Page 64 of Kane

Instead, he says, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, take us to the Lazy Lyre.”

My eyes widen.

“You are not serious.”

Kane folds his hands in his lap, and I note the lines of ink, his black painted nails.

I swear this man could make anything look high fashion. Maybe even a barista apron.

“Do you have a problem with Mediterranean food?” he asks, and I note the shift of concern in his eyes, his voice taking on a worried, less direct tone.

Like he’s forgotten for a moment who he is.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’m just… like… aren’t we a little underdressed? Not to mention how the hell did you get—”

Kane dismisses me with a wave. “Doesn’t matter how I got it, and no, you look fine.”

I don’t miss the way his gaze roves over me; over my red coat, my dark jeans, and my white sweater.

He looks like he wants to dine on me right here, in this backseat.

The thought makes me bite my lip. I don’t think I’d say no if he offered, which is crazy.

I’ve never thought about this kind of thing—getting frisky in public.

Like, ever.

But I can’t deny that Kane makes me think and feel things that are equally foreign and exciting at the same time and I want to explore that.

That is, if he’ll let me.

After all, I don’t want to put him in a situation he isn’t comfortable with. Which means we should probably talk about my kinks.

I don’t make a habit of blurting out my sex life in front of or to strangers. But I also know, friend or more than friend, I need to tell him so he at least knows. It’s a deal breaker for some people, and while I don’t want to lose Kane before I can even grasp him, I also don’t want him to assume things.

But when I open my mouth, the words that come out aren’t what I expect.

“Why did you pick Lazy Lyre?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” He says, leaning back into the cushion. His knee brushes mine and he settles his hand over it, splaying his fingers. I glance at the tattoos. All of them. I find the rose and the thorns and without thinking, I reach out and trace the thorns. He doesn’t move or even flinch. He remains perfectly still.

“I mean, you could have picked anywhere for dinner. But you picked the most romantic restaurant ever.” I clear my throat as the clouds cover the sun, making the light of the car hazy and dark. Shadows falls on him, and I tell myself if I don’t do this now, I never will.

“Almost like this is a date.”

Kane nods in understanding. My fingers trace the lines of his tattoos, his long thick fingers, his knuckles. A low growl escapes him.

“Do you want it to be a date?” he asks carefully. “Because—”

“Yes,” I say confidently. More confidently than I think I’ve said anything in my entire life.

I can’t tell if he’s shocked or if he truly thought I wouldn’t say something.

“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

Kane nods, glancing down at my hand, then back up at me.