I lean back with a slow, controlled breath out, as steady as I can make it with Knox's face still close enough to count every fleck of gold in those amber eyes.
He doesn't want you. He doesn't want Vivienne. This is about control, about ownership, about whatever strange power dynamic this marriage runs on. Don't read into it. Don't you dare.
The pep talk works, at least a little.
I meet his gaze.
"Why?"
The word comes out three octaves too high and not the cool, collected woman-in-charge-of-her-own-destiny delivery I rehearsed in my head. More like a mouse who just discovered the trap has cheese and a spring-loaded bar.
It would be easy to wallow in my own self-deprecation, but I'm forced to remember I arrived into this body mere hours before and it's already been a long, long day.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and I wonder why such a minor, everyday action could be even remotely sexy.
And yet it is.
So unfair.
Knox straightens, but doesn't step back. Instead, his hand drops from the back of my skull, and a single finger traces down the side of my neck.
Just one finger. Feather-light. From just below my ear to the hollow of my throat.
Every nerve ending in my body detonates, damn it.
The shiver rolling through my body is involuntary and I grip the edges of my seat to keep from making a whimper, biting it back with vicious levels of willpower. Even so, my breath hitches, and I know he can hear it.
Unfair, part two.
His finger pauses at the base of my throat, right where my pulse flutters beneath my skin. "Have I not been giving you enough attention?"
The question lands flat, more interrogation than seduction, and gives me a little breathing room.
See? He doesn't want me. He wants control.
Suddenly I'm glad I didn't let my baser urges take over. I've read enough cheesy romance novels to understand the point behind his question: Knox thinks I'm throwing a tantrum to get his attention.
"I'm serious. I want—"
His thumb presses against my mouth, firm enough for my lips to compress under the pad of it. He drags down, just barely, pulling my lower lip with pressure until my mouth parts.
"This mouth." His voice drops low, thrumming through my ears and into my bloodstream. "It's always this mouth that gets you into trouble."
I can't breathe. I can't think. His thumb sits heavy against my lips, and the warmth of his hand radiates across my chin and down past my belly button somehow. My brain wavers between push him away and bite down, but before I can summon the courage to do either, his phone buzzes.
Knox doesn't even blink, his thumb staying exactly where it is, pressed against my mouth as his other hand reaches into his pocket and brings the phone to his ear.
"Marshall." Clipped and cold, like he's answering from behind a desk instead of standing over his wife with his thumb between her lips.
Whoever is on the other end speaks. I can't make out the words, but the urgent cadence is clear enough.
Still, Knox's eyes never leave my mouth.
His thumb shoves forward until the tip of it rests against my teeth. The pressure is an invitation. Maybe a dare.
I must be stupid, because I take it, opening my mouth voluntarily.
The pad of his thumb slides against my tongue, heavy and salt-warm, and my mouth closes around it on pure instinct. His eyes go dark, amber thinning to a ring of dark gold surrounding pure black, as my tongue slides against his skin, salty and warm.
I suck. Gently. Just once, not even sure if I'm teasing or being teased.
His nostrils flare.
The voice on the phone keeps talking. Knox keeps listening with a flat expression, dragging his thumb slow against the sensitive inner flesh of my lower lip on the way out, then pressing back in.
I'm going to die. Not from the plot, not from Knox's eventual betrayal of our marriage vows, but from this. Right here. In a private dining room with wine-stained linen and candlelight, because every pulse point in my body has migrated south and I am throbbing.
Aching so hard I squeeze my thighs close together and the friction makes it all worse.
His thumb pushes deeper and I hollow my cheeks around it and his eyes go so dark they're almost black and—
"Understood."
He hangs up.
The phone disappears into his pocket. For a long, suspended moment, he doesn't move. His thumb sits in my mouth, slick and warm, and I swear I can feel his pulse through it, fast against my tongue.
Then he slides it free. The drag of it against my lower lip leaves a trail of wet the air cools instantly, and my throbbing ache is destined to be left untouched.
"Emergency case just came in." At least his voice sounds hoarse, showing he isn't as unaffected as his face may claim.
I stare at him in confusion, before realizing—right. Work. He took the day off, but work called anyway. Obviously, it's important.
Through the sexual haze he's draped over me, I realize this is a good thing. Distance is good. Sex would be better—no, it would be worse. Much worse. Right. No sex with the male protagonist of this romance novel. Hands off, Viv.
His hand drops to the side of my neck again. That same feather-light touch, tracing the column of my throat with one finger, and the shiver that tears through me is so violent my teeth click together.
My hands, for the record, are still gripping my seat like it's my lifeline. Clearly, it's Knox who needs to learn to keep his hands to himself.
Then the ambiguous mood dissipates as he grabs my hand and yanks me out of the chair, heading out the door without looking back. "I'll have someone pick you up at the station."
I stumble behind him like a kite caught in a windstorm, barely remembering to hook a finger through the strap of my purse as he drags me out of the private room without warning.
The hostess says something but I'm not even sure what's happening, following behind in a daze and trying not to trip over my own feet. Knox's grip on my wrist is iron, his pace relentless, and then we're outside and in his car and on the way before my sex-addled brain realizes what's happening.
Wait. Why am I in this car? Why is he taking me to the station? For that matter, what station?
Knox takes a sharp left and accelerates through a yellow light, one hand on the wheel, oblivious to my presence in his passenger seat.
I could have taken a taxi. I could have called a car. I could have walked, for all it mattered—the man has an emergency, and instead of leaving me at the restaurant like any rational person, he's burning through intersections with my wrist still warm from his grip.
I press my fingers to my lips where his thumb was.
They're still tingling.
Knox hates Vivienne… doesn't he?