Alaric stared at me like I’d just licked his sword.
His jaw? Locked. Like the tension traveled from his soul into his teeth and decided to camp there.
I blinked, cheeks full of sugar and judgment.
“It’s just a tart,” I said around a bite, frowning.
He narrowed his eyes, fork lowering. His stare? Not on the tart. On my mouth.
“You shouldn’t make sounds like that in public,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel and hell.
I licked a stray crumb from my lower lip on purpose.
“Should I start choking instead? Would that make you more comfortable?”
His eyes snapped to mine.
Hot. Furious. Dangerous.
Aroused.
“Comfort has nothing to do with it.”
Oh.
We’re in that kind of mood today?
He reached for his glass of wine.
And our fingers brushed.
Just a whisper of contact—skin to skin.
B
