Danse Macabre   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

Inodded. «He gave his word that no one would be forced to have sex against their will.»

«Ah,» Auggie said, then he laughed. «Dating. I haven't dated in decades. I wonder if I remember how.»

«The Master of the City does not have to date,» Octavius said, «he commands.»

«You're in the wrong town for that attitude,» I said.

«You are so certain of that?» he said.

«Absolutely.»

«Taste Haven,» Auggie said. «If you don't like him, then I'm going to have to send home for some less dominant take-out.»

I looked up at the tall man in front of me. He looked down with that soft, laughing face, and I just didn't buy it. It was like the smile and sparkly eyes was his version of a cop face. A way to hide everything.

He dropped gracefully to his knees. Which made him not that much shorter than me. I added at least another inch to his height. He laughed, that joyous laugh that seemed so sincere. «You should see your face, so suspicious. I just thought that this way you have your choice of wrist or neck. With me standing, you can't reach my neck.»

It made sense, so why didn't I like it? No answer other than the one I'd had since I saw him. Being close to him reacted with that primitive part of the brain that keeps you alive if you don't argue with it. Touching him was dangerous in some way, but in what way? The trouble with the primitive brain is that it doesn't reason, or explain, it just feels. I could just touch him, then turn him down. He'd be on his way back to Chicago, no harm, no foul.

I reached for his hand, and he gave it. I wondered if I'd get that jolt of energy like I had from Pierce, but his hand was simply warm. His hand was very passive in mine, but when I pushed back the sleeve of his jacket, he had on a French-cuffed shirt, with real cuff links. «Shit.»

«You don't like French cuffs?»

I frowned down at him. «It'll take a while to unhook your wrists.»

He gave me that smile again, but the blue eyes weren't quite as neutrally cheerful. I got to glimpse the coldness under that smile. For some reason it made me feel better. I liked truth, most of the time.

«Why are you smiling?» he asked, and his voice held just a hint of uncertainty. Good.

I shook my head. «Nothing.» I smoothed my hand up the side of his face, turned him so the line of his neck stretched above the collar of his dress shirt. I bent over him, one hand on his shoulder for balance, the other cradling the side of his face. The neck was always so much more intimate than the wrist.