Page 105 of Suite 7

“How long before you stop pretending to be civilized.” I reach across and straighten his tie, slow, unnecessary. “And let the Dom come out to play.”

The muscle in his jaw tightens. Once.

I let my fingers trail down the tie and drop away. Then pick up my wine, hold his gaze, and take a slow sip.

His hand shoots across the table and catches my wrist — not hard, firm, a grip that knows exactly what it’s doing. Around us the restaurant carries on, candlelight and quiet conversation, no one looking.

“You’re treading dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” I don’t pull away. My pulse is already loud in my ears. “We’re in public, Kane. What are you going to do about it?”

His eyes go still. Everything else has been set aside. “Keep testing me and you’ll find out.”

“Is that a threat?” I tilt my head. “Because you’ve been so well-behaved all evening. I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the other version of you entirely.”

His grip shifts. Thumb pressing once against the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse is.

“Last warning.” Low, just for me. “Behave. Or I promise you, the second we’re alone, you’ll spend the rest of the night remembering exactly who you’re dealing with.”

“The rest of the night?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s very confident for a man eating tiramisu.”

He leans forward. His eyes don’t leave mine.

“I’m a patient man.” A pause. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be very thorough.” His thumb moves again, just slightly, against my wrist. “And you’ll ask me very nicely before I give you anything at all.”

My thighs clench under the table.

“Maybe I’ve been thinking about exactly that all through dinner.” The next word forms deliberately, quiet, here in this restaurant with its white linen and its candlelight. “Sir.”

Dark satisfaction. Danger. Promise. The Dom, fully present now, wearing the suit like a costume over something far less civilized.

“Excuse me.” I pull my wrist free, grab my clutch, stand. “Restroom.”

His gaze tracks me as I walk away.

The bathroom is empty, nothing but someone’s perfume still lingering in the air. I run cold water over my wrists and look at myself in the mirror. Lipstick slightly smudged. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright with a feeling I’m actively refusing to name.

We were doing so well. That’s the problem, isn’t it. Two courses in and I’d stopped managing. I was just — there, at that table, watching him talk about his dead father and his leaking doghouse, and everything in my chest had gone so soft and so loud at the same time that I needed to act immediately or I was going to say something I couldn’t take back.

So I did what I always do when feelings get too large and too honest and too close to the surface.

I made it into something I knew how to handle.

I pull out my phone. Not because I’ve decided anything. Because my hands need somewhere to go.

Me: You look very handsome tonight.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Gerald: Thank you. You look beautiful.

Me: The suit is exceptional. Did you choose it for tonight specifically?

Gerald: I did.

Me: Thoughtful. Very gentlemanly of you.

A pause. Longer than the others.