When I reach across the table, threading my fingers through his, it feels like something clicks into place.
Not blackmail. Not chaos.
Us.
I squeeze his hand, my voice low but steady. “You realize you’re stuck with me now, right? Those words mean something. This makes us official, right?”
He raises a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Official?”
“Boyfriend-girlfriend official,” I clarify. “No auditioning other homicidal witches. I’ve got an exclusive contract now, Lucky.”
His grin is instant, wicked, feral. “Fine print better say I get unlimited make-outs and lifetime rights to your sarcasm.”
“Done.” I grin back. “Signed. Sealed.”
Lucky leans closer, green eyes blazing with heat and humor. “Want to know something, Dagger Kitten? You’re late to the announcement. I’ve been your boyfriend since the first time I helped you haul a corpse. I don’t do that for just anyone.”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re insane.”
“And I’m yours,” he says simply, like it’s the truest thing in the world.
The wordboyfriendshouldn’t feel like fire in my veins. It shouldn’t make me want to crawl across the table and kiss him until I forget my own name.
But it does.
I watch him lean back in his chair, green eyes still on me like I’m the only thing in this penthouse worth noticing. And maybe it’s the way he looks at me—like I’m sharp and soft at the same time—or maybe it’s the lightness humming under my skin from last night’s confession. Whatever it is, I move before I can overthink it.
I slide out of my chair, push him back from the table, and plant myself in his lap.
Lucky’s expression is cautious and turned on at the same time. “Willow?—”
“Just kiss me,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to his.
I feel him relax just a little at my request. His arms hesitantly wrap around my waist, and his lips soften under mine. His lips part when mine do. Warm and inviting. My fingers rise to tangle in his hair. I feel his hands twitch against my hips, hesitant. Waiting.
I pull back just enough to whisper, “You can touch me.”
That’s what he needs. Hesitantly at first, his palms slide up my thighs, slow, reverent, until they’re resting on the curve of my waist. His grip is steady but not trapping—like he’s grounding me, not holding me down.
The heat of it makes me shiver.
I love the feel of his hands around my waist. How massive they are, how tiny he makes me feel. He could damn near circle my waist. I love that I feel protected in his embrace. I feel cherished. Worshiped almost.
“I like it when you touch me,” I whisper against his lips.
And those few words, me speaking up for what feels good, Lucky growls against my lips in approval. “Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low against my mouth. “Tell me if it’s ever too much.”
My body lights up like he flipped a switch.
Good girl?
Oh.
Oh, I get it now.
Those two little words do something to me.
And his few words of instruction?
