“Don’t do it again.”
“Never.”
I squint up at him. “If insight was lard, they don’t have enough between them to grease a pan?”
He shrugs. “I think my mother heard it onDr.Philor somewhere.”
I snicker, then shake my head. “Forgiven,” I murmur.
“Thank you.”
We remain standing there, his hand still cupping my chin, those eyes still holding me captive.
“Jordan,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth, andoh God, it’s almost physical, that visual stroke. Without my permission, my tongue peeks out and swipes over my bottom lip, savoring that caress, imprinting it.
A sound rumbles out of him, and it’s somewhere between a moan and a growl. Maybe an utterly sexual combination of both. Instinct tells me that he didn’t mean to release it, but it’s too late. That hungry, needy noise reverberates between us, and though space separates our bodies, I swear it vibrates over my breasts, my nipples. And I bite my lip, containing a matching sound inside.
“Don’t.” The order—dark, hot, and abrupt—sends a jolt through me.
A sizzling jolt that has my nerve endings dancing. My breath catching. My sex quivering.
I don’t need to ask what he’s referring to; since we’ve met, Jordan and I have been on a wavelength that should be impossible for two strangers. But it’s there, that connection. And so, now, I slowly release my lip from the clasp of my teeth.
And whimper.
Those beautiful eyes light up like a flash of dry heat, searing me. And, in spite of the speech I just delivered to myself on resisting this, I turn my face up to it. Hungering for its burn.
What would Sarafina do?
Easy.
She’d jump into the fucking flames.
“Has anyone seen my sister? I swear, she’s probably face first into Cyrus’s wine closet.” Zora’s voice drifts into the kitchen, and I stiffen. “Miriam, where are you?”
Panic claws at me, and I push at Jordan’s chest, but I shove against air since he’s already moved. Later, I’ll analyze what his quick actions could mean—leaping away like I’m patient zero for the zombie apocalypse could play hell with a girl’s confidence—but for right now, the last thing I need is for someone to walk in here and misconstrue seeing us together.
Hell, I don’t know what they would be seeing.
I’ll analyze that later too. When my heartbeat isn’t between my legs.
“Miriam.”
I draw to a halt at the voice that’s lower, gravellier than usual, but I don’t glance over my shoulder. Looking at him might be the very thing that tips my precarious resolve over the edge, and I desperately need to regroup first.
“Yes?”
“You and Daniel ... you’re good?”
Were we? Before I came into this kitchen, I’d already decided we needed a conversation about being just friends. Now? When my body hums with pleasure for another man? Hell yes, we must have that conversation.
“Yes, we’re good.”
Call me a liar. I’ll accept it. But I need Daniel as a barrier.
“Good.”
