Page 91 of Fang Fatale

I do.

She slips the jacket over my shoulders, smoothing the collar with careful fingers before her hand lingers lightly against my chest.

“You’re bleeding again.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Neither of us moves.

“Birdie...”

She looks up.

“Hm?”

I should step back.

Instead, I hear myself whisper,

“Tell me to stop.”

She searches my face for a long moment.

Then, very quietly...

“I don’t want you to.”

Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and she rises onto her toes.

The kiss is soft.

Tentative.

The kind of kiss meant to test the water, not cannonball into it.

I nearly laugh into her mouth because, of course, she would be the one to make the first move. Of course kissing Birdie would somehow feel both entirely unexpected and completely inevitable.

My hand settles against her waist.

Carefully.

Giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she leans closer, and somehow that tiny bit of trust means more than the kiss itself.

When we part, neither of us goes very far.

Our foreheads rest together.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” she whispers.

“The braid?” I ask.

A laugh escapes her.

“The braid.”