Chapter 66 66
Katherine's POV
Emma started asking about Lisbon while Andrew served dinner, passing the plates with his usual calm.
"How long have you been here?" she said, taking a bit of the bacalhau. "This looks amazing, Katherine. Smells incredible."
"Thanks," I replied, forcing a smile. "Six months. We love it. The pace is slower, the river, the food..."
Andrew nodded, finally sitting down.
"Yeah, it was a good change. Kate adapted fast. And the bacalhau turned out perfect, love."
I felt a touch under the table—on my leg. Soft at first, then firmer. Elliot's foot, brushing my calf. My whole body tensed instantly, fork frozen in my hand. Andrew noticed, of course. He looked at me worried, stopped serving.
"You okay?"
I shook my head quick, swallowing.
"No. Just a strong kick from the baby. He's restless."
Andrew smiled, set things down, and leaned in, placing his open hand on my belly. He stroked gently, waiting. The baby moved again, like he was responding, and Andrew laughed softly.
I smiled too—because I had no choice. Because Emma was across from me, watching with that kind, unsuspecting attention, and Andrew leaning over me, proud, happy, his warm hand on my bump. And under the table, at the same time, Elliot's foot didn't pull away. It stayed there. Pressed. Resting with slow, deliberate pressure that wasn't clumsy at all. It slid up just a centimeter. Brushed the bare skin where my dress ended. A dry shiver shot through me, instant—the kind you can't hide.
Elliot knew exactly where to touch.
I parted my knees slightly out of habit, just to shift in the chair, and that tiny movement was enough for his foot to find the space. It grazed the inside of my calf. Slow. Testing. Like he was gauging my reaction. My stomach tightened—not from the baby. From him.
"You feeling dizzy?" Andrew asked, hand still on my belly.
"No," I said fast. "I'm fine."
Emma smiled.
"It's normal, right? Happened to my sister all the time toward the end."
I nodded. Looked down at my plate. Tried to focus on the conversation, the smell of the cod, the clink of silverware. But Elliot's foot kept going. Touched just behind my knee. That soft spot that always makes me weak. The pressure changed—firmer. It wasn't accidental. It was sustained, loaded, intentional. I bit the inside of my cheek. My thighs tensed without permission.
Elliot pushed a little more.
I felt the sole against my skin—warm, slow, sliding up. A tiny movement. Dirty for what it meant. For where we were. For who was right in front of me.
Andrew pulled back to sit.
"More wine?"
"Yes, please," Emma said.
I said nothing.
I used that second while Andrew stood to shift my weight, trying to part my legs, create distance. It didn't work. Elliot adjusted his foot with the same precision. Slid between my ankles. Trapped me. Grazed my calf. Went up again.
A clumsy, instant heat hit between my legs. An uncomfortable, shameful knot that made me angry. Because I didn't want to react like this. Because I was tired of my own body preferring him.
"Kate, want some more?" Emma asked, pointing to the dish.
"No... thanks."
My voice came out lower than normal.
Elliot's foot reached the inside of my thigh—and the memory of his skin on mine hit me all at once, like he wasn't just touching me now but repeating every time his body took me without permission or apology. It was minimal contact—barely the tip of his shoe brushing me—but exactly where the touch stops being innocent and becomes something else. Too high. Too intimate. My back arched without meaning to—a brief, almost invisible movement that forced me to grip the edge of the table with my free hand so I wouldn't give myself away. Blood rushed to my face, and I felt that dirty, familiar heat he always caused—a slow pressure between my legs that made me clench my thighs in shame, in anger, in a tremor that had nothing to do with the pregnancy. Elliot didn't move. He left his foot there, resting with cruel calm—firm, sure—like he knew exactly how it was affecting me, like he could hear my short breathing and the clumsy heartbeat pounding in my chest. He didn't need to push more. Didn't need to slide. Just holding the contact was enough for my body to remember too well what his touch could do to me.
Andrew came back with the wine, and seeing him approach, I felt that same automatic reflex: straighten my back, fix my face, hide the tremor.
"You sure you're okay, Kate?"
I nodded too fast, before he even finished.
"Yeah. Just... warm."
The lie tasted thick in my mouth.
It wasn't warmth.
It was him.
It was Elliot's foot pushing a little more—slow, firm, with deliberate pressure that wasn't trying to hide—marking his presence under the table while my husband was less than a meter away. The sole brushed my skin in a short, controlled movement, and that simple gesture shot through me whole—like he was touching me with his hand, like he was wordlessly reminding me he was still there, that he could do it, that he could get inside my body with an ease that made me furious to admit.
Emma kept talking about a tram stuck on some impossible hill. Laughing. Gesturing. I nodded when I was supposed to. Heard nothing.
My whole world had shrunk to that exact point of contact. To the burning skin under the table. To the small tremor climbing from my thighs and closing my throat. To the way my breathing shortened every time Elliot's foot moved just millimeters.
He slid a centimeter more.
Just one.
But it was enough.
He touched me exactly where no one should touch me anymore. Not even like this. Not even now. Not even with everything I was carrying inside me.
I swallowed hard. Felt the air catch in my chest. My eyes closed for a second, involuntarily—in a tiny, shameful movement that betrayed me first to myself. My stomach clenched suddenly, and a slow, wet, humiliating pressure spread inside me—so familiar, so infuriating that it made me want to cry. I hated myself for feeling it. Hated myself for not being able to turn it off. Hated myself for how easily my body still remembered him.
Elliot pulled his foot back for just a moment.
Just enough.
Just to brush me again.
A soft, almost lazy contact—not pushing forward, but warning. Reminding me he could do it whenever he wanted.
I looked up.
And that's when I saw it.
Elliot wasn't looking at his plate. Not at Emma. Not at Andrew.
He was looking at me.
Directly.
Openly.
Without any attempt to hide it.
His eyes were steady, hard, locked on my face—tracking every tiny reaction: the tension in my shoulders, the forced stiffness in my back, the way I was clenching my thighs trying to close myself off, like that could erase his foot from my skin.
He didn't smile.
And that was the worst part.
Because he wasn't teasing.
He was measuring.
He was deciding.
Sitting there—pregnant, married, table set, wine poured, conversation flowing around quiet plans—I understood with a cold clarity inside: Elliot wasn't testing limits. He wasn't giving in to an impulse.
He was checking how much control he still had over me.
And my body—miserably—had just answered him.