Page 124 of What We Bury

He huffs, grabs the cushion from between us and stuffs it on his lap. I laugh outright now, because he looks personally victimized by my television choices.

“You are so dramatic.”

“I’m appropriately dramatic.” He glares at the screen. “I know for a fact those two are about to get down and dirty in the?—”

Onscreen, breathy moaning starts.

Milo turns to me slowly. “Murder kitten.”

“What?” I ask, the picture of innocence as the characters onscreen begin to get naked.

“You’re a menace.”

“Maybe you should put the cushion down and show me what a menace I am.”

The music from the TV keeps playing—strings and breathy moans and scandal—but the room itself goes still. Milo goes still.The hand he’d been using to pin the cushion to his lap flexes once.

His light-brown eyes cut to mine.

“You really want to play this game?” he asks softly.

I swallow. My pulse kicks, hard and stupid. “Maybe.”

He studies me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m teasing him or handing him a loaded weapon. Fair question. I’m not totally sure myself.

The scene on the TV grows more obscene by the second. Skin. Silk. Gasps.

His eyes cut to it.

“Watch the show, kitten.”

I smile sweetly and turn back to the screen.

For about ten seconds, I behave.

Then I sneak a look at him. He’s facing forward but his eyes aren’t tracking the action. His hand is white knuckled around his wineglass, his shoulders are too still, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw that has nothing to do withBridgerton. The cushion is still clamped to his lap like a hostage.

I could leave him alone. I could let him sit there in his very studious refusal to look at me, finish the episode, and in the morning we’d both pretend we hadn’t spent the whole night on this couch waiting for the other one to break.

Or I could see what happens if I push.

I stretch a leg out, letting my foot trail across the floor. Slowly, I let it land, very softly, on top of his.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge his foot. He just stares at the screen like there’s going to be a quiz.

I drag my foot up and press my toes against his shin.

Nothing.

I run them up half an inch.

Nothing.

But his fingers tighten on his wineglass. Just slightly. So slightly that if I weren’t watching for it, I’d miss it.

I’m watching for it.

“Milo?”