The answer stripped the joke off my tongue.
Dex pushed himself up on one elbow. The coverlet rustled under him. His crucifix swung forward, a dark shape against his shirt, then settled. He was close enough now that I could see the fatigue at the edges of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, and the way his focus stayed nailed to my face.
“I’m not touching you while you’re restrained,” he said.
My breath caught.
I’d expected refusal, maybe. A lecture. A threat to call county. A reminder that I was wanted by the court and he was the man responsible for getting me there.
I hadn’t expected a boundary that made him harder to hate.
“Who said I wanted you to touch me?” I asked.
“You did.”
“No, I asked you to take them off.”
“You’re very good at saying one thing and meaning three.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re a bookkeeper.”
I almost laughed at the wrongness of it. “That’s what the paperwork says.”
Dex shifted closer. “The paperwork has been disappointing me all night.”
“Paperwork does that.”
“If I take them off, you don’t go for the door.”
“That depends.”
His eyes narrowed. “On what?”
“On whether you kiss me first.”
The room narrowed around the low hum under the window.
Dex looked at my mouth.
This time he didn’t hide it.
Heat flicked over my skin, quick and bright. I flexed my hands under the sheet, and the steel answered with one soft click. His gaze dropped to the sound, then lifted again.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I.”
“You’re in my custody.”
“I’m in your bed.”
“You’re trying to use me.”
“Yes.”
The truth sat between us without any place to hide.
