Nine-Tenths

Twenty

"Colin—"

I turn to face him so fast I scatter the hill of grounds in an arc across the floor.

"What was it?" I snap. "What's pissed you off so much you won't even talk to me?"

"I am talking to you," Dav says darkly.

"It was a joke."

"Was it?" Dav asks, but it's not a question. It's more like a challenge. "And do you often proposition your colleagues? Profess your love over sloppily made lattes?"

"Yes!" I say. "As a joke."

"So it was meaningless, your confession?"

"Yes!" I throw my hands up, and wince when my right bicep burns.

Dav steps around the table, hands flexing, fingers opening and closing.

Steeling himself.

"What if I don't want it to be?"

I think I'm getting whiplash.

"What?" I ask.

He stops so close I could count the flecks of deep orange in his irises.

"What if I don't want it to be a joke?" Dav asks, leaning in, voice rich with that draconic rumble.

Holy shit, is he about to kiss me?

I can't help it, I lick my lips, drop my eyes down to his, wonder if they're as fussily cared for as his hair, his manicures, his waxed eyebrows. Does he sugar-scrub his lips? Will he taste sweet?

"Colin!" he growls when I haven't answered. "What if I don't want it to be a joke?"

"Uh... um..." I say, oh, so cleverly, and lick my lips again. My mouth is suddenly so dry my throat clicks.

Oh, shit, this is happening.

Is this happening?

I think it's happening.

"Dav, I..." Fuck it. You know what? Fuck it. Screw Hadi's rules. I don't even care if I regret it. I will regret it more if I don't take a shot at it. So I stretch up my neck, aim for his—

Dav takes my hand.

I freeze.

It's gentle, but it feels like he's pushed a bolt of lightning through my skin. His long fingers caress my palm, skim lightly across the sensitive underside of my wrist, over my pulse point. I gasp like one of the women in my books, light and surprised, because I am surprised.

I watch him lift my hand, gaze locked on mine, making sure I'm watching him do it. Then, gently, he presses his lips to my knuckles.

And it's... it's intimate.

The feel of his breath on my skin, the slight dampness, the heat. His lips are warmer than the rest of him, and I want to know if it's because he's been breathing fire, or if this is another dragon thing. Is his mouth always this hot?

I want to put my tongue against his to gauge it.

Dav's watching me, carefully, thumb brushing across the spot he'd kissed. It sends goosebumps racing up my arm, to shiver along my scalp. Every part of me feels honed in on that single, sweet point of connection between us. It's erotic in a way I would never have written, and yet, to have him standing so close, practically sharing the same air, my hand in his...

"Dav..." I whisper. I have no idea what to say. What to ask for. I should be apologizing, but would that ruin the gravity of this... what is this? A confession? "I don't—

"Hey assholes!" Hadi snarls from the other side of the kitchen door.

Dav springs back so fast he slams into the table. He is back to prim posture and folded hands, though this time his attention is on the floor, on the footprints marked out against the white tile in spilled coffee. I feel bad that I've wasted his hard work like that.

When I look over, Hadi is peering around the doorframe. "If you're going to have a domestic, don't do it in my kitchen. Everyone can hear you two shouting. Fuck." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You know what, Dav hasn't taken lunch. Colin, get him out of here for an hour. Work out your shit."

She yanks the door closed behind her, slamming it with a ringing thunk, and turns up the café muzak.

My face burns, and the blush must match Dav's, because he's red as a tomato, freckles lost in the flag of color, eyes obscured by the flop of his hair. It's not a good look for him. And yet I just want to grab him, throw him up against the fridge door, and cover his mouth with mine, and shit, yeah, Hadi was right.

Time for a break.

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