Heck.
That kiss hasn’t left my head for longer than twenty seconds at a time. That entire evening hasn’t left me alone for threeentire days. Mirabelle’s voice replays in my skull, constantly, tormenting, teasing,begging.
Damion, please.
I douse the back of my throat with water, lean against the doorjamb, andwatchwhile I can.
Because ever since my lips met hers through the fabric of my Spider-man mask, Mirabelle has run from me.
I’m not talking cute squeak followed by a panicked little flee, either.
I’m talking…
Mirabelle turns, sees me, and gasps. Red floods her whole face, then she collapses her duster, tucks it to take proper form, andboltsas though she is an olympic medalist.
I blink, and a rush of wind hits me as she sprints past, vanishing up the other end of the hall before I can so much as tilt myself to look at her go.
She has not been cooking here. She has been cooking in her house, bringing the food to my kitchen table, and disappearing before I come out for it.
I’d commend both the skill and dedication she’s committed to avoiding me—if they weren’t ruining my life right now.
Hefting a massive sigh, I pour more water into my mouth then do the only thing a sane man can at a time like this. Short of setting traps, anyway.
Putting my water bottle down, I stretch, then I bolt after the woman I love.
As I begin to close the distance, she throws a look back at me and screams, which I’m sure bodes well for all things, probably.
“Hey,” I say once I’ve caught up to her.
“Leave me alone!”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I inform her, in case she isn’t aware. “Can we talk about it?”
She reaches the front door, throws it open, and plunges into the November day.
I, naturally, plunge right along after her.
“Why are your legs so long?” she yells, beginning to perish as her stamina runs thin.
I look down at my legs and shrug. “My father is tall.”
Heaving breaths fill her as she begins to slow. Somewhere in the middle of the wide walled-in yard, her energy depletes and she drops forward, hands against her knees.
I come to a stop beside her. “So.”
Struggling, she finds the strength to lift her head and glare at me, until her eyes hit my mouth. Red blisters her cheeks as her lips part to tremble.
Seeing as she’s a touch preoccupied with breathing, I decide I’ll start this intervention. “I’m sorry if I went too far on Halloween.”
Her mouth closes, and her jaw locks, and her eyes pry themselves off my lips to slide across my neck, to my shoulders, down my arms, tracing my tattoos.
I continue, “I lost control of myself and took advantage of a situation I very much orchestrated. It is never my intention to make you feel unsafe around me. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
Her gaze slashes back up to my eyes, and she swallows as she straightens. Finally having caught her breath, she says, “No,” turns on her heel, and marches back toward the house.
Ignoring the sinking feeling in my chest, I follow her. “There has to be something. Some code we can come up with. Some way you can communicate to me that I need to stop.”
“Sorry. Wasget away from meunclear?” She keeps steadily marching.
