She pulled her legs off his lap with a grunt, trying—failing—to act unaffected. Her entire body was betraying her, heat blooming just under her skin, coiling low in her stomach. She turned away slightly, hoping the movement might hide the telltale flush rising up her neck.
But Adrien's hands hadn't moved.
Though the folding was done, his fingers remained, warm and steady against her calf. His thumb brushed along the inside of her leg, slow and deliberate, tracing idle, invisible lines like her skin had become some silent script he was reading without words.
Alicia's breath hitched. Her gaze dropped—unwilling, uninvited—and settled on the sight of his hands still on her. Long fingers, calloused palms, the faint scar on his knuckle she'd noticed once but never asked about. He moved with all the patience in the world, like there was no rush to let her go. Like he had every right to touch her.
