She says, “Your sisters sound wonderful.”
Goosebumps rush down her throat, so I wrap my arm around her shoulders.
She turns to watch the busker play, and I gaze at her profile. She studies the movement of the guitarist’s hands, each finger plucking and strumming as if she understands something I do not about this language they both speak. I glance down to see her fingers copying his, playing the crisp air, as if she can’t stop them. I don’t even know if she realises she is doing it.
I grab her hand and stand, attempting to pull her out in front of the small group of spectators. She tries to dig her heels into the ground and tugs away in a gentle protest.
“Trust me,” I whisper.
She sighs but relents to me, allowing me to pull her against my chest and sway with her.
And, yeah, we’re terrible. The rhythm is wrong, but we are right, so I don’t care that our feet keep catching each other. I don’t think she does either. I can dance a little, best when I’m helping Cassidy practice ballet, but that’s because she is exceptional and can make a llama look like a dancer.
I pull Blesk closer when she stumbles and laughs into my shoulder. When she lifts her face to look at me, I catch something moving through her eyes. Affection? I am pretty sure. Not regret. Not disappointment that I’m Deakon.
So, I just hold her a little tighter and hope the song never ends and that her expression stays the same forever.
We watch the sun sink below the horizon before heading back to my apartment.
While she’s in the bathroom, I pour myself a bourbon and try not to think about how the lads might behave tonight—what they know about my reputation, what they might say to Blesk. I can’t exactly blame them. I have a rep with perpetual women. I just have to show them that this is different. Take no hostages, kind of thing. She isn’t just Blesk. She’s the little girl I thought was dead, accepted that deep loss without ever looking… Should I have tried? Have I failed her? Liz risked everything to get me out, and I let her die in a ditch.
I take a swig of bourbon.
The bathroom door opens. I look up.Well, fuck.There she is in a black dress with pink ribbons, her hair swept up. I can see her pulse at the base of her throat, and I want to press my lips against it, feel it flutter.
“Wow… Fuck, Duch.” I exhale animatedly. “How am I supposed to be a gentleman when you look like that?”
She giggles, shrugging a shoulder as her cheeks redden.
“I’m serious.”
I’m not.
I push to my feet and circle her, trying to memorize every line. I want to peel that dress off, reveal each inch of skin, taste every dimple, then make love to her right here in those heels. I force a steady exhale, dragging my thoughts to my coach and the whiskered barista to keep my cock under control.
“Should I change?” she asks, laughing.
“No! Well… yes. Actually, no. You look stunning.”
She beams. “Like a duchess?”
“Spitting image.”
She tilts up and brushes her lips against my cheek. I don’t move. I want that kiss—her soft, warm lips linger.
She steps back.
I exhale.
She quirks a smile. “You look gorgeous, too, Konnor.”
I clear my throat, shove aside every filthy thought about her curves and those heels, slip my hand through hers, and we leave. She takes the elevator; I take the stairs. Meeting at the bottom, Adolf greets us in the foyer with a polite nod.
“Mr Slater, Miss Bellamy,” he says, lifting his hat. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you, Adolf, and you, too,” Blesk replies, beaming.
I love how polite she is.
