He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his severe features, that made him look younger, more human. "Indeed."
We finished dessert in a silence charged with unspoken words, with desire neither of us was willing to acknowledge directly. When the plates were cleared, Rafe stood, offering his hand to help me from my chair.
"Would you like a nightcap?" he asked, his voice perfectly steady despite the heat I could feel radiating from him as I stood close—deliberately close—beside him.
"I would," I said, not moving away, testing how long he would allow me to remain in his personal space without reacting.
He led me to a small sitting area near the fireplace, where two armchairs faced each other across a low table. Not the seating arrangement I would have chosen for my purposes—I'd been hoping for a sofa, for the opportunity to sit beside him, to continue my campaign of subtle provocation.
Clever man. Always one step ahead.
He poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter, handing one to me before taking the seat acrossfrom mine. The distance between us was both a relief and a frustration—giving me space to breathe, to think, but also denying me the proximity I needed to continue my assault on his control.
"To honesty," he said, raising his glass in a toast that echoed our exchange from the previous night.
"To honesty," I echoed, taking a sip of what turned out to be excellent brandy.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room, creating an atmosphere of intimacy despite the formal setting. I crossed my legs, allowing my dress to ride up slightly, revealing a few more inches of thigh than strictly necessary.
Rafe's eyes flickered to the movement, then back to my face, his expression unchanged—but his gaze lingered just a second too long.
"You seem restless tonight."
"Do I?" I took another sip of brandy, letting it warm me from the inside. "I suppose I am, in a way. Curious. Experimental. Seeing what happens when I push certain buttons."
"And what have you learned from your experiments so far?" he asked, his tone conversational despite the underlying tension.
I considered the question, tilting my head slightly. "That you have remarkable self-control. That you're aware of my attempts to provoke you but choose not to respond overtly. That you're... enjoying the game as much as I am."
His lips curved in a slight smile. "Perceptive, as always."
"But incomplete?" I guessed, echoing his words from our previous encounter.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "You're missing a key piece of the puzzle."
"Which is?"
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "That control isn't aboutdenial. It's about timing. About knowing when to hold back and when to... indulge."
The way he said "indulge"—low, rough, laden with promise—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
"And what determines that timing?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Many factors," he replied, sitting back in his chair, the movement casual yet somehow predatory. "The situation. The stakes. The... readiness of all involved."
The implication hung in the air between us, charged with possibilities I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
"And am I ready?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
His smile was slow, knowing. "No. Not yet."
The certainty in his voice was both infuriating and thrilling—a challenge and a promise wrapped in three simple words.
"That's presumptuous," I said, fighting to maintain my composure despite the heat building inside me. "You can't know what I'm ready for."
"Can't I?" he asked softly. "You're playing a game, Grace. Testing boundaries, pushing buttons, seeing what reactions you can provoke. It's strategic, calculated—a way to gain some sense of control in a situation where you feel you have none."
His assessment was uncomfortably accurate, stripping away my pretenses with surgical precision.
