She sees exactly what she did to me.
Her blush deepens.
Good.
Let her see it. Let her know what chosen desire looks like when a man ain’t using it as a weapon. Let her know she can make me shake and still walk away safe.
“I should go to bed,” she says.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
“If I stay here,” she says, “I might want to kiss you again.”
“Then you better go.”
Her brows lift, just a little. “You don’t want me to?”
I laugh once under my breath, dark and helpless. “Woman, wanting ain’t the problem. I want you so bad I’m trying to remember if I believe in prayer.”
The look that moves across her face is worth every ache in my body.
Not smug.
Not scared.
Powerful.
Like maybe wanting can be something she holds instead of something held over her.
“Good night, Derby.”
“Night, Amelia.”
She turns to go.
I let her get three steps before I say it.
“Lock it if you need to.”
She stops.
Looks back.
The hallway light catches the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, the fear and heat still fighting in her eyes.
“I don’t think I do,” she says.
Then she goes into the bedroom and leaves the door cracked.
I stare at that crack of warm light like it’s a loaded gun.
I sleep on the couch.
That is the plan.
I don’t sleep for a long time.