Page 132 of One Wrong Move

Thierry and Janos don’t make any comments on this weird exchange. On the contrary, they take it in stride, shifting the discussion to ask me about my work.

The soft clank of cutlery against plates. Food quickly disappearing. And beneath the linen-clad table, I slip my foot out of my shoe and extend it across toward Nate.

I’ve never done this before.

I keep eye contact with Janos, nodding at whatever he says, and slide my toes up Nate’s lower leg. Find his knee and then the inner thigh, wedging my foot closer to his groin.

Nate makes a choking sound and reaches for his wine.

“You okay?” Janos asks.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a bit hard,” he says. “My lamb, that is. It’s slightly tough.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Thierry says earnestly. “We should call the waiter. This place is known for?—”

Nate waves his offers away. “No, no, that’s all right,” he says, putting his fork down.

While he asks Thierry about an upcoming conference in Copenhagen, Nate’s hand disappears beneath the table and encircles my ankle in a steel grip.

Keeping it in place.

He shoots me a dark look.

I give him a wide smile. “Copenhagen? Will you be attending?”

“I might,” he says. His voice sounds unusually strained.

At my side, Thierry nudges my shoulder. “You should go with him, if you have the time. It’s a beautiful city, Copenhagen. Very different from Paris or London. It’s really like nowhere else.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say and look back at Nate.

“Of course it’s not,” Janos says. “A beautiful lady is the best travel companion.”

They’re both smiling at us like we’re a couple. The insinuation, the clear expectation in their eyes, makes my chest warm.

Nate’s looking at me, while beneath the table, his thumb makes slow circles on my calf. “Indeed she is,” he states. But then, he taps his thumb against my skin in a few quick movements, and I hear what he can’t say out loud. When she behaves herself.

I smile into my napkin.

When everyone is done with the main course and another bottle of wine is ordered, I excuse myself from the table. Nate watches as I stand and tug the skirt down to make sure it’s in place. I smile at him before walking away. It’s not a vibrator I’m using on the delectable man, but it is definitely getting him rattled, and I’ve never loved teasing someone more.

It makes me feel amazing to know that he wants me like this.

And that he hasn’t been shy about telling me or showing just how much.

I ask a waiter for the restroom, and he points me toward the back. Weaving around a few tables, I eventually step into a small hallway with two doors clearly marked as gents and ladies.

As I’m opening the door to the women’s washroom, someone puts their hand beside mine on the wooden surface. “Get inside,” Nate says.

We both end up in a small red room, and Nate locks the door behind us. It’s a beautiful restroom, matching the decor outside, with dim lighting and a boudoir-esque wallpaper.

Nate’s hands find my waist. “You’re insane tonight.”

“Am I? Or am I driving you insane?”

“Is there a difference?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “I feel like we’re the same person sometimes.” His hands glide over my shirt, my hips, down to my ass. His fingers find the hem of my skirt. “I need to check.”

My breathing ratches up by about a billion degrees. “I told you the truth.”

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