Page 21 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

I expect there to be a hint of dry humor, of putting me on in the statement. But the complete seriousness of his tone tells me otherwise.

A kitten has preferences.

And he listens to them, works with them.

Same as he’s done with me.

Something scary and unpleasant—and also nice—flutters through my belly as I scoop up another bite of soup, realize I’ve reached the bottom of my bowl.

“Do you want me to heat you up some more?” he asks quietly.

“No.” I reach for a piece of bread. “There’s plenty here.”

“Carbs first?”

“What?”

He snags his own piece of bread. “I’ve heard you and Briar and the other women talk about the healing properties of carbs.”

I chuckle and his eyes come to mine, hold.

“Is that not true?”

“Oh no, it’s very true. I’m just surprised that you’ve paid any attention to our nonsense.”

“I find,” he says slowly, “that I pay attention to everything about you.”

My lungs expand in a sudden rush of air.

But I don’t know what to say.

So, I don’t say anything.

Instead, I reach for another piece of bread. Thorn reaches too and our fingers brush.

The spark of sensation has my pulse jumping, but amazingly, I don’t go tense.

I just keep my hand where it is.

We both do.

Then he, oh so slowly, oh so gently, runs the tip of his index finger along the back of mine.

Lightning through my veins.

Heat in my belly.

Dampness between my legs.

My breathing is nowhere near steady, but it’s not because I’m scared. Rather, it’s because in the quiet of my apartment, the quiet of this moment…I feel safe.

Crash!

The loud noise echoes out in the corridor, making me flinch and jerk back.

I hate it.

Hate that I can’t stop it.