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His mouth curves into a smile that promises way more than I’d ever dare ask for. “Making you come is all the reason I need.”
I turn away from him, trying to hide the heat crawling up my neck. The table of women next to us don’t even seem to notice I’m looking at them. They’re ignoring me in favor of keeping their eyes pinned on my husband.
“If the sex is blurring the lines for you, we can stop,” he adds as an afterthought, as though giving it up would cost him nothing.
With my luck, that just might be the truth. I see his offer for the trap it is. If I tell him I want to stop, I’m admitting something to him I can’t even admit to myself yet.
But if we don’t stop, this hole I’m stuck in is only going to get deeper.
“I’m fine. Nothing is blurred.”
He strokes a finger along my jaw, turning my face back to his. His eyes reflect the candle flickering in the middle of our table. “Are you sure? I don’t want to confuse you. If you’re starting to feel?—”
“I’m not starting to feel anything,” I interrupt. “I’m just annoyed that you hijacked my P.T. appointment. And I’m frustrated that I can’t be transparent with my mother. And I’m—” I glance over at the women still ogling Arsen, and the next words are tossed rather loudly at them. “—pissed off that people can’t seem to concentrate on their own tables!”
Finally experiencing something bordering on shame, the women look away, tittering about being caught.
I massage my fingers into my temples, trying to clear my head, even though there hasn’t been a single clear thought up there since the moment I walked into Arsen Adamov’s office eight months ago.
“Why does this place have such shitty chairs?” I mutter. “My back hurts.”
Suddenly, his knees are intertwined with mine under the table. Arsen drags my chair closer and leans me against his chest, hugging me like we aren’t in the middle of this restaurant. Heworks firm, soothing circles along the aching muscles of my lower back, and I moan. “What are you doing?”
“You’re eight months pregnant,” he says, as if I need reminding. “I’m taking care of you.”
It feels so good that, for the first time since we arrived at the restaurant, I don’t care who is watching.
I rest my head against his shoulder, getting a glimpse down the slightly open collar of his shirt. Tattoos slip over his skin, mingling with the scars.
I just revealed far too much about what’s going on in my head, which might be why I whisper, “You’ve never told me how you got your scars.”
Arsen’s hands freeze on my lower back, but before he can say anything, another voice cuts through the moment.
“Laila?”
I glance up, remembering all at once that we aren’t here alone, and find a man half-smiling at me over Arsen’s shoulder.
“Oh my God—Kevin?”
The last time I saw my old neighbor, he was scrawny with dyed-black bangs and an eyebrow piercing. He looks better now—healthier, with broad shoulders and a neatly pressed pinstripe shirt.
I jump up for a hug, but Kevin recoils back like I’m wielding a machete. “You’re pregnant!”
I laugh and pat my stomach. “A little bit.”
He keeps a safe amount of distance between us as he pulls me into a stiff side hug. I return it happily, flashing back to twelve years ago when we used to ride our bikes down to Lennox Street to buy ice pops every summer.
The loud and very distinct clearing of a throat has us springing apart. Kevin notices Arsen for the first time. “Hey there.”
Arsen doesn’t so much as crack a smile as his cold gaze slides back to me. “You should sit, Laila. I don’t want you on your feet for too long.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kevin apologizes. “You should definitely sit. Don’t stand on my account.”
I fix Arsen with a warning glare before turning it into a smile for Kevin. “Not at all. I’m happy to stand for you.”
I think I hear Arsen actually growl behind me, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“You should pull up a chair, Kev. It’s been too long.”
