Michael frowned slightly, still holding the pizza box.
“A problem?”
Elizabeth let out a soft, almost playful sigh and stepped a little closer to him.
“I think… I don’t have any cash on me,” she said, her voice calm, but her eyes watching him carefully.
Michael blinked. This was new.
“No card?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Not tonight.”
There was a pause.
Normally, this would be awkward. He’d apologize, maybe take the pizza back, maybe call it in. But something about the way she stood there, it didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt intentional.
Michael exhaled softly.
“So… what do we do then?”
Elizabeth smiled, just a little wider this time.
“I’m sure we can figure something out,” she said.
Her tone wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even apologetic. It was playful. Like she already knew the answer and was just waiting for him to catch up.
Michael felt his heartbeat pick up. He shifted slightly, still trying to keep things normal.
“This isn’t really how it works,” he said, but his voice lacked firmness.
“I know,” she replied gently.
Another step closer.
Now they were standing just a little too near for a normal delivery. Close enough to feel each other’s presence.
“You don’t seem in a hurry to leave,” she added quietly.
Michael gave a small, almost nervous smile.
“Neither do you.”
She looked at him for a second longer.
A silent invitation. Not obvious. But clear enough.
Michael didn’t move away.
Something in the air shifted.
The pizza box was still between them—but now it felt like the least important thing in that moment.
And neither of them mentioned the money again.
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, not toward the forgotten pizza box but to the loose silk tie holding her robe closed. His fingers brushed the knot, his knuckles grazing the hollow of her throat.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched. The sound was small, sharp, in the silent foyer. She didn’t pull back. Her eyes stayed locked on his, the playful confidence in them flickering into something raw, something seen.
Michael’s gaze didn’t leave hers as his fingers worked. He didn’t fumble. The silk whispered, a soft, sliding sound against itself. The knot gave way, not with a pull, but with a gentle, unraveling looseness that felt more intimate than any yank. The robe fell open a mere inch. A sliver of skin, the shadowed curve of a breast, the lace edge of something black and delicate beneath.
“Michael,” she breathed. It wasn’t a stop. It was a name given to the moment, to his hands, to the heat pooling low in her belly.
He didn’t answer. He used his other hand to push the robe wider, spreading the silk open against the cool marble of the console. His palms flattened on the table on either side of her hips, caging her. He leaned in, his body not touching hers, but the heat of him soaked into her skin. She could smell the rain on his jacket, the clean sweat of his neck, the oregano from the pizza now mixing with the jasmine of her perfume. His eyes dropped, traveling the length of her body now framed by dark silk. His jaw tightened.
“No money,” he said, his voice a rough scrape. His thumb came up, traced the lace edge of her bra, following the swell of her breast. He didn’t look up. “So we’re figuring something out.”