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“Jude,” I say quietly, taking a breath of confidence. “And the possessiveness?”
He pouts, giving me a boyish grin. “It’s new to me.”
New to him? Interesting. “What about the anger?”
This time, I definitely know it’s a flinch, which tells me anger is an issue for him. He has a temper. My only reassurance right now is that he’s aware of it.
“I can work on that,” he says, putting his hand on the table, palm up. If I give him my hand, I’ll be accepting him. Giving him my patience and understanding. Is he angry about his parents’ deaths? About how he naturally reacts to me?
It’s rare, in my experience, that people recognise their own faults, so I truly appreciate his admission and sincerity. He doesn’t want to be angry.
“Who was that guy?” I ask, giving him my hand. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles before setting it gently back on the table.
“The one I found you eating alive in the steam room?” My fork hits the plate, my lips straight, and Jude peeks at me with only mildwariness. “Jenson,” he says. “A PT from the gym. I think I need to call him and apologise.”
That’s comforting too. He’s got self-awareness. Owns his mistakes. “And maybe offer him his job back,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about getting a PT for a while.”
“Stop it, Amelia.” Jude smiles down at his champagne. “If a man has something he wants, shouldn’t he guard it with his life?”
“Only if the other person wants to be wanted.”
“Do you want me to want you?”
My silence speaks volumes, but he wants more.
“Well?” Turning toward me, he leans forward, his elbow on the table. “Tell me, Amelia.” His spare hand slides up my dress again. “Do you want me to want you?” I go stiff in my seat as his finger slips past my knickers and reacquaints itself with the slickness. “I’d say you do,” he whispers, pushing deep and high, his moist lips parting as he watches me swallow and tremble. “I think we’re done debating this.” He pulls out of me and returns his body forward, sucking his finger and taking more champagne.
I shake my head in wonder, my attention caught by that woman, Katherine, again. She quickly looks away when our eyes meet. It’s beginning to get awkward. Everyone else seems to have lost interest, the novelty of Jude Harrison dining with a woman wearing off, but not for her.
“That woman,” I say, discreetly indicating with my glass. “With the blond guy.”
Jude doesn’t look, just hums.
“Who is she?”
“Nobody.”
My eyebrows raise in surprise at his quick, definitive answer. “You don’t even know who I’m pointing to.”
His jaw pulses a little, and he makes a meal of showing the inconvenience I’m causing him, turning slowly in his chair to look behind him. Then he turns back. “That’s Katherine Jenkins and herhusband, Rob. They’re members of the golf club and health club and often dine and drink in one of the bars or restaurants here.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.
“And on that note.” Jude stands, and my gaze rises with him. He pulls the champagne out of the bucket and rests it on the table, letting the cloth soak up the melted ice on the bottom of the bottle. His eyes smoke, the green shining through, and my insides burst into flames. “I believe your pussy has a date with my cock.”
I stare up at his tall body looming over me, not as shocked as I should be.
Here he is. Jude Harrison.
Dragging the champagne across the tablecloth, he blinks lazily, his eyes making a thousand promises, before he turns and walks away. My stare is nailed to his back as he goes, his gait smooth, his strides long, the champagne swinging by his thigh.
“Fuck,” I whisper. This is about to go to another level. I gaze across the table, at our unfinished meals, my head and my heart at war.
Help.
I call the girls.
“How’s it going?” Abbie is first in, as always.