Page 157 of How to Fan the Flames

“That sounds very confident for a man who only learned where the good biscuits are few days ago.”

“I am a fast learner.”

“You’re also in my flat.”

“I noticed.”

“And you think you’re in charge?”

“I think,” I say, letting go of one wrist so I can touch the side of her face, “you spend all day holding the line for everyone else.”

The challenge in her eyes flickers.

Does not vanish.

Just flickers.

“I think you like being in control because you’re good at it,” I continue. “I also think you brought me here because you don’t want to be sensible for the next hour.”

Her breathing changes.

I feel it through the hand still trapped between my palm and my chest.

“That is a lot of thinking for a man who should be taking his shirt off.”

I smile.

Slowly.

Her gaze drops to my mouth again, and there is a savage little satisfaction in knowing that after all the times she has watched me, assessed me, ordered me around, made me sweat and stumble and reset, I can do this to her.

Make her wait.

Make her want.

Make her feel exactly how much I have noticed.

“I will take my shirt off,” I say.

“Good.”

“When I’m ready.”

Her eyes narrow. “AJ.”

“Pippa.”

I lower my mouth to the edge of her jaw, not quite kissing, letting the warmth of my breath touch her skin.

“I’m going to savour this.”

Her fingers flex against my shirt.

“You’re very sure you’ll survive that.”

“No,” I say, and brush my mouth just below her ear. “I’m fairly sure this is how I die.”

She makes a sound.