Vincent was in front of me. Sitting. Eating. Like nothing happened earlier in the room. Like he didn’t leave me burning. He was calm now, chin lifted, like he was the one holding the game and not me.
He wore a white polo and slacks. All buttons closed. Proper. The opposite of the Vincent who was groaning to me earlier, “Please, Ella… touch me.” But his eyes were different.
Every time he took a bite, I felt him stare. From my lips, down to my neck, then back to my eyes. Like he was eating me without touching me.
I bit the inside of my cheek. My fists were clenched on my lap.
“Eat properly,” Vincent said. His voice was cold. No emotion. “You’re getting weak again.”
My fork stopped in the air. Weak? Me? The woman who almost passed out last night because of him?
I smiled. The
