There's a low sofa against one wall of my office. Cracked tan leather. I steer her there, our footsteps muffled against the carpet.
"What are you—oh." The backs of her legs meet the sofa, and Kiara plops down with a surprised oof. Her skirt billows out around her thighs. "You don't want to dance anymore?"
"Not right now."
There's something I want to do much, much more.
Her ankle is still bruised when I bare her legs, flipping her skirt up and sinking to my knees. I cradle it tenderly, sneaker cupped in one hand, working the foot left and right just to be sure.
"I'm fine, Simon." Slender fingers comb through my hair, and that gentle touch sears me from the inside out. "Honestly, I'm fine."
That reassurance isn't enough. I won't be able to think straight until I've seen her leg again,
