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“The hurt is already there,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “You hurt me more than anyone could ever hurt me.” It was partially true, but I knew deep down that Lincoln could hurt me more because I loved him, too.
Foster’s expression softened with a hint of regret. “I want to make amends,” he said, his voice sincere. “Have dinner with me.”
“At your apartment? And after dinner?” I asked, staring up into his green eyes, searching for any sign of deceit.
“That’s up to you,” Foster replied, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned closer, his breath warm against my skin. “My intentions are noble, though I would love to take you to bed. The decision is entirely up to you.”
I felt my resolve weakening as he drew nearer, his lips so close to mine that I could feel the heat of his breath. We were practically kissing, the tension between us crackling like electricity. I waited, my heart racing as the space between us closed. When he finally pressed his mouth to mine, a jolt of desire shot through me, and I couldn’t suppress the reaction. My nipples hardened, and as his tongue stroked against mine, a flood of memories and sensations crashed over me.
I knew I was in trouble.
“Do you want some dessert?” Foster asked, his voice smooth as silk.
It was no surprise that he had a personal chef prepare my favorite meal—filet mignon with petite potatoes and roasted Brussels sprouts. I was starved, having barely eaten all day, and after the heated make-out session that left me disoriented, I didn’t protest when we ended up at his place. We were dining on the patio, overlooking the glittering city. I estimated his penthouse was worth at least fifteen million dollars.
The space was breathtaking, recently renovated with top-of-the-line materials. My realtor’s eye couldn’t help but survey the kitchen—a chef’s dream with all the latest appliances, including a six-burner Viking stove. The entire area was open and airy, with high ceilings and dark wood floors. The place was sparsely furnished since Foster had only recently decided to move to New York permanently.
I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious. “What kind of dessert?”
Foster’s lips curved into a wicked smile. “What kind of dessert do you want? If I remember correctly, you’re sweet as pie. Has that changed with age?”
“I’m not sure you’ll find out,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light but guarded.
“You’re not sure? Is that a definite?” he teased, his eyes darkening with mischief.
“Stop teasing me, Foster,” I warned, feeling the familiar pull of his charm.
“Erika,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I haven’t even begun to tease you.”
That was my cue to leave. “I have to go. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
I stood up, but Foster was faster, his hand catching my wrist and pulling me onto his lap. “We never discussed our status,” he purred, his breath warm against my ear.
Throughout dinner, we danced around seduction, the tension thick between us. Foster knew exactly what he was doing, but I was no longer the naïve college girl he once knew. I had stood my ground, enjoying the meal but keeping my distance.
“That’s because you spent the entire time trying to get me into bed,” I retorted, trying to keep my composure.
His arms tightened around me, his touch possessive. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, his tone more of a command than a request.
My stomach tightened with conflicting emotions. “I can’t. I have work tomorrow, and I need to be sharp.”
“When?” he pressed, his voice edged with impatience.
“Maybe never,” I replied, trying to put distance between us, even though I was sitting in his lap.
“Why are you fighting this?” Foster asked, his frustration evident. “Because I’m not sure I want it to happen. We have history, and not all of it was good.”
“There was some good—most of it was good until the end,” he argued, his voice softening as he tried to appeal to my memories.
“And that was your fault,” I shot back, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“I admit I fucked it up. You were one of the best things that ever happened to me.”
I swallowed hard, trying to push down the emotions that were threatening to surface. “Let me go. I’d like to leave.”
“I can have Vincent take you home in the limo,” he offered, his grip loosening but still firm.
“I’d rather take a cab,” I replied, determined to regain some control.
