Page 43 of Lady and the Butcher
Fine.
I took a forkful. It melted. I hummed, a small, helpless sound, and watched his face go still, attentive, like the noise had been for him alone.
“You make everything sound obscene,” he said.
“Chocolate is obscene,” I said.
He laughed under his breath. The sound went through me worse than a touch.
When the plates disappeared for the last time, he stood. He didn’t reach for his wallet. He didn’t even glance toward the door. He simply held out his hand, not a flourish, not a test. A way out and a way in, both.
I put mine in his. It fit too well for comfort. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t lead. He walked and the room moved to accommodate us.
We stopped at the glass because, of course, we did. Our reflections hovered over the harbor—me in the dress he chose, him a dark fact. He came in behind me without touching and the back of my neck went hot like it knew his breath before he gave it.
“Think about your hands on this,” he said, voice low enough to tangle with the hum of the building. “Think about how my hand felt on your throat. Think about how long I can make you wait.”
“You are a terrible man,” I whispered.
“You didn’t ask for a good one.”
The quiet carried what I didn’t say.
He turned from the glass first, and I followed, every step a lesson in restraint.
Outside, the night smelled like salt and honeysuckle, Charleston warm and sticky in the dark.
Instead of leading me toward the car waiting at the curb, Atticus guided me toward the line of carriages along the Battery. The horses stamped, tossing their heads, leather harnesses creaking. Tourists lingered at the edges, but one driver straightened fast when Atticus approached. A nod. A folded bill. Then another, thicker, slipped into the man’s palm.
“Private route,” Atticus said. His voice carried enough weight that no one else dared look twice. “Eyes ahead.”
The driver tipped his cap, already turning his gaze forward like the harbor lights had hypnotized him.
I climbed into the carriage, the wood polished smooth, the bench cushioned deep. Atticus sat beside me, knees wide, arm stretched along the backrest, claiming space and me in the same motion. The wheels groaned once, then rolled, iron rim over cobblestone, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
The city slid by, all gas lamps and wrought iron, the hush of gardens behind old gates. I should have been enchanted. Instead, I was unraveling, each turn of the wheels another tug on the thread he’d left dangling inside me.
I couldn’t breathe without feeling the echo of his hand at my throat. Couldn’t shift without remembering the heat of his palm under the hem of my dress. My body was one long ache, every nerve strung tight.
I thought about where I was supposed to be right now—under soft track lighting at The Nesting Place, standing in front of six shell-shocked parents-to-be with a plush demo baby. I should’ve been cracking a joke about diaper blowouts and teaching the football hold with a smile that saidyou’ve got this.
Instead, I was in a carriage, night pressed close, thighs trembling, heart sprinting. The guilt pricked, then melted under the heat of want. I told myself women were allowed to choose desire over duty sometimes.
I still clocked the risk like a reflex. I hoped no one saw me out here, doing this. No mother-to-be needing a hand. No vendor wondering where the clipboard girl went. No aunt with questions I’d have to answer. The thought nipped, accusing, and then the want burned hotter and made every accusation feel small.
Focus on the present moment, I told myself. Easier said than done.
Atticus didn’t touch me at first. He just watched me squirm. My thighs pressed together, silk clinging, breath coming in shallow bursts. I was losing the fight not to move closer, not to crawl into his lap in full view of the driver and the city.
“You’re restless,” he said finally, the words a caress in themselves.
“You’re cruel,” I whispered, but it didn’t sound like protest.
His hand dropped from the back of the bench to my shoulder, sliding down, fingers trailing heat over my bare arm. Lower, to my wrist. Then he laced his fingers through mine, turning my palm up and pressing it against his thigh. The hard line under his trousers was undeniable.
Oh. My. God.
My pulse went wild. My thighs clenched tighter. The wheels rattled over stone. The driver clicked his tongue to the horse, eyes forward as promised.
