Dimples. The nerve of this man.
“A nuisance?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you daft, woman?”
My mouth opens. Shuts. Reboots. “I didn’t mean—I just didn’t want you to think—”
The words tangle and die under the weight of his glower, which is growing blacker by the second.
“Didn’t want me to thinkwhat, exactly?” he presses.
“That I expected anything,” I blurt. “You know. Because we had sex.”
There. Said it. Out loud. Might as well tattoo it across my forehead.
Without a word, Bran sets down the jar of seasoning he’d been using. The move is precise, almost careful, like he’s making sure he doesn’t slam it hard enough to break glass.
He walks to the sink, turns on the water, and washes his hands thoroughly—backs, palms, between the fingers—like he’s stalling for time or bleeding off temper. He dries them on a dish towel with the same methodical focus.
Then he comes to stand right in front of me.
Close enough that all I can see is chest. Heat. Him.
He takes the juice bottle from my hand, sets it behind me on the counter, effectively caging me in with his body, the counter at my back, the solid line of him in front.
Then he cups my face in his hands. His palms engulf my jaw, thumbs resting at the hinge, fingers curling back toward my ears. He tips my face up, and I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
Green and gold and very, very serious.
“I mean, I just—”
“Tallulah,” he says quietly. “Shut up.”
Before I can argue about being told to shut up in my own head, he kisses me.
Not quick. Not “just to prove a point.”
He kisses me like he’s dismantling every stupid, self-protective thing I just said. His mouth covers mine, hot and deliberate, tongue sliding against mine in a way that short-circuits my brain completely.
My hands find his wrists, fingers wrapping around the thick tendons there more for balance than to push him away. My knees go a little weak.
By the time he lifts his head, I’m dizzy and a little breathless, staring up at him like he’s the only coherent thing in the room.
“Does that feel like I think you’re a nuisance?” he asks softly.
I manage a tiny shake of my head. No. No, it really doesn’t.
“Good,” he says. His thumbs stroke once along my jaw before he drops his hands. “Because I don’t. And Tallulah?”
My brow furrows, my earlier sentence already disintegrating under the warmth in his tone.
“Expect something,” he continues. “When a man takes you to bed, you better damn well expect the fucking moon and stars. Otherwise, he has no business being in your bed.”
Oh.
Warmth flares in my chest, spreading outward in a slow, creeping tide until my ears buzz, my eyes sting, my whole body feels like it’s been plugged into some new power source.
“You can’t just say things like that before coffee,” I mutter, because crying seems like a bit much.
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “Now,” he says, voice going brisk again as if he didn’t just rearrange my emotional furniture, “go sit—all the way over there, so I’m not tempted—and let me get these steaks cooked.”
