Page 187 of Mario
By the time dinner is over, I am full, warm from the wine, and dangerously comfortable.
Dangerously, because this is not supposed to feel easy.
I am not supposed to like sitting across from him like this.
I am not supposed to notice how his face changes by candlelight. How the severe lines soften just enough to make him look less untouchable. How he watches me over the top of his wineglass.
But I notice it all.
After dinner, he walks around the table and holds out his hand.
I do not hesitate.
The second my fingers slide into his, the air between us crackles.
That easily.
That quickly.
He pulls me to my feet, not roughly, not gently. Just with that certainty that makes my body react before my brain can interfere.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
His hand is still holding mine.
His thumb moves once over my knuckles.
My pulse stumbles.
“This was very civilized,” I add, suddenly feeling awkward and wishing those words had never come out of my mouth.
His eyes lift to mine. “Was it?”
“Mostly.”
His mouth curves.
Then he kisses me.
Not like in his office.
Not like he is trying to ruin me immediately.
This kiss is slower. Deeper. A thorough takeover that starts at my mouth and spreads through every part of me until my hand is gripping his shirt and my body is leaning into his without permission.
His arm goes around my waist.
I melt.
There is no other word for it.
I melt against him as if my bones have completely dissolved.
The kiss turns hotter.
His tongue slides against mine, and I make a small sound into his mouth that makes his grip tighten.
