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“Go to him,” I said. “But just a kiss. For now.”
She searched my face for a second, nodded, and climbed off my lap.
She walked to the sofa in her lace and sat on Ross’s knee, sideways, her arm round his shoulders. He put his hand very carefully on her bare back like she might break. She tipped his chin up with one finger.
And then she kissed him.
It was slow and soft, then not soft. Her lips parted. His hand tightened on her back. I watched her tongue slip into his mouth, watched him pull her closer, heard the tiny wet sounds of it in our quiet living room.
It went on for a long time. Longer than I expected. Long enough that something twisted in my chest, hot and sharp.
Jealousy. Real jealousy, for the first time. Not the fun kind from our pillow talk. The kind that makes your jaw clench.
And underneath it, at exactly the same time, I was so hard I could barely sit still.
They broke apart. Fiona was flushed down to her chest. Ross’s lips were wet. He looked dazed, drunk, though he’d had two sips of wine.
“Cal,” Fiona said, breathless. She didn’t take her arm from round his neck. “That was… God.”
Ross’s hand was resting on her thigh now. She glanced down at the bulge in his jeans, then back at me. Asking.
My jaw was still tight. My cock was still throbbing.