Page 83 of Guarded King

He ducks his head, a low laugh rumbling out of him. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

My heart melts into a puddle of warm goo. So much for this being a safe topic. The thought that his tiny niece might have her big, intimidating uncle wrapped around her little finger makes him even more attractive and only heightens my urge to climb into his lap and press my lips to his.

Our server appears with the wine, thankfully distracting me from those thoughts. It’s smooth and light, refreshing me enough to rein in my libido, and when he turns our conversation back to some of the artwork we’ve just seen, I find it a little easier to keep myself in check.

By the time our main dishes arrive, the wine, the atmosphere, and our discussion have relaxed me.

Despite how delicious the crab starter was, my mouth waters when the server sets our plates in front of us. If I thought my meal would be a simple French version of a grilled cheese sandwich, I was wrong.

Slices of tender ham covered in a creamy truffle bechamel sauce are nestled between two thick slabs of bread toasted to perfection, and over the top of it all is a gooey, bubbly layer of melted Gruyère cheese. The warm, buttery aroma rising from it has me swooning.

I look from it to the utensils next to the plate. “I’m guessing we’re supposed to eat this with a knife and fork?”

The corners of his lips turn up. “Things might get… messy otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Some things are better when they’re messy.”

He did not just say that.

My eyes flash up to meet his, but he merely raises a brow in response. “Eat your food, Chloe.”

I pick up my knife and fork, cut into the sandwich with a satisfying crunch, and lift a bite to my mouth. As the blend of flavors hits me—the sharpness of the cheese, the subtle smokiness of the ham, and the creamy decadence of the truffle béchamel sauce—a soft moan escapes me, and I think my eyes roll back in my head.

It takes a moment to collect myself, and when I do, I find Roman fixated on me, his expression hot and hungry, sending liquid heat pouring through my veins in a dizzying rush.

“I’ll have to thank Cole for the recommendation,” he says, his voice raspy and sexy as hell.

“You haven’t even tried it yet.”

His eyes sear into me like a brand, his hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. “I don’t need to.”

The intensity with which he regards me has my pulse skyrocketing. Why is it that, no matter how often we take a step back from the line we both know we shouldn’t cross, we always end up back here, teetering on the edge?

“I want to know what you think.” My own voice is husky.

He studies me for another long moment, then, breaking the spell, he runs his tongue over his teeth and picks up his utensils.

As he cuts into it and raises his fork to his mouth, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, holding back a smile. He locks eyes with me as he slides it into his mouth. Never in my life would I have believed that I could be so turned on by watching a man simply consume food. Yet here I am. Everything Roman does is sexy, including maintaining eye contact while he eats. Even theway his throat works as he swallows causes liquid heat to pool low in my belly.

Face warming, I clear my throat. “Good?”

“I’ll let Cole know I understand the appeal,” he says in a low voice that quickens my pulse.

I pick up my almost empty wineglass and press it against my heated cheek, trying to cool myself down.

Luckily the server appears, cutting the tension a little. After refilling our glasses, he moves on, and we veer away from intimate or suggestive topics. We talk a little about my college years and he asks about what I do outside of work. That leads to me telling him about Lola, and how we’ve been best friends since the first day of high school when I tripped and fell in the middle of the cafeteria, and she came to help me while the rest of the student body laughed.

I can smile about it now, but Roman glowers. Being the man he is, I can’t imagine he’s had much experience with being laughed at.

I wouldn’t know, though, because although he asks a lot about me, every time I try to find out more about him or his family, he effortlessly sidesteps the topic.

Still, by the time we’ve finished our meals and another glass of wine, I’m pleasantly warm and tingly. Which means the cooler air when we step outside to wait for the car makes me shiver slightly.

“Come here,” Roman says.

Like a moth too willing to get burned, I step closer. He’s not wearing a jacket, so he runs his hands gently up and down my bare arms to warm me.

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