From beneath my lashes, I cast quick, furtive glances at both men. They’re eating as though they’re not inches away from my crotch. As if they’re not making sexual advances at the dining table.

Rebel’s dark gaze slides to mine and his slow, creeping smirk is enough to set my whole body on fire. His fingers are fully inside my panties, the tips grazing over my swollen flesh. My pulse beats in my head like a frantic drumbeat, and I struggle to maintain my composure. I want to be angry with him, but it’s hard when he’s making me feel so good.

He traces my clit, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of electricity through me. I grip my fork tighter, moving food around my plate as I pretend I’m not well on my way toward an orgasm.

Rubbing lower, he finds the wetness he’s caused and I hear the subtle intake of breath. Knowing he’s growing excited, too, heightens my desire. I want him to put those fingers inside me, and when I tilt my hips a fraction in a bid for more, he listens. His fingers plunge deep. A moan surges up from my chest, and I scramble to recover, shifting it into a different sound.

I about die when I realize everyone is looking at me. I smile wanly. My voice strained I say, “This dinner is delicious, Mrs. Scott. Would it be possible to get the recipe?”

She gives me bright look. “Of course, dear. I’m so glad you like it. It’s Vincent’s mother’s recipe.”

“She must have been a great cook,” I say, catching Ransom’s eye.

His brows are pulled down over his midnight eyes, and I realize he hasn’t been paying any attention to the conversation. In fact, his gaze keeps dropping to my lap, and from his angle, I know he can plainly see Rebel’s thick hand cupping me.

Immediately, my hand disappears beneath the table, covering Rebel’s in another plea to stop. Predictably, he doesn’t. He continues thrusting his fingers slowly into me and no matter how hard I clamp onto his hand, he just keeps going.

My heart is racing, the blood rushing through my veins so fast I feel lightheaded. Ransom’s grip on my thigh turned near-painful long ago, but instead of helping me keep my wits, it’s only added fuel to the fire that’s consuming me.

The orgasm slams into me, and I screw my eyes shut so tight I see stars. It takes me a moment to recover from the waves of dizzying pleasure, and when I do, I want to die.

“Are you alright, Josephine?” Seraphim and Victor are watching me with concern. “You look a little flushed.”

“You moaned. Is your stomach upset?” Victor asks. “Sometimes eating too many vegetables gets to me, too. We have some medicine for that if you’d like?”

“No, no. I was just…just uh…” Oh, God. I’m so humiliated. Climaxing in front of the parents has got to be a new low for me.

“She was just sighing over how good the dinner was,” Ransom cuts in, saving me from deeper mortification. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d kiss him and punch Rebel right in the throat.

My ire is further piqued when Rebel covertly smears my leg with my own wetness. Lifting his hand from beneath the table, he uses it to reach for his glass of tea. The faint glimmer of my juices is still visible on the backs of two of his fingers, and my eyes bug out. I reach for my own glass, gulping it down.

“Did you put extra sugar in this, Mom?” Rebel asks as he takes a drink. “It smells sweeter than usual.” His dark, smug gaze flicks up to mine.

I know it’s childish, but I kick him in the foot.

“I don’t think I put more in it than normal,” Seraphim says slowly. Her forehead wrinkles with worry as if the prospect of a little more sugar might ruin dinner. “It’s not too sweet, is it?”

“I think it tastes great,” I reply, and she smiles with relief.

Beside me, Rebel hums thoughtfully. I look over and am horrified to see him swirling his finger—the one that was just inside me—in his glass. He brings the digit to his mouth and makes a show of sucking it dry. “Nope, not too sweet at all. In fact, it’s perfect.”

“Oh good,” Seraphim says, returning to her perky self. “Is anyone up for cobbler?”

Rebel’s hand finds its way to my thigh again, squeezing gently. “It’s like you read my mind, Mom. I was just thinking about how much I would love to sink my teeth into something sweet.”

“Perfect. I’ll go get the plates.” Popping up from the table, Seraphim begins gathering the dinner dishes.

Seeing my opportunity to escape, I push my chair back. “I’ll help you clear the table.”

“Oh, nonsense! You’re our guest. I wouldn’t dream of putting you to work until the second dinner.” Smiling broadly, Seraphim sets her eyes on Rebel. “Honey, be a dear and give me a hand.”

“Sure, Mom.” His reply is so casual I can’t tell if he’s pissed or genuinely happy to help. Rebel can be so hard to read sometimes, but he stands and gets right to work. I think I might finally be able to take a full breath when he pauses on his way out of the room. “Hey, Josephine, what is it you said you do for a living?”

He knows I didn’t say anything. The topic I had feared the most hadn’t come up…until now. It seems that, thanks to his big mouth, I have no choice. I have to tell the truth, and he knows it. I shoot him what I hope is a threatening look, but I am so overcome with a sudden bout of nerves I doubt it’s conveyed properly.

Whether he is just unmoved or too cocky for his own good, I’ll never know for certain, but Rebel’s look is synonymous with his name. After detonating his bomb, he leaves me to deal with the fallout.

Vincent and Ransom assume the part of expectant audience. Acid burns in my belly, and I smooth my dress over my legs, swallowing down the knot in my throat. “I’m a dancer,” I say softly. I’m purposely vague, hoping Lady Luck is on my side tonight and they don’t decide to probe any deeper.

But she’s not.

“An art major and a dancer,” Vincent says appreciatively.

“I didn’t know you dance,” Ransom says, and I hear the same note in his voice.

“Yep, I do.”

“For how long?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Vincent asks. “Isn’t that a little late in the game? I was under the impression most individuals who participate in the performing arts get started early in life.”

“I think you’re thinking of ballet,” Ransom corrects him.

“Do you study ballet?” Seraphim breezes into the room carrying a freshly baked aromatic cobbler and jumps seamlessly into the conversation. “I’ve always loved watching ballerinas dance, but Victor’s schedule is so hectic, we don’t get to take in shows as often as I’d like.”

Rebel returns from his trip to the kitchen and leans into the doorframe, watching the drama unfold.

In an effort to avoid looking at him, I clear my throat and scratch my right eyebrow. “Um, no.” Can we please just have dessert and forget dancing? I plead inside my head. “It’s not that kind of dancing.”

“Well, what kind is it? Alternative? Free style? Hip hop?” Ransom’s smile is encouraging. It’s almost a mirror image of the one Rebel’s wearing, except his is also filled with malevolence. He is enjoying my humiliation far too much tonight. Well, I refuse to be his victim. I’ve always played the cards I’m dealt, and tonight will be no different.

He wants me to expose myself, so I will, and I’ll do it with a damn smile. Holding his gaze, I bite out a reply. “Exotic. I’m an exotic dancer.”

Total. Silence. The room grows deathly still, so quiet I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. Rebel looks a little shocked by my admission, but I think I glimpse a little bit of pride, too. Is he proud of me for being honest? Did he expect me not to be?

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you right.” Ransom laughs humorlessly, sticking his finger in his ear and wiggling it. “Okay, run that by me again.”

Tearing my gaze from Rebel’s, I glance at his mother and father before stopping with Ransom. His eyes hold a mixture of disbelief at what I said and hope that what I say next will be different.