“Does that mean,” he says slowly, “that I no longer have your permission to save your life without scheduling it in advance?”
“You have my permission to warn me,” she says. “You do not have my permission to use my mouth as camouflage.”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs, closing the space between them by a dangerous inch.
“What if I want to use it for something else?” he asks softly.
Her pulse slams.
“You don’t,” she says. “Under these terms.”
His eyes glint.
“Very lawyerly,” he murmurs. “Have you always been this good at pretending your body doesn’t tell on you?”
Her spine stiffens.
“You said you agreed,” she reminds him.
“And I did,” he says. “I’m not touching you.”
His gaze traces the line of her throat, the quick flutter there.
“I’m just asking questions,” he a
