“Hands on the table,” I say.
You blink, ruffled again.
“Palms down. Where I can see them.”
For the tiniest second, you hesitate, and that pause does something delicious to me. And then you obey me. You place your hands on the table between us, spreading your fingers wide, as if you’ve been caught.
“Good,” I say it softly, a caress of a word.
I watch your lips part, your breath catching just a little.




