Page 55 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Still making my insides pool with desire.

This is just for practice, I keep reminding myself.It means nothing.

But the way Laurent reaches across the table to trail his fingers over mine doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels very, very much like something.

When his hand touches mine, that point of contact suddenly becomes the nexus for the whole of my awareness. All of my nerves are trained on this one spot in my body, while certain other parts of my body cry out for more.

Intimate body parts.

The place where my legs meet hum as his eyes stroke my face, his gaze an almost physical sensation. His eyes are so rich, so warm. I could live in those eyes. They feel so safe.

Hefeels so safe.

And sexy.

Yeah, there’s a lot of sexiness too. Alot.

My cheeks heat. I flip the hand Laurent is touching and catch hold of fingers. I’m pretty sure I’m about to do something embarrassing like lift his hand and press my lips to the back of it when the server materializes at my side.

I yank my hand away, both grateful to have been saved from doing something so obviously stupid and sad that I didn’t get the chance.

Maybe it’s my wild imagination.

Maybe it’s the wine.

But every time I look at Laurent, all I can think ismine.

I’ve wanted men before. And sure, while I hardly ever got them, I’ve wanted plenty.

But not like this.

The desire I feel for Laurent and his warm eyes and quick wit and encouraging words and beautiful body is on an entirely different level from my previous lived experience. It’s as thrilling as it is terrifying.

“Any dessert?” our server asks, smiling down at us both.

Laurent looks to me. “What does the lady say?”

God, I’m blushing again. I don’t think I’ve ever blushed so much in a single evening. But then, I’ve never been called a lady before, not in that elegant way he has.

I eye the half bottle of pinot we have left to drink. “Yes,” I say firmly. “I need dessert.”If only to soak up the rest of the wine, I add silently.

The server beams. “Excellent,” she says, producing two petite dessert menus as if from thin air.

It takes me all of two seconds to know what I want. The server hasn’t even stepped away from the table to give us time to peruse our options when I call out, “Crème brûlée.” Catching the startled expression she’s quickly smoothing away, I grimace. “Um, please.”

I look at Laurent, who’s looking at me in a way that makes my skin heat, like he thinks I’m a curiosity or, even better, an intriguing puzzle or work of art.

I like it very, very much.

“I’m a sucker for crème brûlée,” I say with an apologetic shrug, feeling a pressing need to explain that’s probably coming from nobody but myself.

Laurent leans in like we’re sharing a private joke. My heart quickens at his nearness. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants,” he says with approval. Then he turns to the server. “I’ll have the raspberry walnut torte, please.” He flicks a glance at me and winks. “I have favorites too.”

“Excellent choices,” she says, accepting the dessert menus back and disappearing once more.

And then I’m left alone with beautiful, wonderful, glorious Laurent and my crimson face. I gulp at my wine, even though I know the dark liquid will do nothing to cool my heated cheeks.

Between the sensation in my lower belly and my apparently eternally flushed face, I’m the definition of hot and bothered.

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