When he finally pulled back, his eyes moved over my face with that focused, slightly furrowed expression he got sometimes — like he was looking at something he couldn't fully classify and it bothered him that he couldn't. But it lasted only a moment before his face smoothed back into its usual composure, the way a curtain falls.
His hand moved from my waist to my face. His thumb traced slowly across my lower lip.
"We're going on a trip tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping into that low, unhurried baritone that did things to my chest I was becoming dangerously accustomed to. "Sydney. Takeoff is four AM."
"What?" I blinked. "Four AM? That's — that's very early. My house is a bit too far from—"
"You'll be sleeping at my place," he cut me off evenly. "Wouldn't want us to miss the flight.
