Page 89 of The Wrong Man

Whatever comes next, I’ll face it.

But tonight, I’m going to hold on to this.

Chapter twenty-five

Dylan

Dante is manspreading.

It’s impossible not to notice. His thighs are spread wide, taking up far more than his fair share of the sofa, encroaching into my space with casual confidence. One of his knees is pressed against mine. Our thighs are touching from hip to knee, a long line of warmth that I can feel even through the combined two layers of clothing.

I don’t mind at all.

That thought catches me off guard, makes my breath hitch in my chest. I should mind. I should be shifting away, putting distance between us, maintaining some semblance of personal space. But instead I’m sitting here, acutely aware of every point of contact, and I’m not moving an inch.

This is good for the seduction plan, I tell myself firmly. The seduction plan that is purely for the purposes of escape. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. Making Dante want me is simply a means to an end. A strategy. A calculated move in a game where my freedom is the prize.

Besides, it is only knees. Only thighs. Only the heat of his body bleeding into mine through layers of fabric. It barely counts as touching.

And he is the one who is supposed to be touch starved. Not me. He is the one who craves contact, who leans into every accidental brush of fingers, who looks at me sometimes like I am water and he is dying of thirst. I am simply using that to my advantage.

I gulp down more whiskey.

The amber liquid burns a path down my throat and settles warm in my belly. It is probably not helping the situation at all. In fact, I am fairly certain the whiskey is making everything worse, because my skin feels too sensitive and my thoughts keep drifting to places they should not go.

Places like how good Dante smells. Clean soap and something warmer underneath, something that is just him. Places like the way his hand looks resting on his thigh, so close to mine. Places like what those hands might feel like if they were touching me. How wonderful would it be if we were touching somewhere other than just our knees.

Sweet suffering Jesus. I need to get a grip.

The film plays on. I have no idea what is happening. There are explosions and dramatic music and people saying things that sound important, but none of it is penetrating the fog in my brain. All I can focus on is the press of his leg against mine and the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.

I have to pull myself together, because if I am going with the whole seduction plan, I need to get on with some actual seducing. That is the logical conclusion. I cannot just sit here being passively touched and hope that Dante falls madly in love with me through the power of adjacent knees alone.

I need to do something. Make a move. Take initiative.

The thought sends a spike of panic through my chest.

What kind of move? What does seduction even look like when you are trapped on a sofa with a man who tortures people for a living? Do I flutter my eyelashes? Bite my lip? Accidentally drop something and bend over to pick it up?

No, that last one would be ridiculous. We are sitting down. I can’t exactly throw the whiskey on the floor, so there is nothing to drop. And even if there was, it would be obvious and pathetic and Dante would probably just stare at me with that unreadable expression while I made a complete fool of myself.

A kiss. A kiss is a good place to start.

The thought arrives with startling clarity, cutting through the whiskey haze and the panic spiral. People kiss when they are interested in someone. It is a universal signal of attraction. If I want Dante to know I am open to something more than just knee touching, a kiss would certainly get that message across.

But how do I initiate a kiss? Do I just lean over and press my mouth to his? Do I ask first? Do I wait for some kind of signal, some perfect moment that announces itself with neon signs and a convenient pause in the film?

My palms are sweating. I wipe them discreetly on my borrowed sweatpants, the ones that are slightly too long and smell faintly of Dante’s laundry detergent. My heart is racing so fast I am half convinced he must be able to hear it.

This is insane. I am spiraling over a kiss. A simple kiss that means nothing except as a tool for manipulation. A strategic deployment of lips in service of my eventual escape.

Except my stomach is doing flips and my chest feels tight and I keep sneaking glances at his mouth. His lips are slightly parted as he watches the screen, soft and full and unfairly attractive. What would they feel like against mine? Firm? Gentle? Demanding?

Stop it. Stop thinking about what his mouth would feel like. This is about escape. This is about survival. This is not about wanting.

I take another sip of whiskey. Then another. The warmth spreads through my limbs, loosening something that was wound too tight.

I can do this. I can lean over and kiss him and it will be fine. It will be strategic. It will be part of the plan. And if my heart is pounding and my skin is tingling and there is a part of me that actually wants this, well. That is just the whiskey talking.