Page 31 of Kane

I love the way he says my name, and I can’t deny I’ve fantasized precisely about all the ways I could make him say it. All the tones and timbres that could escape that beautiful mouth of his.

My gaze drifts to his plump lips, and my stomach growls; but I am not hungry for food. I mean, I am, but…

I brace my hands on the counter; the only thing that separates us.

Sometimes I think about leaning over this counter and grabbing his precious neck, and tasting him myself. Other times I think of answering his “what can I get you?” with “you, here, right now,” like some cringey actor in a porno.

Which is not like me. At all.

His gaze flickers to my lips so quickly, I almost miss it. He turns away, hiding his blush, pretending to wipe the counter behind him, because I note the rag never actually touches the surface.

I can’t help but smile, because the sight, the motion… it’s just… so pure.

And his skin looks so beautiful with that blush.

“Hope your day was better than mine,” I say as I pretend not to notice how he hides those pretty pink cheeks. Like he’s ashamed of them, or like they are a nuisance. If only I could be honest and tell him that’s precisely why I like it. Because his body can’t help the way it reacts to me, and I find that quite tempting and intriguing.

“I’ve had better,” he says, finally turning back around. Sadly the pink tint in his cheeks has disappeared.

“Don’t tell me you ran out of mushroom coffee.” I give him a smirk of my own as I lean over the counter, propping my leg for weight distribution. The motion makes the cuffs of my coat rise, showing off my hand tattoos.

Technically, I am covered from the neck down to my waist, but most people rarely see that. Aside from my physician, and the occasional client, that is.

I note the way Ryder glances at my fingers, at the back of my hand. My wrist.

“See something you like?” I tease him, though the words are more of a double entendre than they should be. Not that he knows that.

“I like this one.” He points to the decayed rose in the center of my left hand. His finger gently grazes the top, almost af if he is unsure or that the touch itself was accidental.

But I like it, nonetheless.

“You can touch it,” I say carefully. “I don’t bite.”

Not unless you beg me to.

I have to stifle the image that thought produces, because the moment I feel the tip of his finger, tracing the thorny vines from the rose, my entire body tenses and a shiver runs up my spine.

Ryder gently traces the vines, gazing down at my hand, until his fingers come to the end of the vine over my middle finger, and then they trail over my 13.

I tense as his fingers smoothly graze my skin.

“Fan of Jason or something?” he asks, his voice strangely soft, warm.

Distracted in a way that feels almost vulnerable.

I stare at his finger, reveling in the warmth of his touch. It’s soft.

Smooth. Delicate, one might say. Ryder touches me like I’m made of glass.

Maybe I am.

“Or something,” I say, my chest tightening.

And then I feel the rush of heat—like a fire unleashing inside of me, spreading to overtake me and my chest tightens, my breath catches and I am assaulted by a memory.

At least, I think it is a memory. Unless I have finally descended into madness…

I peek through my fingers at the television screen. I don’t like scary movies, but the little dark-haired girl next to me doesn’t seem as scared as I am.