Page 7 of Kisses and Paperclips

She doesn’t laughed now but I see the effect my words have on her. The way her fingers skim absently along the table’s edge. The way her breath hitches for just a fraction of a second before she smooths it over, like she wasn’t affected. But she doesn’t let me have the moment, doesn’t let me see too deep before she lifts her eyes again, challenge still dancing in them.

I hold her stare, letting the tension stretch. Letting her feel the way I mean every damn word I just said.

“I know I need your consent.”

My voice drops—soft, but certain. Measured. Intentional.

“I’m working on it.”

Her smirk comes slow, a knowing thing, like she’s enjoying the way I’m chasing something she hasn’t decided if she’ll give.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not in my DNA.”

I let the words settle, thick and sure, let them rest between us like a bet placed on the table. She’s studying me now, drumming a single finger against the wood, watching, calculating.

“And what if I’m allergic?” she tests, her voice smooth, taunting.

There’s no hesitation.

“You’re not.”

Her smile deepens—just enough to let me know she likes the way I play this game. But those eyes? Still unreadable. She’s up to something. And I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

That almost never happens.

I’ve always been able to read people. Even as a kid, I could catch the shifts—the stiffening of shoulders before a lie, the way hesitation creeps into a voice, the stretch of silence that gives too much away. People tell on themselves without ever meaning to.

But not her.

Serena is a locked door with no key, a puzzle with missing pieces. A story she’s letting me read one slow, deliberate line at a time. And damn if I don’t want to turn the page.

She lifts a brow, her gaze flickering with something playful. “Oh, so now you’re clairvoyant?” Her fingers toy with the stem of her glass, the movement unhurried, deliberate. “I could take a bite, break out in hives, whip out an EpiPen, and then sue you for emotional distress.” She said it so damn seriously, I almost believe her.

I narrow my eyes, the corner of my mouth twitching. “You’d really sue the man who just saved you from a creep on the street?”

She holds my gaze—unblinking.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

I shake my head, exhaling a low chuckle. “Bet. Take a bite—I got lawyers.”

Her hand hovers over the sandwich, her gaze locked on mine, holding, stretching, waiting.

The air between us thickens, something slow-building, simmering beneath the surface.

Finally, she picks up the sandwich, takes a bite, and leans back with a satisfied look.

She’s making a show of it, and I don’t mind being the audience.

“So?” I asked, not even sure what I’m waiting for.

She takes her time, swallows and dabs at the corner of her mouth. Then, a casual shrug. “Not bad. For someone who didn’t ask.”

Smart-ass.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. That mouth of hers, slick and sharp. I’m already thinking about what else it can do. My gaze lingers as she lifts a perfectly manicured finger, swiping at the corner of her mouth slow and effortless. Then, she licks it clean.

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