Page 43 of Spark of Obsession

“Ah, um,” Waiter Two clears his throat to announce his presence, probably switching jobs with his coworker in fear of Graham’s reaction. “A Mr. Tanner, sir.” I see apprehension in his eyes.

Graham grasps the glass and pushes it into the waiter’s hands. “Tell Mr. Tanner to save his energy. And his money. Oh, and to fucking mind his own business.”

“What was that about? What does Mark want?” I ask, as the waiter retreats with his tail between his legs. Awkward.

“To prove a point. A moot point.” His nonchalant shrug hides portions of his brooding anger, his shoulders still tense. I stare in a trance at the ticking of his jaw, completely blindsided by the simple gesture that was made in ill taste. If it wasn’t for the tension-filled elevator meeting earlier, I would think that Graham was overreacting. There’s more to this pissing contest than meets the eyes.

“Thank you for being so clear and precise,” I snort, embracing my inner sarcastic self.

Graham throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Funny and sexy. I like the combo, Miss McFee. But you do know that sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”

So now he’s back to flirting. Great. I am not sure which side of him is easier to handle. I shrug off his comment and give him my best forced smile. “And you do know that flirting is the lowest form of foreplay.” I cover my mouth quickly, as if doing so can retract the words that just flew out.

Shit. It’s the alcohol. I have never acted like this in my life. Hell, I won’t even play Cards Against Humanity with the gang because I’m too shy. There’s just something about Graham that allows me to let my guard down and basically say whatever is flowing in my head. It’s like he dissolves my filter and breaks down my walls.

“And the dirty mouth is back in play.” The twinkle in his eye and the glow to his facial features tips off his mood. He likes my smart mouth. My smart—needs to cut back on the sangria—mouth. “But, Angie,” he whispers slowly and purposefully, “I promise to make it good for you, when the time is right. I have good endurance. And a customer-satisfaction-is-guaranteed policy.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat and reach for the last decanter. Why stop now?

We down the Barcelona sangria and finish the rest of the food as Waiter One appears at the table, on edge from what I assume his coworker divulged about the last encounter. Two cups of steaming extra frothy coffee get distributed. The smell of hazelnut fills the air with the sweet nutty fragrance. I marvel at the intricate leaf design in the foam. The waiter then places a tray of delicately sculptured confections in the center of the table, clearing out the empty dishes with graceful adeptness. I stare in awe at the chocolate structures. My mouth waters, and it takes a great amount of self-control to hold myself back from diving straight in, mouth first. A small chocolate pastry is topped with a dollop of chocolate mousse, with a milk and white chocolate straw resting against it on an angled slope. Beside it, a cylindrical iced cocoa gelatin rests, garnished with a diamond-shaped platform of checkerboard dark chocolate. Last, a series of truffle balls form a pyramid, dusted with raspberry infused powdered sugar.

I am speechless over the presentation and unable to move despite the magnetic pull that keeps drawing me closer to the confections. It is food porn.

“Don’t be shy now. This is what you waited for, is it not?” His hand makes an all-encompassing gesture toward the tray. His eyes are smoldering—enjoying my fidgeting—knowing the exact war going on in my head. It takes everything in me not to face-plant. Images of the little balled up foil wrappers from my purse make an appearance in my thoughts. He knows my weakness and is exploiting it. He is an opportunist.

I suck my top lip into my mouth in an awkward attempt to rein in my girlish glee over the picture-perfect display. It looks too good to mess up with my fingers or fork or tongue. Or face. My eyes dart between creations, unable to settle on which I want to try first.

“For heaven’s sake, Angie,” Graham snaps, taking his fork and deliberately putting a dent into each of the perfect structures, making chocolate pieces crunch under the sheer force of his intentional ministrations. “There. Now eat.” He rests back into the seat and crosses his arms over the table, waiting for me.

My face heats as I glance up and lock eyes with his hazy blues. I can’t help but smile over his attempt to make me more at ease. I take my fork and poke at a truffle ball. I nibble off a chunk, sucking at the sugary coating. It is divine and perfectly sweet, leaving a lovely aftertaste that lingers on my tongue. I finish the treat, retaining the fierce eye contact with Graham.

I sip the coffee, enjoying the flavors brought out by the smooth European blend. Graham scoops up mousse with the chocolate straw, licking it off with long, sensual strokes.

“Cold, Miss McFee?” Oh, he knows exactly what he is doing to me. Why is he so smug?

My hands swipe over my upper arms, calming the goose bumps. Graham leans forward over the table, mere inches from my face. His hand touches my cheek, running warm fingers up and down my scorching skin. He parts his lips, swiping his tongue along the edge in a tantalizing rhythm. Is he going to kiss me again? Do I want him to kiss me again? My deprived body responds with a shock that shakes my sex drive into orbit. I feel intrigued and scared all at once. Every nerve ending in my body charges with electricity, coming alive over the anticipation of more. In this instant, I choose him over chocolate. I’m out of my mind. What the hell is wrong with me?

Every romantic scene from all of my novels plays out inside my head on loop. It’s my favorite part of every book. The first meeting. The anticipation. The first kiss. And then the desire for more. Every time I pick up a new read, I eagerly trudge through the pages until I can find these signature moments. It’s in every book—like a clichéd rule or writers’ code. The longer the author waits for the characters to give in to each other, the better. Right now, I want to slow things down. I want this desire for him to be bottled up and preserved so it doesn’t have to come to an end—like basically every relationship I have had in the past.

You cannot get hurt if your heart isn’t fully invested.

I turn my face into his hand as his body gets close, leaving my lips at an angle that is not conducive for a make-out session. With infinitesimal slowness, he guides my head back in place with his demanding hand, forcing me to face him. Every nanosecond of time causes my mind to slowly lose touch with reality.

My eyes blink hard, thinking that my imagination is playing tricks on me, as if I am making things up in my overly deprived head as I see fit. The pad of Graham’s thumb is at my bottom lip, playing with its fullness. He wipes it across the corner of my mouth, gathering and showing me the evidence of the melted chocolate that he collects. I move away again, not wanting him to see the effect he has on me. He directs me back—coaxing me—to gaze into the aqua abyss, feeling the same thumb press against my lips, pleading for entry. I part them just enough for his thumb to slip through, urging me to clean it off. I oblige and run my tongue lazily over the firm pad. My breath catches in a near choke. I give him a tiny bite. Graham’s mouth parts in response, and a low moan sneaks out, heard only by my ears. Wow. That is hot.

“Holy hell, Angie,” he says with a rasp, causing my insides to stir. He pulls his hand away. “If I knew that your response to dessert was going to be this erotic, I would have—” He runs his fingers through his hair. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Would have what?” I whisper.

“Fuck, Angie. You are driving me mad. I want you so badly. Even though the noble thing would be to get up and walk away.”

I slouch back into the seat, forcing my shoulders to relax. My breathing is impaired and staccato. My eyes dart to my hands resting in my lap in an attempt to conceal my embarrassment—and my need. Graham’s intensity is hard to deal with, and his eyes speak volumes as to his feelings. It is like he is mad at me for making him want me. I can feel him stripping away my exterior with his unrelenting gaze—causing me to mentally freak out with every passing second. This is not what I signed up for tonight. I expected to have a couple of drinks with my boss, Dominic, not his super-hot client. Graham is a man who has already learned how to push buttons I didn’t even think I owned.

“Are you a noble person, Mr. Hoffman?” I ask seriously.

“Hell, no. I am a selfish bastard who takes what I want.”

“Always?” I probe.