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When we return to the table, I settle back into my seat, and my hand instinctively finds her thigh again. This time, I let it slide higher. High enough to feel the warmth radiating from her.

Her body stiffens as my fingers trace slow, deliberate circles on her skin, hovering dangerously close to the spot between her legs. She shifts slightly, as if torn between stopping me and giving in, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her breathing grows shallow, and each rise and fall of her chest becomes more pronounced. Her hand grips the table's edge so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

I lean in closer, my lip brushing the shell of hear ear as my fingers ghost over the thin fabric of her panties. I trace a line, teasing her. She presses her lips together, struggling to stay composed.

“You’re letting me,” I murmur, my voice low and edged with challenge.

She doesn’t respond—not with words. But her body tells me everything I need to know.

She’s letting me. She wants it.

My thoughts spiral, untamed and dark, consumed with everything I’ll do to her if shekeepslettingme.

11

ARIA

I still hate Nicolas—a.k.a,my husband. I hate his guts. I hate the cruel things I’ve heard about him and the brutal words he’s said to me. I hate the way he acts like he’s the boss of the whole world, and I hate that he’s a selfish jerk who cares about no one but himself.

But… I don’t hate his touch.

I should’ve known Nicolas had an ulterior motive for sending me a dress with such a high slit. But even knowing that, I don’t hate it. I don’t hate the feel of his hands on me. Even though he’s touching my legs, I feel it everywhere. His touch is electrifying, and without a doubt, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.

At first, it felt like a game—his hand beneath the table, a silent challenge. But now, as his fingers move higher, my thoughts scatter. The entire room fades away. The clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices—it all blurs into the background.

I don’t want him to stop.

When his finger grazes the fabric of my panties, I fight the urge to close my eyes and tilt my head back. He runs it along the seam again, his grip tightening on my thigh. I can feel him watching me, and I know he’s fully aware of the havoc he’s wreaking on my body.

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

I bite my lip, trying to stay composed. But then he leans even closer, his finger brushing against the seam again, and I almost moan.

What the fuck.

He grins. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his tone teasing.

I can’t answer. I want to, but the words don’t come. My body betrays me, leaning into his touch. My thoughts swirl with things I shouldn’t be thinking.

Nicolas has long fingers. If he slid one inside me, how deep would it go? If I feel like this just from his touch now, how good would it feel when?—

Before I can even finish the thought, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Marco just walked in.

I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight. I won’t deny the relief I felt when I didn’t see him earlier; a small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t show up. But there he is, striding into the restaurant with his shoulders high and chin squared.

I noticed on the day of the wedding—the wedding heforcedme into—that he started holding his shoulders a little higher. He already walked and acted like he owned the world before. Now, the arrogance has tripled.

He’s wearing a peach suit so loud you can spot it from miles away, and he doesn’t bother acknowledging the people greeting him as he makes his way across the room.

I think I stare at him for too long, because suddenly, his head turns. The second his eyes lock on mine, he winks, and that smug grin spreads even wider across his face.

The second I see that smile, the spell I was just under shatters.

I shift my legs away from Nicolas’s hand, and the sudden loss of his warmth feels colder than I expected. I glance at him; his jaw is tight, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. But he doesn’t say anything.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I mutter, pushing my chair back. When I stand up, my knees are weak, and I have to grip the table for support for a few seconds.