Page 31 of Impulse Control
Her lips parted, a laugh threatening to escape, but it softened into something warmer, something that let me see herexcitement just beneath the careful exterior. That tiny spark—her willingness to just… follow me—was everything.
She shook her head, mock-defiant, but the amusement in her eyes betrayed her. “You make it very hard to say no.”
“Good,” I said, grinning. “Because I like it when you don’t.”
Her gaze flicked down at the menu, then back to me, indecision and curiosity warring across her face. And in that moment, I got it. She’d take the box, she’d come with me, and we’d both get a little more of what we came to Paris for.
I raised my glass slightly, just enough to catch her attention. “Come on, Rachel. Let’s live a little.”
She finally smiled, that slow, rare yet utterly sinful smile that made me forget everything else in the room, and I knew I’d won the round. But the war? Oh, that was far from over.
Chapter
Seven
RACHEL
The street outside the restaurant glowed softly, lamplight pooling over cobblestones still warm from the day. Voices drifted from cafés, laughter threaded with music, the air scented with wine and summer and something indulgent I couldn’t quite name. Dominic stepped beside me like he belonged there—like he belonged with me—and I hated how easily the city seemed to agree.
He took the dessert box from the waiter with a satisfied nod, then glanced at me, eyes bright. “Shall we?”
I nodded, telling myself it was just a walk. Just Paris. Just dinner stretched a little longer than planned.
We fell into step easily, too easily. His shoulder brushed mine now and then, not accidental enough to be innocent, not deliberate enough to call out. The contact sent little sparks up my arm, my spine, places I had no business thinking about.
“This part of the city suits you,” he said after a moment, voice casual, observant. “You look… alive.”
I snorted softly. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone who’s trying very hard not to make reckless choices.”
He glanced over at me, grin slow and knowing. “You say that like reckless is a bad thing.”
“It is,” I said. “For me.”
“For you,” he echoed. “Or for the version of you you’re trying to protect?”
I shot him a look. “Do you ever stop reading people like they’re on the stand?”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Occupational hazard.”
We walked in companionable silence for a block, the rhythm of our footsteps syncing despite myself. I told myself to focus on the city—the glow of shop windows, the sound of a violin somewhere nearby, the way Paris seemed to hum after dark. But my attention kept drifting back to him. To the way he carried himself. To how present he was, how tuned in.
Dangerous.
“This is a bad idea,” I said suddenly, more to the night than to him.
Dominic didn’t stop walking. “Funny,” he said. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am,” I insisted. “Very.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s wondering why she’s been resisting at all.”
That made my pulse jump. I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again, because the truth hovered too close to the surface. I had been wondering. A lot. Wondering if all my rules were just fear dressed up as discipline. Wondering if distance really meant strength.
We stopped at a crosswalk, red light holding us in place. Dominic turned toward me fully then, close enough that I could smell his cologne—clean, subtle, unmistakably him.
“I’m not trying to derail you,” he said quietly. No teasing this time. Just honesty. “I see what you’re building here. I admire it. I just… don’t believe living has to mean doing it alone.”
I looked away, throat tight. The light changed, and we crossed, his hand hovering near my back without quite touching. The restraint was somehow worse than contact.
