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My brows knit together. “What are you doing?”

He turns his head slowly, gaze locking onto mine. “When someone professes their feelings to you, you’re supposed to let them know how you feel too.”

I take a slow sip of my wine, pretending to be unbothered. “Nope. Not all the time.” I shrug lightly. “Besides, you said it when I was sleeping. If I hadn’t asked, I would have thought I imagined it.”

His hand comes up, thumb and forefinger gently taking hold of my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Rosie,” he says, voice low.

“Yes?”

Before he can continue, the waiter appears again. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Andrei doesn’t even look away from me. “No. And don’t come back unless we send for you.”

His tone has her scurrying off.

“That was rude.”

He ignores me. Instead, I feel his hand move, sliding down, disappearing beneath the table. His fingers settle on my knee, and then begin to travel upward under the hem of my knee-length dress.

I gasp softly. “Andrei, what are you doing?”

“Eat your food,” he says calmly.

I try. I really do. I lift my fork again, but it’s impossible to focus when his hand continues its slow, dangerous exploration, brushing over the thin fabric of my panties, sending sparks racing through my body.

My breath catches.

His fingers linger, teasing, tracing just enough to make my pulse race and my skin heat. I shift slightly in my seat, gripping my fork tighter, trying to keep my composure.

“Here?” I whisper, glancing around quickly.

The restaurant carries on as usual, people laughing, talking, enjoying their meals. No one is paying us attention.

Andrei leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Don’t make a sound,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll have to kill every man in this room for hearing my wife come.”

There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, and I know he means it. I bite down on my lower lip, fighting the wave of sensation building inside me as he slips two fingers inside me, and starts fucking me with them, driving me right to the edge without letting me fall.

Just when the tension becomes unbearable, when my body is trembling and my breath comes in shallow bursts, he suddenly stills… and withdraws his hand.

I suck in a sharp breath, stunned, frustrated, and aching all at once.

He sits back calmly, lifts his hand, slips his fingers into his mouth, and licks them slowly, his gaze fixed firmly on me.

“Delicious,” he murmurs.

He slides a glass of water toward me. “Drink, you look flushed.”

I grab the glass and gulp it down, but the cool water does nothing to settle the fire burning under my skin. My pulse is still racing, and my body still humming.

I push back my chair abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.”

One dark brow lifts. “You want us to finish what we started?”

My jaw drops. “No,” I shoot back, lowering my voice. “I want to make sure I don’t look like my husband just finger-fucked me in public.”

A slow, wicked smirk spreads across his face. “The mouth on you.”