Elena #3
“Based on what?”
He closes the distance between us. “I know how closely you pay attention to me.”
“That proves nothing.”
“I know you reacted when Marcus almost said my old nickname.”
“I froze for a second.”
“I know you’ve thought about natural conception every time it came up.”
“So have you.”
“I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
He’s close enough that I can smell whiskey beneath his cologne, but he’s focused and steady. I can blame the drinks for making him less careful. I may need that excuse if he keeps looking at me like this.
“You’re still guessing,” I say.
“No, Elena. I have no doubt I could satisfy you.”
A slow ache opens low in my belly.
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I know you like control until you’re tired of carrying it. I know you want me to take it from you, but only after you decide to give it.” He takes another step. “And I’d pay attention until I learned every sound you make when you stop trying to hide what you want.”
He sees me. The realization is terrifying.
My back meets the side of my car.
He doesn’t touch me and leaves enough room for me to move. I stay where I am.
“You’re very confident for a man who can’t prove any of that,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Do you want me to prove it?”
The question hangs between us, thick as the summer humidity.
I could laugh—a sharp, dismissive sound that would slice through this tension.
I could list every reason this is a terrible idea: Cliff inside with my family, the sterile clinic appointment already scheduled, the eleven pages of contractual safety waiting in my filing cabinet back in Chicago.
I could open my car door, the mechanism clicking like a lock engaging. I could stick to the plan.
Dominic waits. Not impatiently, not eagerly—just completely still, his eyes holding mine in the fading light.
“You’ve had a few drinks,” I say, my voice lower than I intended.
“I know exactly what I’m asking.” His words are clear, unhurried. No slur, no hesitation. Just certainty.
“So if I said yes… what then?”
“I’d kiss you right here.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Against your car door. Where your sister-in-law might see us from the upstairs window.”
My pulse jumps hard beneath my jaw. “That’s your evidence? One kiss?”
“It’s a starting point.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I’d start with this mouth,” his eyes drop down to my lips, “and work from there.”
“You still can’t prove we’re compatible.”
“Then let me try.” He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for me—just gives me time to refuse, to turn away, to be the rational one.
I hold his eyes, daring him even as something in me quietly steps aside, making room. “You’re welcome to try.”
Dominic’s hand closes around my waist, pulling me into him. I release a sharp exhale against his mouth.
He kisses me once—slow, deliberate, almost polite. A kiss with enough restraint that I could still turn away. His lips taste faintly of whiskey, sweet and tannic. Every rational thought dissolves.
He draws back barely an inch. “Still tastes like tea,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Sweet and delicious.” He nips at my bottom lip once, a devlish grin on his lips before doing it again.
My body is already pulsing with desire. But we’ve already crossed the line. I fist my hand in his shirt and drag his mouth back to mine.
His restraint shatters.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me flush against him.
His other hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth before his tongue slides past my lips.
The sound he makes—a quiet, rough noise against my mouth—goes straight through me.
I heard it years ago through a phone speaker, thin and distant; feeling it vibrate through his ribs into mine is something else entirely.
He tilts my head back and deepens the kiss. I tighten my grip on his shirt, holding him there while his thumb strokes the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
This is Dominic. My boss. Cliff’s best friend. The man I’m supposed to meet at a fertility clinic next week. His name echoes uselessly in my head.
He kisses me again, deeper now, and I don’t want him to stop.
A car door closes somewhere nearby.
He lifts his head slowly. His hand remains firm on my waist. We’re both breathing unevenly.
I glance toward the house. No one’s outside.
When I look back, his eyes are on my mouth. He looks… pleased. Smug, even. It annoys me enough to summon a shred of common sense before pressing against his chest to put some distance between us.
“One kiss proves nothing,” I say, the lie tasting like him—like us, like tea and poor decisions.
“Your mouth says that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, throaty rumble against my ear.
“But your pulse is hammering right here.” His fingers drift to the base of my throat, pressing lightly where my heartbeat thunders.
“And your skin is flushed everywhere I’ve touched you.
” His gaze drops to my parted lips. That’s not nothing, Elena. That’s a whole fucking argument.