Page 66 of The Colour of Revenge
Something in her expression changes. It's subtle—just a flicker of suspicion, a small furrow in her brow—but I catch it.
I lean in slightly, my voice dropping lower. "I promise, Carina," I murmur, holding her stare. "I had no idea about your past until you told me."
For a moment, she doesn't move. Then, slowly, she nods.
The tension eases as the food arrives, breaking the moment before it can spiral. We settle into a comfortable rhythm, the clinking of cutlery filling the space, the occasional brush of our legs under the table a quiet reminder of the unspoken things still lingering between us.
Carina
This date has been nothing short of wonderful.
Nate is unlike anyone I've ever met. He's charming in that effortless way that makes it impossible not to like him, but there's something darker beneath the surface. A dangerous edge. And maybe that's what draws me in the most.
I still can't quite believe he's a CEO—let alone of a charity that helps people like me.
It makes sense, though.
Nate doesn't just hunt. He eliminates—the ones who slip through the cracks, the ones the law fails to touch. The ones who deserve something much worse than prison. And he delivers it with calculated precision, with no mercy.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
I sip my wine, letting the taste settle on my tongue as I watch him. He's leaned back in his seat, his gaze smouldering as he studies me with far too much knowing.
The restaurant he's chosen is luxurious, demanding perfect manners and expensive taste. Low lighting casts a golden glow over our table, and the hushed voices around us only make it feel more intimate.
But right now, none of that exists.
Right now, it's just him. And the way his touch lingers.
Every time his arm brushes against mine, heat coils inside me. And he knows. His grin turns slow, predatory, as his fingers slide beneath the table—to my thigh.
A sharp jolt of electricity pulses me as his hand moves higher, teasing the bare skin above my knee.
"Nate…" My voice is a whisper, laced with something between a warning and pure need.
My legs part slightly to let him know I want this, want him.
His eyes darken as his fingers slip higher, skimming over my skin. "No underwear?" His voice is pure sin, a breath against my ear.
I start to answer, some sharp remark forming on my tongue—but then he touches me.
A single brush over my clit, featherlight, and I shudder. A soft whimper escapes before I can stop it.
"This," he murmurs, pressing a little firmer, circling, "is for talking about other men while on a date with me."
Oh, fuck.
He’s punishing me.
And God help me, I don't mind.
His thumb strokes lazy circles over my clit, while two fingers slide lower between my thighs, pressing inside me with a slow, deliberate precision.
I nearly collapsed against the table.
Our table is mostly hidden, tucked into a shadowed restaurant corner. No one can see, not really. But the thought that someone could—that a simple shift in angle would expose me—only sharpens my arousal.
