Page 33 of The Invitation

I shake my head, my frustration growing. “I’m in my friend’s kitchen.”

“Your friend’s kitchen?”

“I’m staying with her while I find an apartment.”

“Right. Because you broke up with someone.”

“Right.”

“Are you sitting?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Sit down, Amelia,” he orders. “Now.” And like a robot, I slowly lower to the chair. “Put the phone on speaker,” he practically whispers. “And place it on the table.”

“What the hell are you—”

“Just do it.”

“No.” I snort, indignant. “Why do you want me to?”

“Don’t you trust yourself?”

My jaw rolls, frustration and anticipation getting the better of me. “I trust myself.”

“Then do it.”

On a sigh I want him to hear, I follow his order.

“Put your hands on your thighs.”

I bite at my lip, his voice doing things to me a voice shouldn’t do all by itself. I swallow and rest my hands there, my skin heating, my thighs clenching. I know what’s happening. Can I stop it?

“Keep them there,” he says. “And listen to me. Are you listening?”

My swallow is lumpy. “I’m listening,” I whisper. And I’m already shaking.

“Don’t move your hands.”

I close my eyes and let his voice sink into me.

“Think about my fingers weaving through yours, Amelia. You liked that, didn’t you? My big, capable, slippery hands working yours.”

Oh fucking hell.But I keep my mouth shut.

“Did. You. Like. It?”

“Yes.” I grind the word out, unable to stop myself from admitting it.

“Are your hands still on your thighs?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t move them.”

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