Page 52 of Lady and the Butcher
He set his keys down. I toed off my shoes. We didn’t rush. That felt like the newest game—how slowly could we cross the last inches.
“Come here,” he said.
I did. The words lived inside me now. My body answered before my brain could run interference. He took my chin between his fingers and tipped my face up. He didn’t kiss me. Of course, he didn’t. He let his mouth hover a breath away like heat was enough.
“You held your line with your brother,” he said. “Proud of you.”
It should have embarrassed me. It didn’t. It landed like a hand at the base of my skull, warm and steadying. I felt taller. I hated that I needed his words to make me tall. No. I didn’t hate it. I only hated that I admitted it.
“I almost died of embarrassment," I said. “And then I almost laughed.”
“Good instincts,” he said.
He slid the tip of his nose along my cheekbone. The smallest friction. Every nerve lit. His other hand settled at my hip, not quite pulling me in. We stood there at the edge, like teenagers on a dock, counting down to the jump even though the water was already around our ankles.
“Kiss me,” I said, and heard the truth in it. Not a power play. A plea.
He gave me the softest kiss imaginable. Not a test. A hello. A single press that told me he could turn me inside out later because he refused to rush now. I chased it when he lifted his head, and he let me steal one more before he pulled back, amused and hungry.
“Hands on the glass,” he said.
I made an eager noise. I turned. Walked toward the window like gravity pulled me by the wrist. I set my palms where they remembered to go. The glass was cool and thrilling. It recognized me.
He came up behind me and gathered the fall of my golden hair. He lifted it off my neck and breathed there. I vibrated like I’d swallowed electricity.
“Take the dress off,” he said.
I reached back. He moved my hand aside. “Let me.”
I stood still while he found the hidden clasp and slid it free. The silk loosened and sighed down my body until I stepped out of it. He didn’t rush to touch the skin he’d uncovered. He let theair have me for a second. I melted and straightened at the same time.
His hand came around to my stomach, flat and sure. He drew me back into him. The thick line of his arousal pressed where I wanted it most. I made a small, helpless sound, and his grip tightened a fraction. The city became a mirror. My mouth was open. His eyes were half-lidded and intent. We were beautiful and indecent and doomed.
He slid his palm lower.
Slow. Cruel. Perfect.
My phone rang.
We both froze. It sounded like a bird trapped in a vent. I stared at the reflection of my abandoned dress and then down at the coffee table where I’d left my device faceup like a dare.
“Don’t,” he said. Not sharp. Pleading.
I looked at the screen, anyway. MARIA. Thirty-nine weeks. First baby. The one who made cookies for her neighbors when her nesting got weird and who texted me photos of her cat sitting on a half-packed hospital bag.
My gut flipped. Then tightened into something like duty and affection and adrenaline all braided together. I tore free of his hand like I’d been plugged in. I grabbed the phone.
“Hey, Mama.” I made my voice steady and warm. “Talk to me.”
Her breath came in around the words. “They’re four minutes apart. Maybe three. I lost track. I’m shaking.”
You’re safe, I should have said.You’re strong. It’s okay to be scared. The phrases stacked up and fought to be first.
“You’re doing it,” I said. “You’re okay. Can you talk while I count one with you?”
She breathed through another, and I counted quiet and soothing, the way I had in kitchens and tubs and strangers’ living rooms at two in the morning. Atticus stood a foot away andwatched me shed the woman he’d undressed and step into the one with a tote bag and a plan.
“Okay,” I said when her exhale broke into a laugh-cry. “They’re close enough now. Meet me at Palmetto Birth Center. I’ll be there in twenty.”
