Page 46 of Say My Name

“Accurate.”

“Based on what?”

He closes the distance between us. “I know how closely you pay attention to me.”

“That proves nothing.”

“I know you reacted when Marcus almost said my old nickname.”

“I froze for a second.”

“I know you’ve thought about natural conception every time it came up.”

“So have you.”

“I’ve never claimed otherwise.”

He’s close enough that I can smell whiskey beneath his cologne, but he’s focused and steady. I can blame the drinks for making him less careful. I may need that excuse if he keeps looking at me like this.

“You’re still guessing,” I say.

“No, Elena. I have no doubt I could satisfy you.”

A slow ache opens low in my belly.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I know you like control until you’re tired of carrying it. I know you want me to take it from you, but only after you decide to give it.” He takes another step. “And I’d pay attention until I learned every sound you make when you stop trying to hide what you want.”

He sees me. The realization is terrifying.

My back meets the side of my car.

He doesn’t touch me and leaves enough room for me to move. I stay where I am.

“You’re very confident for a man who can’t prove any of that,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Do you want me to prove it?”

The question hangs between us, thick as the summer humidity. I could laugh—a sharp, dismissive sound that would slice through this tension. I could list every reason this is a terrible idea: Cliff inside with my family, the sterile clinic appointment already scheduled, the eleven pages of contractual safety waiting in my filing cabinet back in Chicago. I could open my car door, the mechanism clicking like a lock engaging. I could stick to the plan.

Dominic waits. Not impatiently, not eagerly—just completely still, his eyes holding mine in the fading light.

“You’ve had a few drinks,” I say, my voice lower than I intended.

“I know exactly what I’m asking.” His words are clear, unhurried. No slur, no hesitation. Just certainty.

“So if I said yes… what then?”

“I’d kiss you right here.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Against your car door. Where your sister-in-law might see us from the upstairs window.”

My pulse jumps hard beneath my jaw. “That’s your evidence? One kiss?”

“It’s a starting point.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I’d start with this mouth,” his eyes drop down to my lips, “and work from there.”

“You still can’t prove we’re compatible.”

“Then let me try.” He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for me—just gives me time to refuse, to turn away, to be the rational one.