“Yes.”
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
His laugh is warm and triumphant. And when he kisses me again, it’s slower this time. Thorough. Like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
My back hits the refrigerator. A magnet clatters to the floor. Neither of us moves to pick it up.
“Mal. We should?—”
“Should what?” His forehead rests against mine. Both of us are breathing hard. “Stop? Think about consequences? Be reasonable?”
“All of the above.”
“Mm.” His thumb traces my lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “And if I don’t want to be reasonable?”
“Then you’re more trouble than I thought.”
“I’ve been telling you that from the beginning.” He kisses me once more—quick and soft, a promise and a threat all at once. “The question is whether you’re willing to find out how much trouble I can be.”
I should say no. I should step back and remember all the reasons this is dangerous and complicated and destined to implode.
Instead, I grab his collar and pull him back down.
CHAPTER SIX
“Five, six, seven—no, yourleftfoot.”
“This is my left foot.”
“That’s your right foot.”
“Isadora.” Mal stops mid-step, looking down at his feet with theatrical confusion. “I’ve had these appendages for over three centuries. I think I know which one is left.”
“Apparently not—” I catch myself, and replay his words.Three centuries.“Centuries?”
“Thirty years.” His smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind his eyes. “I said thirty years. Are you feeling all right? You seem distracted.”
I am distracted. I’ve been distracted since the moment he walked into the studio twenty minutes ago, looking annoyingly well-rested and entirely too pleased with himself. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower. His shirt clings to shoulders I now know the exact feel of under my hands. And his mouth?—
Stop looking at his mouth.
“I’m fine.” I step back into frame, assuming first position with exaggerated precision. “Again. From the promenade.”
“You’ve already corrected the promenade six times.”
“Then we’ll correct it a seventh.”
“Or we could talk about?—”
“The syncopation in measure twelve.” I reach for the remote, rewinding the music. “Your timing drifts. We should drill that section until it’s automatic.”
“That’s not what I was going to suggest talking about.”
“I know.”
The music starts, and we move. For approximately eleven seconds, everything is professional. Then his hand settles against my lower back, and my entire body short-circuits.
