I should've said something snarky. Teased him. Broken the spell.
But my mouth wouldn't move. His hands were still on my leg—warm, steady, maddeningly gentle—and his face was too close. That look in his eyes wasn't teasing anymore. It was the kind of look that made my pulse thrum in places I'd rather not admit.
I swallowed. "You're enjoying this."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he slowly slid his hand up—just high enough to make me twitch—and then leaned in closer, his lips brushing my ear when he spoke.
"I take spirit escorting very seriously," he murmured.
I exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the bedsheets. "You're not funny."
"No. I'm not."
I turned my head and met his gaze.
His eyes, the color of warm honey, held mine captive. There was an intensity there, a depth that went beyond simple attraction.
