Page 147 of Meet Me In The Dark

She swats my side without lifting her head. “—I was just coming off a bad flare-up. By dessert, I was so bloated I could barely breathe. When I stood up, he looked me dead in the eye and asked when I was going to tell him I was pregnant.”

Her laugh vibrates against me.

I don’t laugh.

I grab her little sketchpad and a pencil from the dresser and set them on my chest next to her face. “Name and address.”

Her gaze snaps to mine. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.” I tap the pad. “While you’re at it, write the other names too. All of them.”

She swats the sketchpad off and swings a leg over, straddling my hips. There’s a smug spark in her eyes that I want to kiss off her mouth. “Are you a little jealous, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Fucking seething,” I say, hands closing over her hips. The way she shivers tells me she likes that answer.

“Oh, please. I’ve heard a thing or two about you,” she teases, rolling her hips just to be cruel. “You’ve got quite the reputation.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Not even the part about the Victoria’s Secret model?”

I groan. “We went out one time and got photographed. That’s it.” I drag my gaze up her body and let it settle on her mouth. “Besides, I prefer architects.”

“Is that right?”

“Positive.”

She tries to play queen of the mountain on my waist. Cute. I buck my hips and tip her sideways. She squeals and lands beside me, and I’m already rolling after her, hands at her sides, fingers finding the spot that makes her lose her mind.

“Julian—no—don’t—” She’s laughing so hard the words fracture. “Stop—stop—”

“Come to dinner with me,” I murmur, leaning in likeI might bite.

Her grin is pure trouble. “Counteroffer. I get dessert for dinner.”

“That isn’t a counteroffer. That’s a cry for help.”

“Chocolate lava cake,” she singsongs.

“Say you’ll come and I’ll order two.”

She plants her foot against my hip and tries to shove me. It doesn’t work. “Jesus, you big fucker.”

I arch a brow before diving back in.

“Julian, no,” she cries. “Mercy.” She melts for one second, then rallies. “Truce?”

“Temporary,” I warn, and slow my hands, smoothing instead of tickling. The laughter winds down, but it leaves color on her cheeks.

We stare at each other like idiots while the rain keeps time.

“You’re really not over the dinner thing,” she says.

“No.” I run my knuckles down the length of her thigh. “I want you at my table where everyone can see you’re with me.”

“Possessive.”

“Correct.”