There are two things I want to do right now, and the war between them is making me lose my mind.
First, I want to pull her into the nearest shadowed alcove, pin her against the wall, and trace the line of those stubborn lips with my thumb. I want to feel the tremor that would run through her body, and kiss her until the ice in her eyes melts and we’re both breathless.
That silver dress is doing things to me, it hugs every curve like it was poured onto her, and all I can think is whether my hand would fit the dip of her waist as perfectly as it did that day I caught her.
And second, I want answers. I have no right to them, not really. But I want them anyway. The questions have been a storm in my head for days. What happened to her in those five missing years? Why did Daphne Ashford beco
