“Only shiny ones.” I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass.
It lands. He shifts in his seat again, one hand moving to adjust the collar of his shirt like it’s suddenly too tight. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers.
“What does the wallpaper look like?” he asks, but I can tell it’s half-hearted. He’s trying to keep us on track.
He’s failing.
“It’s black and cream floral toile and there are hidden messages in it that only I can see when I’m looking at it, like, not today Satan. It’s amazing.”
That earns a low laugh from his throat, but it dies fast—because now I’m dragging my finger around the rim of my glass and his eyes lock on it like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
“Do you miss living with me?” I ask, too casually.
His smile disappears. “Of course.”
My stomach flips. I didn’t expect him to admit it so fast. So readily.
“Doyou?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, my voice quieter now. “More than I want to admit to myself.”
Turner exhales slowly, his gaze softening for a second, and I forget we’re playing a game…
Almost.
His eyes drop back to my mouth. Then lower. Then all the way back up like he’s trying to stay above water, but I’ve already dragged him under.
“I miss you,” he says. “In my space. In my bed. The way you smell. The way you hum when you’re looking through the kitchen cabinets.”
I hum when I’m looking through the kitchen cabinets?
I did not know that.
I press my lips together, because I am not about to cry in a rooftop bar while wearing no underwear and flirting like I’m trying to get arrested.
I lean forward and say, “I miss how you smell after you shower.”
Warm skin. Clean soap. That faint hint of spice clinging to his wet collarbone. It always did me in. That scent used to cling tome,too, those nights we’d have sex and sleep together. To hissheets. My pillow. My skinhoursafter he’d touched me. Even now, just remembering it makes my thighs press together under the table.
His knee starts bouncing again, his body is begging for permission his brain won’t grant yet.
His fingers tighten around the glass.
I watch as his Adam’s apple bops up and down when he swallows.
“Do I really hum in the kitchen?” I set my hand on the tabletop, thrumming my fingers in a gentle rhythm.
“You hum when you’re focused,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “When you’re digging through the pantry looking for snacks. Or scrolling through takeout menus.” Turner smiles. “When you stand at the sink, waiting for the water to heat up.”
My heart aches. My body aches.
“I miss touching you,” he murmurs.
The air shifts as I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh? In what ways?”
I’m playing with fire and love how he responds.
“Take your pick.” His gaze flicks down to my legs. Lingers. “I remember the sound you made when I pushed your legs apart and tasted your pussy for the first time.” His grin is lazy. Positively evil. “I bet you’d still sigh when I kiss you. I bet you’d still gasp when I slide my hand between your thighs and find you wet.”
