He couldn’t take it. God help him, literally, but there was less danger from the absinthe than from sex.

“I’ll get you a glass.” He turned, away from that offer, away from that pleading, and opened his cabinet, pulling out a tumbler. They were supposed to be for juice, since he didn’t keep any glasses for alcohol, and no corkscrews, no ice buckets. No implements at all for alcohol. Except for his absinthe spoons.

“Thanks.” She was inspecting the bottle. “Do I just drink it straight? Is it like a shot?”

“You don’t want to drink it straight. It’s going to taste awful to you.” Gabriel set the glass down on the counter, right where he had pictured spreading Sara’s thighs. “We’ll dilute it with water and sugar, the traditional way. You can even pick one of my spoons to use if you want. Might as well have the full experience.” And if he sounded less than thrilled, it was because he was holding on to the edge of his own control. Not to drink. That wasn’t the temptation. He was struggling to prevent himself from touching Sara. He wanted to run his fingers down her shoulder, her arm, and grasp her hand in his. He wanted to lace their fingers together, draw her to him, and kiss her, better and longer than he had downstairs.

Instead, he unscrewed the cap and splashed two inches of absinthe into the bottom of the juice glass.

Sara leaned over and sniffed. She instantly recoiled. “Ugh. It smells like NyQuil.”

That almost made him laugh. “It has anise in it. That’s why I suggested diluting it.”

“I’ll go get a spoon.” She had her nose curled up and her arms tightly over her chest. “Though doesn’t diluting it just mean I’ll have to drink more of it?”

“You can try it both ways.” Gabriel went for the sugar and a glass of water.

Sara returned almost immediately, the most ornate of his spoons in her hand. It was carved with extensive curlicues on the handle, and it was elegant, had been expensive. She rinsed it off and dried it, then handed it to him. “I’ve always liked this one.”

Gabriel rested the spoon across the glass. A warm feeling of euphoric anticipation stole over him, an associative memory that this preparation was followed by a beautiful, impenetrable clarity. A confidence that he was brilliant and in control, achieving all his goals and all that had been asked of him.

It was all an illusion of course, and he was tempted to smack the spoon back down on to the table. Hurl the glass. Exercise his own mastery over life, destiny, emotion.