Lucian’s breath left him in a short, sharp exhale.
His hands, which had been going for my shoulders to reverse us again, landed instead on my waist.
They didn’t move.
His fingers tightened unconsciously, digging into the curve where my waist met my hips.
We stared at each other.
Dirt smeared his shirt.
A bit of it had streaked my forearm.
My braid hung over one shoulder, the tail brushing his collarbone.
There was a very obvious, very hard line of heat under me that I did my best not to think about.
It didn’t work.
Heat flushed up my throat.
Lucian’s gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then snapped back to my eyes.
The world contracted to that point of contact—his hands on my waist, my weight on his body, the thin layer of clothes, the only barrier.
Someone cleared their throat
