His gaze holds a private promise of a joy more delectable than anything they have shared between them in this restaurant. It is with a force that she must remind herself that it will not be as she pictures it now. Of course it is easy to think she'll take him to her bed and find mutual pleasure, or that his gentleness and tender interest will hold after she has given him what he wants. It could be an act that she is falling for. There is pang deep in her chest when even she must admit to herself that a part of her sincerely yearns to believe him, and to follow him down this doomed path with no concerns and no ulterior motives of her own.

"Then let us get out of here." They are very near finished, and there is nothing to be found at this table that cannot, in some capacity, be ordered to her own home. Most of all, she is tired of her own thinking, and eager to free her mind of this burden by proving herself right. They will have sex; after this, she will no longer be so enthralled with him. It takes a lot to add any conviction to this idea when there is his hand on her own, when the grey of his eyes is neither storm nor callous sea, but something mountainous and sturdy. When has she begun to crave someone so reliable, or turned daft enough to believe such steadiness can be found at all?

Her eager suggestion to leave means she must reach for her purse, and she does so with her left hand, for her right must hold onto his. It is warm, his hand, as warm as that look in his eyes, a thought that cannot be finished until she dwells on the idea of his kiss.