He pats his thigh. "Sit."
This is crazy! Absolutely insane.
But I asked for this. And he's right—I can't keep shutting down every time Blake gets in my personal space.
I take a deep breath.
Okay, Jane. You can do this. You watched Fifty Shades. You read that one article about ‘The Art of Seduction’ while waiting for laundry. You’ve got this.
I meet West’s gaze, trying to channel smoky confidence.
I push up from my end of the couch and step across the cushions toward him. One step. Then another, like I’m daring myself to keep going.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
I stop when I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to smell the salt on his skin, the clean scent of his soap.
“Okay, Prescott,” I say, aiming for sultry but landing somewhere near ‘nervous chipmunk’.
“Lesson one.”
I lift my hand. Place it flat on his chest, right over his heart. His skin is warm. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my palm. My fingertips brush the pulse point at the base of his throat. It’s beating fast.
Good.
Then I… hop.
Not slide. Not ease down.
Just straight up and onto his lap like this is a very strange trust exercise.
West lets out a startled breath. “Whoa—no. Jane.”
I freeze, fully facing him, knees planted on either side of his thighs.
“That’s not sitting,” he says.
“You said lap.”
“I didn’t mean mount,” he replies. “You’re not saddling a horse.”
“I amnotmounting you.”
“You absolutely are.”
I try to fix it, shifting my weight to one side. My knee slides. My balance wobbles. I overcorrect, which somehow makes it worse.
“Okay, now you’re doing too much,” he says.
“I’m adjusting.”
“You’re—”
I move again, attempting to angle myselfsideways like he clearly intended, but the movement just turns into an awkward shuffle that has us both rethinking gravity.
“Jane.”
“What?!”
