Page 58 of Say My Name

His hand rests on the leather seat between us, his fingers relaxed, his palm facing up. Nowhere near my leg.

My face burns.

“Semantics,” I say, lifting one shoulder in a shrug that I hope looks careless rather than caught.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The car turns onto Fulton, and the streetlights slide across his face in slow, golden stripes. Then he lifts his hand from the seat.

The movement is deliberate. Slow enough that I could stop him. Slow enough that every nerve in my body registers the heat of his palm as it settles over the silk covering my thigh. His fingers press lightly, and then—God—his fingertips slide inward, grazing the bare skin just beneath the hem of my dress.

He gives me a wicked smile and leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Now my hand is on your thigh.”

The gasp leaves me before I can catch it, sharp and audible.

My body betrays me before my mind can intervene. A shiver runs from the base of my spine to the place where his fingertips rest, and I press my lips together to keep any sound from escaping.

“I noticed,” I manage.

“Good.”

His thumb traces a slow, maddening circle against the silk. The car slows, and I realize we’ve arrived. The driver pulls to the curb outside the bar, its neon sign casting a blue glow across the back seat.

Music spills from the converted warehouse as the driver opens the door. Dominic offers me his hand, and I take it, expecting him to release me once I’m standing. He doesn’t. He leads me from the crowded sidewalk into the noise, his hand moving to my waist as we press through the bodies. The place is loud enough that he has to bend close when we reach the bar, his breath warm against my ear.

“What are you drinking?”

“Vodka soda with lime.”

He gets the bartender’s attention. “Tito’s, soda, and lime for her. Woodford for me.”

I turn toward him, the noise of the bar fading for a second. “You remembered.”

“You ordered the same thing at dinner.”

“That was weeks ago.”

He takes the glass from the bartender and hands it to me. “I know.”

Maya has claimed three tables along the back wall and decorated them with blue-and-silver balloons despite my explicit objection. Olivia, my closest friend from college, is standing on a chair while Marcus argues that the crooked birthday banner needs to be level.

“It’s a banner,” Olivia says. “Relax.”

Maya sees me and throws both arms into the air. “She came!”

“You knew I was coming.”

“Until you enter the building, every social plan remains provisional.”

Then she notices Dominic behind me.

Her grin widens. “And she brought a date.”

“He isn’t my date.”

Dominic’s hand remains at my waist, a warm, possessive weight. “Apparently.”

His voice is dry, and the word lands like a counterpoint to my denial. I can feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of my dress.

I look up at him. “Don’t help.”