I slammed the faucet off with my elbow and reached past him to tear a towel from the dispenser, which I crinkled up and dabbed at my palm. The rough paper scratched and irritated my sensitive skin, turning it an angry red. Turning me angry red. 

I let out a frustrated groan, then whirled my exasperation on him. “What are you even doing here?” 

One of my pre-planned talking points came rushing back at me in the beat that followed. “You’re stalking me,” I charged. It was supposed to have been an accusation with weight, meant to have been thrown at him when I innocently discovered he was at the same banquet I was attending, and how dare he! Much the way it had come across when he’d said it to me at Orsay. 

Now, spat out so sourly, it sounded lame and desperate, probably because I was lame and desperate. 

Grinning like a cat that had caught the canary, Edward gently took my hand in one of his and pulled the blue paisley square from his front pocket with the other. 

“Am I?” he asked, the raw timbre of his voice oddly soothing. “Stalking you?” 

“Yes, you are.” Rapt, I stared as he patted my palm dry with the handkerchief. I was shaking. Could he see that? Could he see how his touch seared into me? How it boiled? How it burned?

 “That’s cute that you think that. I’m not, obviously, as this is my event, which, of course, you already know.” He wrapped the printed material around my hand, fashioning it into a bandage. And if your presence here is an attempt to hint that you expect me to court you, I shan’t do that either, so get over yourself and accept my offer.”

 “You’re the one who needs to get over yourself. I’m not interested.” I jutted my chin out as if to dot the i of my disinterest. 

Or to bring my lips closer to his. 

He was already so near, his mouth only inches from mine and so tempting. As tempting as it was off limits, because I was certain it was. Even more tempting because it was off limits. 

I wasn’t conscious of leaning in, wasn’t aware of the physical movement that brought my face to his. I only knew that there was this thing that I had to have, had to have badly, and that thing was his mouth pressed to mine. That thing was the taste of him on my tongue. That thing was the aching relief of his kiss.

My lips moved slowly against his with a cautious sort of eagerness, coaxing him open with a hint of my tongue. There wasn’t a question—my mouth was there, taking whether he gave or not—and yet, it felt like begging. Felt like I was pleading with the very shell of my soul to let me in. To kiss me back. To kiss me well.