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sometime next week, with the perfect comebacks echoing in my head. I always thought of them later, never on the spot. Under the glare of their cutting comments, my throat would swell shut and I could never think of anything good to say. Accusing Cathie of sleeping around didn’t count since she considered it a badge of honor.
    The waitress interrupted with our menus and a recitation of the specials. I was still starving, despite the appetizers Dylan had fed me in his office. The next few minutes were occupied with deciding what to order, my sisters saying I should I get a side salad to keep my calories down, and Dylan suggesting the lasagna or the linguine pescatore.
    When Christie gasped in horror and said, “Girls like Leigha can’t eat pasta. Too many carbs.” Dylan skewered her with a look and murmured in my ear, loud enough for the table to hear,
    “I love to watch you eat, don’t I?” Then he pressed a kiss to my mouth.
    I felt my skin turn a bright, hot red. His hand left off tracing circles on my knee and slid up to the middle of my leg, the weight of his palm heavy, a claiming, while his fingertips teased the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My pussy, so close to his touch, heated. Again.
    “Shall I order for you?” he asked. I nodded, mouth dry.
    I looked around the table, trying to pretend Dylan didn’t have his hand between my legs under the table. My mother was smiling at us. Christie and Cathie scowled in confusion. And Peter studied me with a curious, appraising look, as if Dylan’s interest was making him wonder what I might have to offer.
    Yuck. He was a perfect match for my sister, with his overly polished good looks and the bank account to match her desire to never work a day in her life. But when you scratched the surface, he was all asshole.
    A few months before, at a dinner to celebrate their engagement, I’d caught him berating the valet driver over a nonexistent scratch on his sports car. This was after he treated our waiter with rude dismissal and then tipped him less than five percent. Not to mention that he’d grabbed my butt on the way out of the restaurant. I’d whirled and hit him on the arm. He’d backed off, but the whole thing made me uncomfortable.
    Resolving to ignore him, I turned my attention back to Dylan, whose fingers were slowly inching their way up my thigh. He wouldn’t actually touch me at the table, would he?
    Taking in the amused, aroused glimmer in his eyes, I realized that he would, if he wanted to. I just had to hope he didn’t want to. All it took was the memory of what those fingers had done and my body was ready for more.
    I zoned out, barely listening to my sisters chatter on about the wedding, something about the flowers, or the place settings, all my attention focused on Dylan and his roving fingers. His right foot hooked my left and tugged, spreading my legs just enough to make room for his hand. I hitched a breath as his thumb skated across my clit.
    “What’s wrong with you?” Cathie asked. I shook my head, and grabbed Dylan’s hand under the table, desperate to stop him before I embarrassed myself.
    “Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    “Your face looks weird,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.
    I didn’t care; I was more worried that Dylan was going to make me come right there at the table. I knew he could. If what had happened in the hallway was any indication, he could do it before our entrees arrived with time to spare.
    “Stop,” I breathed into Dylan’s ear. He shook his head in a barely perceptible movement. Leaning in, he said, so quietly I could only hear a thread of sound,
    “You’re going to come. Do you want it here, or upstairs?”
    “Upstairs. Please upstairs.”
    “What are you two whispering about again?” Christie asked, looking annoyed that we weren’t paying attention to her story about where she’d found her bridesmaid dresses. Dylan straightened, drawing his hand back into his own lap.
    “I apologize,