The Devil Makes Three
I pulled up the album full of photos I’d saved and we went through them. I swiped away, explaining what I liked about each one, nerves fueling my gabbing more than anything else. He listened without saying a word, nodding here and there.
“This is my favorite picture,” I told him.
It was an ornate master bathroom with a huge tub, cream and gold accents, and white marble. He reached out and angled the phone so he could have a better look. Our hands brushed against each other, but instead of moving away, he let his rest against mine. The light, simple contact sent a shock through my system, and I knew he could hear the way my breath hitched when he touched me.
“You don’t need to flatter me, Alexandra,” he said, looking up at me, no, into me, with those dazzlingly gray eyes.
Like some bashful school girl, I was still distracted by the press of his hand against mine. I decided that I liked the way my full name sounded, coming out of those sensual lips of his. He was looking at me with the intensity at full blaze again. It sent a thrill of butterflies shooting down my stomach, and I took a moment too long to reply.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you don’t have to show me pictures of my own work to convince me to take on this project.”
“I had no idea,” I breathed, “this really is my favorite of all the pictures. It’s a bathroom fit for–”
“A goddess,” he finished my sentence, never releasing me from his searing gaze.
His face was close. Too close.
I really couldn’t get over the color of his eyes. I’d never seen eyes like his before, like polished slate. The tension between us ramped up to an unbearable pitch, and he looked like he was about to devour me.
What scared me most was that I wanted him to.