Just enough that I notice the way his shoulders move under that suit jacket. Imagine my legs on those shoulders.
“Ms. Reeves?” Mr. Harrison prompts.
Get it together, Stevie.
“I was having dinner,” I start, and my voice sounds breathy. Wrong. “At Carmine’s. On Fifth Street.”
“And what did you observe?”
I look at the jury like I’m supposed to. Twelve faces ranging from interested to bored to actively hostile.
But I can feel Dario watching me. Can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“There was a man at another table.” My hands grip the edge of the witness stand. “Three tables diagonal from mine. He was eating alone.”
“Can you identify that man?”
I have to look at him now. Have to turn my head and point and say his name.
I turn.
Dario’s already looking at me. Not at his lawyer. Not at the jury. Not at anything but me.
His eyes are darker than I remembered. Or maybe it’s the courtroom lighting. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I was thinking about at 2 AM with his chocolates and my hands.
“Him,” I say, and my voice comes out husky. “Dario Marchetti.”
His jaw tightens. Just that two-millimeter shift I cataloged five weeks ago.
I’m wet enough that I’m worried about standing up later.
This is a problem.
This is a big problem.
“Let the record show the witness has identified the defendant,” Mr. Harrison says. “Ms. Reeves, what happened after the second man approached Mr. Marchetti’s table?”
I tell them.
Try to, anyway.
But Dario’s throat works when I mention the other man getting loud, and I lose focus watching the movement. Wondering how that skin would taste. Whether he’d let me bite down hard enough to bruise. Mark him. Claim him. Whether he’d growl or groan.
“Ms. Reeves?” Mr. Harrison sounds concerned.
Focus. Jesus Christ, focus.
“The man was yelling,” I continue, dragging my attention away from Dario’s throat. “Getting in his face. And then Mr. Marchetti stood up.”
That gets Dario to shift again. Crossing his arms. The fabric of his suit pulling tight across his shoulders.
I want to rip it off him with my teeth.
“And what happened when he stood up?” Mr. Harrison asks.
“He moved.” My voice sounds strange. Distant. “It was fast. Controlled. Like he’d done it a thousand times.”
Dario’s mouth curves. Like he’s remembering.
