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“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’m sitting here.”

“That leg is showing off.”

His mouth twitched. “My leg?”

“Very arrogant.”

That almost got a real smile.

I rubbed my hand down to his knee. I wanted to go in the other direction, was trying to work up the nerve.

My unrequited love/lifelong obsession had left me romantically destitute and completely inexperienced.

I found that embarrassing. I never wanted to admit it to him, but I’d never even kissed anyone before.

And I wanted to do a lot more than kiss.

I planned to try.

He was still watching my hand like it was the most fascinating, threatening thing in the world.

I liked that look. Though I didn’t fully understand it, I knew it meant I was in control.

I stood abruptly and moved to stand between his legs, trying not to wince at the initial sting of putting weight on my feet.

When I’d adjusted, I looked down at him, stroking his hair, feeling through the strands, exploring him with hands and eyes, feeling wonder that he was just letting me.

My ankle protested.

His hands immediately came up to steady my hips. “Careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“And surviving it. Beats the alternative.”

His eyes darkened.

I remembered my promise not to joke about dying. “Sorry.”

He let that go.

He kept letting me, staring up at me with almost pleading eyes.

Did he want me to keep going or did he want me to stop?

I touched the side of his face. “Do you want me to stop touching you?”

“No.” The word came too fast to misunderstand.

Good.

I shrugged my top off.

His eyes flickered. He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes locked to mine, not looking down.