"And you're wearing my marks under that dress." His voice dropped lower. "Does that make you wet?"
The coffee suddenly felt too hot. I took a long sip anyway, needing something to do with my hands.
Our food arrived – his perfectly poached eggs next to my mountain of French toast dusted with powdered sugar and fresh berries.
"Open." He held out his fork with a bite of eggs Benedict.
"I can feed myself," I protested.
"Humor me."
I parted my lips, letting him slide the fork into my mouth. The hollandaise sauce was rich and creamy, perfectly balanced.
"Good?" His eyes locked with mine as I swallowed.
"Amazing," I admitted, trying to ignore how intimate it felt to be fed by him.
"Try this." He swiped his finger through the hollandaise and held it to my lips. My face burned as I realize
