Page 127 of For the Plot

Her glare is full of heat. “You’re mean.”

“You love it.”

I raise my glass and clink it gently against hers.

“To us.”

“To depravity,” she replies.

“Same thing.”

We sip and set the glasses down. Then I pull a small frame from my coat and slide it across the table.

She furrows her brow as she picks it up. Inside is her old résumé. The one she emailed me when she applied to be my assistant. Across the top, scribbled in black ink in my handwriting, it says:

Most overqualified woman I’ve ever hired.

Also the only one I ever begged to stay.

Now my wife, my muse, and the reason I believe in second chances.

Her lips part.Her eyes dart to mine. And she launches herself across the table into my lap.

“This is stupid,” she whispers, burying her face in my neck. “This is so stupid and sweet and gross and I fucking love you.”

I chuckle against her hair. “I should’ve had it engraved.”

“Next year,” she mutters.

She pulls back enough to look at me, her legs still straddling mine, her body warm and pressed against my chest.

“You know what I remember most from that night?”

I shake my head.

“You watched me. But not like the other guys in that bar. You looked at me like you wanted to take me apart. Like you already knew what was under the armor.”

“I did,” I say softly. “I still do.”

She shifts on my lap, slow and purposeful, grinding against the bulge she’s definitely noticed. I grip her hips and she smirks.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.

“Why?” she purrs. “Afraid I’ll make you come in your dress pants?”

I growl low in my throat and tighten my grip. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Exactly,” she murmurs, her pussy grinding down hard against my cock. “You know you can’t say no to me.”

“Not here.”

“Then take me somewhere else.”

She leans in, lips brushing my jaw. “You’ve got five years of anniversary sex to give me, baby. You really going to waste time drinking wine?”

I glance at the flickering candle. The empty booth. The low jazz. And then back to her. No panties. No shame. No hesitation.

“Come on,” I say, standing with her in my arms.