“That’s because you think you have a chance with me.”
His eyes go pitch-black as though actual darkness were closing in on him. “How about you kiss me before you dismiss me?”
Even though my pulse is going wild, I scoot my lips into a smirk sure to wound and keep him from entertaining an impossible dream. “Not a line I’m willing to cross, Lowry.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve a girl who likes to do regular things—like aerobics and restaurant dates.”
He looms closer, his masculine heat overwhelming me. “Give me an actual reason not to kiss you.”
“Because, as I told you earlier, I’m not attracted to you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even and strong. I manage neither.
“So, if I reached under your dress, I wouldn’t find you wet?”
My lashes swing upward, and I choke on my inhale. “If you reached under my dress, I’d break all ten of your fingers.”
“Before…or after I got you off?”
My thighs squeeze. Absolute traitors.
“Before,” I squeak, because apparently, I’ve lost the ability to breathe like a functioning adult.
His fingers land on the outer curve of my thigh, just beneath the hem of my dress, and trace indolent little circles.
Instead of snatching his wrist or shoving him away with magic, I stand there like a yearning idiot.
He ignores my warning, his loops growing bolder, skimming the crease beneath my ass before sweeping back to my body’s edge.
I need to stop him.
Why don’t I want to?
A second question blots out the first:Whydo I need to?
I try to recall my reasons, but I suddenly don’t give a shit that he doesn’t have runes or that he isn’t Malachi. Besides, what harm would there be in letting go just a little?
Not to mention, I’d gain some experience.
Plus, there’s no way I’d really get attached, so saying goodbye would be painless.
He leans forward, his mouth grazing the hollow of my neck, just above the pulse point that’s throbbing as wildly as another pulse point located farther south. One that he is nearing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
His hand stops exploring. His neck straightens. His gaze narrows. But not on me. On a place behind me.
My front door.
My litany offucksturns into a litany ofshits. May it be my brother. Or Callie. Oranyonebut the person I invited over. I suddenly don’t want Malachi here. I don’t want him to see Cillian and me together.
“Forgive me for intruding. Didn’t realize you had company, Elle.” Malachi’s voice cuts across my thundering pulse like a chainsaw.
I hesitate to turn, but then remind myself of the reasons I invited him—to see if he’d ever look at me the way Cillian does—and I steel my spine.
He does look, but his stare, unlike Cillian’s when I appeared in the doorway, is cold and disappointed, which only makes me feel like more of a kid. One caught fooling around in her parents’ kitchen.
I suddenly want to throw a trench coat over my skimpy dress. Which causes my anger to swell. Not at him but at myself. A man’s stare shouldn’t dictate how I feel.
