Page 41 of Lady and the Butcher

“Noted,” he said. “And untrue.”

I should have bristled. The bigger truth was heavier than pride. He was right. Wanting like this felt like an organ I didn’t know I had suddenly waking up. It throbbed. It hurt a little. It made everything brighter. It made me dangerous to myself.

He tore a piece of the dark bread, dragged it through olive oil, and offered it across the table. I held his eyes as I took it from his fingers. Warm, salty, clean. I swallowed. His gaze dropped to my throat. That was almost enough to undo me.

“Open your knees,” he said softly.

My fork paused in the salad. Heat shot through me. I glanced at the door. It was closed. The glass was glass, but the room was ours.

I didn’t move.

He lowered his voice until it lived in my bones. “Open.”

I did. A breath at a time. Slow. Controlled. The dress allowed very little, then a little more.

His eyes darkened. “Good.”

He didn’t reach across the table. He didn’t move his chair closer. He rested his hand on the table near mine, just a few inches of clean space between us, and kept talking like he hadn’t just knotted me tighter.

He dragged one finger along the stem of his glass, not touching me at all. “You’ll finish every bite,” he said. “You’ll drink your champagne. You’ll keep your knees exactly where I told you.”

My pulse hammered in my throat. “And after?”

His eyes held mine like a hand at my jaw. “After, I stop being patient.”

14

Itried to slow my breathing and failed. The room felt too bright and too private at the same time. If I didn’t put words between us, I was going to climb into his lap. Seriously. I needed a thought to hold like a railing. Any thought.

I chose the mean ones I save for myself.You’re ridiculous. You’re easy. You’re plain. None of them landed. All I felt was the ache he had built on purpose.

And it struck me—how far I was from the world I usually lived in. No crunchy doula mantras, no herbal teas or moon circles, no babies being coaxed into the light. I hadn’t thought about any of it tonight. Not once. Every part of me that normally found safety in rituals and calendars had been burned away and replaced by this raw, unrecognizable want.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” he asked.

“For torture,” I said flatly.

“For contrast,” he said. “The city out there. The glass. The water. Me. You. Light against dark. Hunger beside restraint. You feel more when the edges are sharp.”

“You’re making dinner into a sermon.”

“I’m making dinner into the thing you asked for.”

He reached for the bread again, tore a piece, and pushed the plate across to me. His fingertips brushed the back of my hand. Nothing and everything. A spark ran up my arm like my bones were copper.

I ate because he’d told me to earlier. Because he had fed me all day when my appetite went jumpy with whatever this was. Because I needed something in my body that wasn’t nerves.

It was insane how much I wanted his knee to bump mine under the table. It was pathetic how I hated my own need. It was electric how quickly any part of me would have traded every one of my scruples for five seconds of relief.

“You’re vibrating,” he said.

“You left me on a live wire.”

“That’s the point.” He broke the bread once more. “We’re not sprinting. We’re building.”

“You sound like a contractor,” I said. “How long does the scaffolding stay up?”

“Until I say it comes down,” he said, and then, softer, “or you do.”