Mark's hand lingered on my waist as we moved through the house, the warmth of his palm seeping through the silk of my robe, steady and possessive. My pulse was still unsteady, my skin still flushed from what we had just done—or nearly done.
I gripped the bowl of strawberries a little tighter, trying to ground myself, but it was useless. Every step forward only made the air between us heavier.
We passed through the living room, our pace slow and deliberate, like we weren't sneaking away but claiming our exit. Mark's fingers flexed against my hip as we approached the stairs, and I barely had time to register the shift before he pulled me closer, dipping his head toward mine.
"Think we were convincing?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it—something rougher, something unspoken.
I exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting my chin slightly, playing along for prying eyes, just in case. "If he wasn't convinced before, he is now."