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“Don’t make him wait,” I said. “Go on.”
Fiona hesitated for a heartbeat. Then she crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to Ross, close, her bare knee against his jeans.
Ross went rigid. Not the good kind. The panicking kind.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said. Then, to me, “Cal, mate, are you absolutely…”
“I’m sure.”
Fiona took the wine glass out of his hand and put it on the coffee table. She touched his face. He was trembling. I’d known him nineteen years and I’d never seen Ross tremble, not at his wedding, not at his divorce, not when he broke his collarbone in a scrum.
She kissed him. Gently.
He didn’t kiss back at first. Then he did, all at once, his big hand sliding into her hair, and she made a small hungry sound that went straight to my cock.
They kissed for a long time. His hand moved to her waist, then hovered over the tie of her dress, and stopped there.
He broke the kiss and looked at me. His face was red, his breathing ragged. “I can’t…” he said. “It’s weird with you sitting there. I’m sorry. I want to, God, I want to, but I keep thinking you’re going to deck me.”
Fiona looked at me too. Flushed, lips swollen, a little helpless.
The whole evening was balanced on whatever I said next.