Page 56 of Every Silent Lie
“How long have you been out here?” he asks.
“Not long.”
“Your blue lips don’t agree.”
“I needed to tell you something.”
“What?”
I throw caution to the wind and step into his body, sliding my hand onto his neck and pulling his face close to mine, my breath shaky as I exhale, our noses so close, if I were to blink, our lashes would brush.
“Your hand’s really fucking cold,” he whispers, looking so deeply into my eyes, I’m sure he must see to the very depths of my soul. “So whatever you need to tell me, get on with it.”
I swoop in and catch his mouth, and he’s holding me in his arms a second later, completely encasing me in his warm body, right in the middle of The Strand. People are certainly dodging us—staring—but I don’t care.
My lips thaw immediately, warmth sailing through my frozen body and lighting up my insides. Lighting up my life.
Colour and light.
Because of him.
Sparks sizzle and bang around us, a kaleidoscope of colour erupting in my darkness, his hot tongue lapping around mine with a gentle ease. The pressure is perfect. I could kiss him forever and never come up for air. Never relent to the scratch of his bristle across my skin. Never get tired of hearing his quiet hums of pleasure.
I know I’ll be devasted if he slows this kiss to a stop first, so I find the strength I need to slow it myself until our lips are resting together. Not moving but just touching.
I open my eyes. His are still closed . . . until they’re not.
His lashes flutter, his grey eyes opening and sending my world into a further spin, the sparkle making me as dizzy as his kiss. Moving back out of his body takes everything in me and more. But the warmth is bone deep. I can’t feel the cold now.
Dec tilts his head in question as I collect my flowers, then I turn and walk away, a small, rare smile tugging the corner of my mouth. My steps are light, and the cold can’t touch me. I reach up and feel at my lips, spellbound, hoping he heard every word I spoke in that kiss.
Someone has shovelled the snow from the pathway up to my building—an admiral and good service to all residents.
Except now in its place is a sheet of ice, which is something I only discover when I take my first step off the street. “Fuck!” My body goes rigid, my spine bending back, and my feet must be blurry they’re spinning so fast, trying to keep me upright. “Fucking weather.”
“Stay where you are!”
I grab the railing, juggling my flowers, trying to save us both. Mr. Percival is in the doorway with his walking frame in one hand, a bucket in the other. “What are you doing?” I call, clinging on with one hand, the frozen metal burning my palm.
“Salt, dear,” he says, starting to grab handfuls and throw it toward me.
“Did you shovel all that snow?”
“Who else?”
“Someone who’s not ancient or incapacitated, preferably.”
“Oh, I see someone woke up with some sass today. Nice flowers. Anyway, what else am I going to do with my time?”
“Play with your gnomes?” I mutter under my breath, regaining some balance and tentatively releasing the railing to reposition the flowers. “Mr. Percival,” I say with a voice full of authority, wrapping a palm around the next railing, moving up the path in slow, cautious steps. “A man of your age shouldn’t be shovelling snow.”
“So who bought you the flowers?”
“Someone.”
“Maybe a tall, dapper, handsome someone with greying, longish hair and rather sparkly silvery grey eyes?”
I stop, narrowing one eye. That’s quite specific. “Maybe,” I confirm, dragging the word out, sounding as cagey as I am. “Are you spying on me?”
