Page 117 of Merry Me
His head tilted slightly. He didn’t even blink. Just let the full weight of that smirk settle into place like it belonged there. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear.
I didn’t.
Fuck, I definitely didn’t.
“Someone will see,” I whispered, glancing nervously to my right, where my cousin was very focused on buttering a roll like it was a performance art piece.
“Then don’t make any noise that makes them look,” he said smoothly, his voice all warm velvet and bad ideas.
And just like that, Easton’s hand was sliding higher.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to skim my ear, low and warm. He smelled like expensive trouble—cologne and pine trees in the snow and that infuriating brand of confidence that always made my pulse misbehave.
“Enjoying the view?” he murmured, his voice dipped in syrup and sin as he watched me stare at the tablecloth like it was my job.
I lifted my wine glass with a hand that miraculously didn’t shake, took a slow sip, and replied in the most neutral tone I could muster.
“It’s a very nice tablecloth. Great lace-to-fabric ratio. Really tasteful.”
He chuckled low…too low. That kind of laugh that rippled under your skin and made a home in all your more dangerous places. “Sure, let’s talk tablecloths,” he murmured. “But we both know that’s not what’s got you creaming your panties.”
His fingers curled, warm and steady against the inside of my thigh. I felt my whole body go traitorous, tipping forward just slightly, like my bones wanted to chase the touch even if my brain was waving a polite little white flag of panic.
“I’m multitasking,” I whispered. “Having a full-blown meltdown and also considering which fork would cause the most damage if I stabbed you with it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just grinned—lazy and infuriating. “Go with the salad fork. Less surface area, more precision.”
His thumb stroked upward again, drawing a line that made my thoughts scatter like skittish deer.
“You’re doing great, by the way,” he murmured. “If I weren’t the one turning you inside out under this table, I’d never guess.”
My jaw clenched. “You think highly of yourself.”
“I’ve had almost two years to think about you. To think about all the things I would do once I got you back,” he said, all wicked calm. “This isn’t arrogance, sweetheart. It’s long-term planning.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you seducing me with…military metaphors?”
He grinned, that stupid, infuriatingly sexy grin. “Is it working?”
His hand continued to move higher.
I pressed my lips together, hard. The tablecloth did absolutely nothing to muffle the way his fingers dragged slowly beneath the hem of my dress again, this time pausing just shy of scandal.
“You’re the devil,” I breathed, barely moving my lips.
“I’m patient,” he whispered back, his mouth a hair from my cheek. “But not for much longer.”
My heart beat like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. My thighs tightened instinctively, but his hand stayed right there—steady, possessive, daring me to open. Daring me to give in.
I shifted in my seat. He felt it. His breath caught.
“You keep doing that,” I breathed, trying to sound annoyed and not utterly wrecked, “and I’m going to drop my wine glass or say something incredibly unhinged.”
His voice came back low and wrecked with heat. “Then maybe sit on your hands, Trouble. Because you’re making it really fucking hard to behave.”
“I’m literally doing nothing.”
“You’re blushing, biting your lip, and making those little breathy sounds like you want me to lose control.” His fingers flexed against my skin. “You call that nothing?”
