“You have,” he said, his voice a shade deeper, “a smudge of flour. Right here.” His thumb brushed, just once, over the corner of my mouth. There was no flour. I knew it. He knew it. It was an excuse. A transparent, beautiful excuse to touch me. My breath hitched. I couldn’t look away from his eyes. The gray in them seemed to darken, swallowing the light. His hand stayed on my waist, burning a brand through my clothes. My own hands, still clutching a linen water lily, hung uselessly at my sides. The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the intensity of his gaze, to the faint, quickened rhythm of his breathing that matched my own. He was going to kiss me. The knowledge was a crystal-clear certainty. It was in the slight lean of his body, the dip of his head, the parting of his lips. And I wanted him to. God, I wanted it. The wanting was a physical ache, sweet and sharp. The moment stretched, taut and shimmering. Then, from the hallway, came the unmistakable, cheerful soun
Last Updated : 2026-01-18 Read more