Daelan's POV
Don't get hard.
That's all I'm thinking. Begging.
It's really, really hard.
Why?
Because Emmaline is sitting on my lap.
No, sitting isn't the right word—straddling would be more accurate. Her thighs frame me, her weight is warm and heavy in the most distracting way, and her scent—something crisp like winter air yet undeniably feminine—wraps around me like a trap I walked into willingly.
I should have seen this coming. The second Emmaline strolled into my study with that look in her eyes, I should have known whatever I was doing was about to take a backseat to her whims. I told myself I'd keep my hands on her waist, a respectable distance, a safe barrier—but that was a lie.
A joke. Because nothing about this is safe.
Her fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns against my chest, and I swear every nerve in my body is on high alert.
"Daelan?"