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He never does.
“It’s not wasted at all,” he says instead, with that easy Blackwood confidence. “I could spend a fortune of flirtation on you, Theodora, and it would still not be a waste. I could lay treasures of compliments and tenderness at your feet like offerings to a cruel goddess, and you could ignore them all, and I would never once regret any of it.”
He’s definitely drunk—drunk and in a rather sensuous mood. There’s a glowering desire inside him that he’s not even bothering to hide.
It’s hard not to be tempted by the heat of him, especially when I feel so cold.
If only I was free to do so.
I shake my head and fix him with a prim look as I stir the conversation back to safer ground. “You are a natural poet, Zachary. Maybe that’s why you’re enjoying all that metaphysical poetry and I’m not.”
He leans forward, drawn in. “Why are you not enjoying it? What is it you dislike about it?”
“It’s a little… overwrought. Laboured.”
“And your soft boy Keats? Is his poetry not overwrought and laboured?”
“But his poetry comes from a place of genuine emotion and beliefs,” I explain. “Overwrought or not, it rings true. And it’s beautiful.”
“If his poetry comes from a place of truth, then metaphysical poetry seeks the truth. Is that not beautiful in its own way?”
I finally allow myself to smile. “I didn’t realise you were such a fan. You don’t normally like poetry. Am I to assume your own essay is written and of the highest quality imaginable? Are you about to finally gain the upper hand on the battlefield of our literature class?”
Zachary leans forward, lacing his fingers together with adorable formality. He answers with perfect sincerity.
“I’ve actually not started either.” He holds my gaze. “I’ll be working on it tomorrow in the library. Join me, if you like.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He nods. “Good—I wasn’t offering it. I’m just being tactical. Keeping my enemies close and my rivals closest.”
I laugh. “Don’t you mean closer?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Reaching across the table, he takes my fingers in his and lifts my hand to brush a light kiss over my knuckles. “I know exactly where I ought to keep you.”
Taking my hand back, I cast him another warning look. “Tread carefully, Blackwood.”
“I always do, Dorokhova.” He stands and gestures to the dance floor. “Dance with me?”
Reason tells me to say no.
Desire begs me to say yes.
I do my best to compromise.
“One song only.”
“Perfect,” he says and leads me to the dance floor.
We dance the next three songs together. I let him wrap his arm around my waist, and I let my head rest against his shoulder. The mingled scent of his cologne and sweat are a heady perfume, and my body feels hot all over against his.
Kiss me, I want to whisper in his ear.Kiss me, Zachary Blackwood, and hold me tight and never let me go. Please.
He doesn’t kiss me, but I’m sure I feel his lips brush the top of my head one time. After the third song, I pull away from him, but he catches my hand, stopping me. I meet his gaze. His eyes are a dark glitter, a sensuous promise. I pull away with a breathless laugh, and he follows me off the dancefloor.
I send him to get me a cup of ice to press against my flushed throat, and after that, we spend the rest of the night arguing about everything and anything.
It’s the only way to relieve the unbearable tension.
