And Blanche knew—without a doubt—that in mere moments, she would be kissed.
For the first time. Unexpected. Undeniable.
And by a man who, despite his unreadable nature, was dismantling every expectation she had ever known.
Her heart pounded, nerves and defiance warring as she realized they might be discovered at any moment. Yet she did not step back.
“We shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“Yet here we are.” His voice was rich, steady, teasing.
Blanche exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “You take far too much pleasure in provoking me.”
Heath’s smirk deepened. “You make it far too easy.”
Her jaw tightened. “Is this how you intend to spend our time? Pushing boundaries simply to see how I react?”
“Is that a complaint, Lady Blanche?”
“An observation.”
Heath studied her, a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze.
“Then allow me my own observation…” He stepped closer, slowly and deliberately. “You may claim to dislike my games, but you engage all the same.”
Blanche refused to retreat. “You mistake resistance for participation, Your Grace.”
“I mistake nothing.”
He reached out, fingers brushing the book she held. “Tell me, Blanche—what is it that you’re reading with such devotion?”
She drew the tome closer to her chest. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, but it concerns me greatly.”
His tone was maddening—amused and knowing, all the worse for the way he watched her, drinking in her guarded expression.
“You enjoy tormenting me,” she accused.
“Endlessly,” Heath agreed without shame.
She scoffed, shifting as if to step away, but he caught her wrist—gently, firmly, as though daring her to continue resisting.
“You push,” Heath murmured, voice lower now, “but tell me, Wildcat—will you let me push back?”
Blanche swallowed.
The silence between them stretched, charged, the weight of the air pressing close.
And then, as though unable to contain himself, Heath acted—his grip tightening just slightly, his free hand reaching for her waist, pulling her forward in a single, reckless motion.
And before she could object—before she could think—his lips found hers.
Not sweet. Not gentle. Not tentative.
It was the kiss of a man who had waited long enough.
And despite every protest she had carefully constructed—despite every attempt to deny the way he unraveled her—Blanche did not pull away.
