linen of his napkin, like he’s considering me, deciding what to do with me.
I hope he takes his time.
I want him to think about it.
Because when he finally makes his move?
I want it to wreck him.
“I like ‘To Autumn,’” he says finally.
Of course.
He would pick the one about control, about endings, about knowing when to let go.
I bet he thinks he’s so disciplined.
I imagine him sitting at his desk, rolling up his sleeves, the top button of his crisp white dress shirt undone, flipping through a book, dismissing every woman in his life because none of them were worth his time.
Oh, Elliot.
I will be worth your time.
“That’s a good one,” I say softly. “Though I always liked ‘Bright Star.’”
His head tilts slightly, considering. “Eternal love?”
A small, slow smile curves my lips. “Something that never fades,” I murmur.
And for a brief moment, just a flicker, I see it.
A shift in his eyes.
A pause.
A hesitation.
Like he’s not used to being studied.
Like he’s not used to someone being just as deliberate as him.
And I want to purr.
He lifts his spoon again, takes another slow bite.
I wonder what his tongue would feel like against my nipple.
If he’d be methodical about it, teasing me until I begged.
Or if he’d snap, pressing me into the mattress, pushing my thighs apart, ruining me with slow, deep strokes.
Heat pools low in my belly.
I tilt my head slightly, watching as he chews, swallows, licks his lips.
I bite back a whimper.
