Page 73 of Fire and Silk
“I’ll teach you,” he says without hesitation.
“And then what?” I ask, pulling myself closer, our faces only a breath apart.
His hand lingers on the curve of my thigh. “Then I’ll be with you.”
My heart flutters—, hard—like a winged thing that doesn’t trust its cage.
“And what if you get tired,” I murmur, “like all men do?”
He starts to speak. “If this is about him—”
But I cut in, sharper than I mean to.
“No,” I say. “This is about me knowing what Mico will do. He’ll keep me safe. That’s my choice.”
“You’re a wild ride I’m not up for,” I say, voice soft but certain.
He doesn’t respond.
I place the blindfold in his hand.
He closes his fingers around it slowly, his gaze still resting on me.
I slip from the bed and find my dress folded neatly on a chaise by the window. The fabric feels colder than it should against my skin as I pull it back over my body. Behind me, I hear him move. No rush. No words. Just the quiet, composed rustle of someone dressing with intention.
When I turn around, he’s clothed. Black shirt. Slacks. As if none of it touched him.
We stand across from each other, and something about it feels… formal.
I stretch out my hand between us.
“Thank you,” I say. “For a wonderful afternoon.”
He chuckles—not mocking, not smug. Just… amused. And then he takes my hand.
But he doesn’t shake it.
He brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. His lips brush just above my knuckles, lingering for a second too long. When he lifts his head, his eyes are still on mine.
“I’ll be waiting for you to come back,” he says.
My heart skips.
He lifts his hand to my face and smooths a strand of hair behind my ear. I tilt my head slightly, involuntarily, drawn to the tenderness of the gesture.
He’s taller than me by far. Standing this close, I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes. His presence wraps around me like heat rising from stone—quiet, patient, inescapable.
My chest tightens.
I don’t want to walk away.
But I do.
He opens the door, and we step into a wide, column-lined corridor flooded with late afternoon light. His hand rests gently at my lower back—not guiding, not forcing. Just… there. It makes my chest shallow. My skin feels warmer where he touches me.
I want him to keep it there.
But I also want to run.
