It’s just a question. An ordinary, logical question. But there’s a husky roughness in his tone and a look in those eyes that dares me to . . . to what, exactly?
I nod, my neck suddenly stiff, and my answer comes out as a whisper. “Just like that.”
When he finally removes his hand and leans back against the seat, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I force my brain to continue functioning, placing the right stack of cards on top of the left. After dividing the deck into four piles, one pile at a time, I spread them out in my fingers to reveal them. “Do you see your card in this stack?” I ask softly.
He only looks down for a second before flicking his eyes back to mine. “No.”
“How about this one?”
“Yes.”
I collect the other piles and realize I have no idea where to set them aside. The loveseat is already small and, with the way we’re both positioned, there’s not enough room on the cushions. “Mind holding these for the rest of the—” I almost blurt outmagic trickbut catch myself just in time, “um, ritual?”
Bringing my attention back to the last remaining pile before me, I mindlessly extend the extras toward him, setting them down on his warm lap. My grip hasn’t quite released them yet when I hear him clear his throat, feel the friction of fabric moving beneath my fingers as his body shifts. I finally look in the direction of my hand and am instantly mortified.
My hand. Is on. His penis.
I mean, not really, but it’s pretty damn close. Between the other night and tonight, it’s like I’m hosting my own private show calledHow Many Times Can Lou Touch Him Inappropriately. Speaking of which, I should probably move right about now. I yank my fingers away so fast the cards almost spill from his lap to the ground, but he catches them with a quick move of his hand.
“Oh my god,” I groan, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry. I swear that wasn’t, like, me making a move or something.” Does he even know what that means?
Apparently so. He presses his lips together in a tight line, jaw ticking. His eyes still burn a fierce green, but they don’t give anything away. “Don’t worry about it,” he all but grinds out. “What’s next?”
“Right.” I glance back down at the remaining cards, ridiculously thankful he didn’t drag that out like he definitely could have. I divide them again, then do all the separating and discarding Grams walked me through, and when I get to that last card, I pause. Regaining my formal tone, I say, “Now, everything hangs on this next part. If I get this wrong, my status in our, um, human rankings will be lowered.”
His eyes narrow, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it too far. Maybe I’m being too obvious. But then his expression softens. “Go ahead.”
Phew. I flip the card so it’s face up, then lower my voice just enough to sound serious. “Was this your card?”
I watch as his face goes from hard, masked, to focused, then . . . surprised? Relieved? “Yes,” he says with a satisfied nod. “That’s the one.” He brings his gaze back up to meet mine, a lightness dancing in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.
That’s when I see it. It starts slow, the corner of his lips lifting. Then the other corner lifts to match it, and butterflies swirl in my stomach as I realize he’s actually smiling at me. A definite, even sincere, smile. It’s not what I’d expect; understated and almost shy, with a single dimple on his right cheek that manages to change his entire look. In a split second, he somehow went from intimidating and deadly to boyish and endearing.
“You did it,” he murmurs, green gaze roaming my face.
I find myself grinning back, soaking up his smile like the first glimpse of sunlight after a long, rough winter.
Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.
Chapter 23
We sitlike that for several beats, eyes locked together, bodies almost close enough to touch with the way we’ve both seemed to lean toward each other. His smile’s already begun to drop, but the dimple hasn’t fully disappeared yet and there’s still a lightness in those eyes when they fall to my lips, tracing every curve.
I clear my throat and close my eyes, abruptly breaking the trance before it sucks me in further. “Okay,” I whisper seriously, “now for the closing line.” I can’t justify my reasons for coming up with this next part, except that I want to test my theory that he can make anything teeter between sounding threatening and sensual. Without opening my eyes, I say, “Repeat after me: Leggo. My Eggo.”
After a moment of silence passes, I keep one eye closed and squint through the other, trying to sneak a peek at him. Except he’s looking right at me. And he does not look amused. Somehow, even though he can’t possibly know the waffle reference, I think he’s caught on—no thanks, I’m sure, to the way my face has twisted into a partial grimace, partial grin, as I try to hold back the laughter bubbling up my throat.
“Please?” I squeak out. It’s childish, I know, but Ireallywant to hear this.
After another brief second of taking in my expression, he speaks. And it’s almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing when he does. “Leggo,” he says it slowly, exaggerating each syllable, ensuring I feel the full effect of that low husk of his voice, “my Eggo.”
My mouth opens to form an ‘O’ as I stare at him in shock—over the fact that he actually said it despite knowing it was bullshit and over confirmation that my theory is indeed correct. He totally pulled it off. I only hold the expression for a moment before finally letting out the bubble of laughter that’s been itching to escape. It takes a second for my giggles to quiet, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye as they do. “I’m sorry,” I murmur between one last snicker. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. Well, not totally.”
He lowers an eyebrow and tilts his head, apparently mulling something over. “Exactly how much of the ritual was real?”
“Um . . .”
He lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair, and I start to worry that I’ve pissed him off. “None of it?”
