Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Dance with me,” I hear myself say.
She startles. “What?”
I step closer, close enough to smell the faint cinnamon on her skin. “Dance with me.”
“I—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I do.”
Her breath shivers. Slowly, almost cautiously, she sets her cup down on the table. Then she places her hand in mine. Heat shoots straight up my arm.
I lead her to the floor, hand at the small of her back, fingers pressing the fabric of her dress. She steps into me, soft, warm, trusting. The music swells. We move together, her body fitting against mine like it’s meant to be there. Her hand rests on my chest. She breathes in, slow, shaky, her fingers flexing lightly against my shirt.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“Yes. No. I don’t—” She squeezes her eyes shut for a second. “This is dangerous.”
“Everything with you feels dangerous,” I admit.
Her eyes fly open. I hold her tighter.
We keep moving, slow circles, her dress brushing my boots. Every time she shifts, her thigh brushes mine and sends heat straight through me. Her gaze dips to my mouth—once, twice—before darting away like she’s afraid I saw it.
I did.
She doesn’t know I watch her closer than I watch brush fires.
The song fades, applause rising around us. I lead her off the dance floor, not ready to let go, my hand still at her back. The firehouse is too bright, too crowded, too loud for what’s happening inside me.
I need air.
I need space.
I need her.
“Come here,” I say, voice low.
Her breath catches. “Ash—”
“We’re just stepping aside,” I rasp. “I’m not doing anything.”
Not unless she asks. Not unless she leans in first. Not unless she breaks me.
I guide her toward a side hallway near the gear lockers, dimly lit, mostly empty. White lights cast soft shadows along the walls. The faint scent of pine mixes with the familiar smell of smoke-stained gear.
She hesitates in the threshold. “Is this—”
“Quiet,” I murmur.
She goes still. Slowly, I step closer, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head. Her back presses lightly against the lockers, her breath stuttering as I lean in—but not touching her. Not yet.
“Lucy,” I say quietly.
She swallows. “Yeah.”
“You’re killing me.”
Her pupils expand. “Ash…”
“You walk in here wearing that dress, looking at me like you want something—don’t expect me not to react.”
Her voice shakes. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Don’t lie,” I whisper.
Her breath catches sharply. My thumb grazes her hip, slow, deliberate. She inhales like the touch shocks her.
“Tell me to step back,” I murmur, leaning just enough for her to feel my breath on her cheek.
She doesn’t. Instead, her hand lifts—tentative, trembling—and lands on my chest. The contact detonates every ounce of restraint I have.
I cage her in with my body, close but not touching, my forehead nearly brushing hers. She looks up at me, eyes wide, lips parted like a promise.
“Ash…” Her whisper is barely a sound. “We shouldn’t—”
“I know,” I say.
Neither of us move. I lower my head another inch. She tilts hers up. Our noses almost brush. Her breath slips over my mouth, warm and sweet and ruining. Her hand slides higher on my chest. My pulse jumps. I lean in, and then footsteps echo down the main bay.
We freeze and the spell snaps.
Lucy’s eyes widen, and she inhales sharply as she steps sideways out of my space, putting a safe distance between us that feels anything but safe.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to breathe, trying to get my heartbeat under control.
“We should—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I say, voice wrecked. “We should.”
We step out of the corridor just in time to hear someone shout from across the bay, “Mistletoe!”
I look up. Perfect.
A massive bundle of mistletoe hangs from the rafters right above us. The entire room gasps, then starts cheering like they’re at a championship game.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Lucy turns scarlet.
Someone whistles. Someone else bangs a spoon against a punch bowl. Holly—bless her chaotic little heart—jumps up and down yelling, “Do it!”
Lucy laughs nervously. “Oh no.”
I stare at her. She stares back. The chanting grows louder. I should kiss her. I want to kiss her. I’m dying to kiss her.
I step closer. Her breath hitches. Her hand lifts like she thinks I’m going to take it. Everything inside me tightens. I stop inches from her, close enough to feel her warmth but far enough she can still breathe.
The crowd groans dramatically.
Holly yells, “UNCLE ASH!”
Lucy’s eyes sparkle—nervous, flustered, wanting.
My voice comes out low. “Not like this.”
Her lips part. I step back. Slowly. Painfully. The crowd boos. Lucy laughs, flustered, cheeks bright red. I turn away, sucking in a breath so sharp it burns.
Because if I kiss her…
If I touch her…
If I take her face in my hands and finally taste her…
There won’t be any stopping.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
I force myself toward the refreshment table, gripping the edge like it’s a lifeline. My pulse refuses to slow. My body is still tuned to the shape of her against the lockers.