The moment hung there. My palm open between us on the couch, the string lights from outside painting everything in warm gold, Addison's legs still warm across my lap and her wet hand still between her thighs.
She could say no. She could laugh and call me a milk-drinking degenerate and grab another lollipop and we'd finish the game and everything would stay normal and uncomplicated.
Addison pulled her hand from between her legs. She wiped the wet fingers on her own thigh, leaving a glistening streak across the pale skin above the stocking. Then she reached for my outstretched palm.
Her grip was strong. Callused at the base of her fingers from years of manifesting scythe handles, rough in a way that Belle and Naomi and Aurora weren't. She squeezed once, tight enough to hurt a normal person. I squeezed back with C-rank strength that made her eyes widen a fraction.
Then she moved.
