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She stepped deeper between his legs, nearer to his face, and his hands stayed anchored on her legs, squeezing gently. Her blood pounded painfully.

Holding her breath, she shaved his face, carefully stroking up and down, then wiping the skin with a wet towel. She could have done it with magic, but she liked being this close to him, practically in his lap. It was intimate, the pair of them enclosed in this steamy bathroom, the world quiet save for the sound of their ragged breath.

Until the proximity got the better of her right at the end; her hand shook, and she nicked his skin, drawing blood.

“Sorry,” she said, wiping with the wet towel.

“Lucinda? Apologizing? I must be dreaming.”

A spot of blood bloomed out of the tiny cut, and without thinking, she brought her mouth to his jaw to suck the wound. He let out a sound deep in his throat, and before she knew what was happening, he had pulled her onto his lap.

She slotted over him easily, legs wide open, one on either side of his waist. His hands went behind her, gripping her tight. He brought her closer, right along where she could feel he was hard for her, even through their clothes.

Her hands fell to his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare skin as she held on. Her body throbbed against him, aching. One of her hands moved around his throat, feeling his pulse beat against her palm.

“I really must be dreaming,” he whispered against her skin, kissing her collarbone. She lowered her hand and slowly began to unbutton the top of her sweater, revealing a lacy bralette.

He dragged his mouth down her sternum, kissing her heart and licking the skin above the curve of her breast. Her breathing started coming in harder, faster. She moved her hips to arch higher, desperate for friction as he eased her sleeve, then strap down, releasing her breast and bringing her nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make her head spin.

Gasping, she rocked her hips against him. He moved his mouth to her other breast, this time biting her through the thin fabric of her bralette, and she cried out.

Squeezing her from behind, he roughly pulled her against him, and still it wasn’t close enough. White-hot sparks lit up her vision. She had half a mind to spell away both of their clothes and remove the barrier between them.

She rested her forehead against his, trying to catch her breath.

“I should go,” she managed to say, hardly coherent.

“Don’t,” he said, squeezing her tighter, dragging her up the length of him. She swore.

She wanted him to kiss her, for her to kiss him, for them to fuck each other—but he was sick, and she wasn’t going to take advantage of that.

“You’re not feeling well,” she whispered, pushing back. “You should rest.”

Still throbbing, she climbed off his lap, pulling her sweater and bralette up. He stayed glued in place, panting, his legs spread apart, the aftereffects of their intense interlude together evident. Before she left, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

He closed his eyes, cheeks crinkling as he smiled, and it was so tender, so vulnerable it felt more intimate than having sex with him.

Her heart expanded in her chest, and she knew.

She was in big, big trouble.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Grayson

It was the middle of March, nearly spring. The days were getting longer, the sun shining warmer. Grayson had recovered from his illness, but the ailment of his feelings for Lucy would not leave him.

He didn’t think it was something he could recover from. He wasn’t sure he wanted to recover from it, either.

He liked Lucy. It didn’t matter that nothing had happened since the shaving incident. And he knew it wasn’t just sexual tension, either. He liked her. There was no more denying or hiding from it. And he was pretty sure she liked him, too. He was starting to think that it hadn’t been a trick when she’d asked him to dinner, and he felt like he was beginning to understand what she meant now when she said she hated him, because he felt the same when he said it back.

She was like a good book; he couldn’t put her down.

He didn’t want to pretend anymore, but it was hard trying to find the right moment to tell her how he felt. He had never been good at this. He didn’t have any practice and didn’t want to scare her off like he had other women, but he had to try even if it hurt, even if it killed him, actually, because the alternative was far, far worse.

A Sunday after closing, he watched her putting books away in their quiet, cozy bookstore. He loved just watching her, when she was speaking with customers, ringing up their books and chatting, or when she was using her book-magic to help them find their perfect fit from a distance.

Or even when it was just the two of them doing their own thing, like they were now—he loved watching her in every state, every moment. He never tired of it. Today she was wearing a sweater over a silky skirt that fell above her ankles, her hair in a loose braid, curled tendrils framing her face. She used magic to lift a book up where she couldn’t reach, and he loved that, too.