When she began to rise, push him off her, he twisted, laid an arm over her thighs. "Please don't go, my lady. I didn't mean to offend you. If you can read my thoughts, you know that."
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he lunged up from the couch, paced to the television, and snapped it off. Raking a hand through his hair, he turned, faced her. "Damn it, I don't know how to deal with this, how to deal with you. Thomas taught me how to winterize your houses and take care of your accounts, but it's like one moment you're… everything inside of me. And then the next moment, you take it away. I don't know if you're getting off on it, or if you're as torn up about it as I am, or if I'm just losing my fucking mind."
She looked down. She noted she had her hands pressed hard on her thighs, conveying her tension, but she didn't know how to relax them. "I knew last night was a mistake. I owe you an apology, Jacob."
"No. Don't you do that." Taking two steps back to her, he knelt and covered her hands with his own, tightening when she made to draw away. He was so tall he was eye level with her, and Lyssa found she had difficulty meeting his gaze. She'd met the gazes of vampires who wanted to tear her to pieces, but she couldn't handle those blue eyes, the way they made her feel.
"My lady." His fingers touched her chin, curling so his knuckles feathered over her skin, then straightened again to trace her ear, a lock of her hair. When she finally managed to meet his gaze, there was something in his that caused a lump in her throat.
"I'm going to take a huge leap here and say I think this confuses you as much as it does me. You don't have to confirm or deny it, but I don't think any less of you for that being the truth. I just…" He blew out another breath, gave her a half smile. "How about we do this? I am truly, deeply honored that you want to spend time with me tonight. Will you forgive my thoughts and consent to stay awhile?"
When she studied him a long moment, knowing her expression was remote at best, still masking a hurt she didn't deserve to feel, he gave her an arch look. "I'm only human, you know. And male, to boot."
She allowed herself a small, tight smile. "Show me something to make it worth my while to stay. Something Bran can't do for me."
Relief crossed his features, soothing her wounded feelings, but again she had no right to feel wounded. There was nothing he'd thought she could have challenged. That had annoyed her as much as him having the thought in the first place.
"Come here." She urged him to lay back down with his head in her lap. He complied, but his brow was furrowed as he considered her demand.
"No listening in," he warned. "I want to surprise you." As he thought, he indulged in a stretch, bending his arms over his head so he caught the edge of the couch on the other side of her lap. The exercise pressed his shoulders into her thigh and tempted her to run her hand down the center of his chest to his flat stomach. Perhaps even lower, to the waistband of the jeans and the tempting curve of groin displayed. He was the most unconsciously sensual man she'd ever met, his somewhat bohemian mannerisms and dress making him even more appealing. She followed the urge, smoothing her palm over him, feeling the muscles tense and relax in response as she reached, pressing her breast into his shoulder as she leaned over. As she brushed his stomach with her knuckles, letting one finger play just under the silver fastener of the jeans, his gaze rose.
"I'm just occupying myself while waiting," she informed him. "I can promise you this is something I never do with Bran."
"My relief on that knows no bounds, my lady. But come to think of it, that's something that Bran doesn't do for you…"
* * *
Chapter Thirty-one
"Oh no." She shook her head, even as she continued teasing with one finger, enjoying the feel of his hard waist, the fit of his jeans starting to constrict, the crossed position of his ankles making it all the more pleasurable to watch his reaction. "Too easy."
"All right, then. I've got it." With a regretful look, part courtesy and all genuine, leaving her own arousal simmering, he rose from the couch. Taking her hand briefly, he brushed his lips across it before he went to the entertainment center. Selecting a piece of music from her extensive collection, he inserted it into her player.
Turning around, waiting for the music to start, he began to crack his knuckles meditatively as if he was using the process to review what he had in his mind. "Are you familiar with soft-shoe, my lady?"
Whatever she'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. "Not really."
"Soft-shoe is a type of tap dancing," he said. "Only it's done with soft-soled shoes, hence the name. Or in bare feet." He glanced down at his own with a smile. She watched, fascinated, as he took each finger in hand, cracked and dislocated each knuckle, then restored it with a chilling pop of noise.
"It was first introduced by George Primrose in minstrel shows in the early part of the twentieth century. The key to it is the lightness of the tapping, performed at a smooth and leisurely cadence. It was also called the sand dance. I don't remember why, though sometimes I think it's because there's something soothing about it, like a lullaby."
He adjusted the angle of the floor lamp, turning it so it was behind him. Picking up the baseball cap he'd apparently donned earlier and then casually thrown on the coffee table, he spun it, using two fingers of his right hand. "No thumbs," he pointed out.
"Duly noted," she nodded. Quietly enchanted.
He started the music. The piano tune was a sad piece from the 1920s like the fading sounds of a carnival, appropriate as he began to perform the spare, smooth movements of the routine for her, with the sweeps and turns of the entertainers of that era. His shadow was thrown up on the wall by the lamp. If she focused on that image, he could have been any of those long-ago men who'd charmed children and made men and women long for experiences never as good as they seemed in their memories. The true definition of nostalgia.
He did eventually use his thumbs with the cap, but that was all right with her. It was a dance style made for a man, with the wide wheeling of the arms, the leaps in the same place, reminding her of Gaelic warriors preparing for battle, dancing in firelight. Trying to connect to something that would make them everything good men hoped they could be.
She could have watched him do it for hours, the man and his shadow dancing for one another, mesmerizing her with the poignancy of it. When the piece came to an end, he did a spin to complete it. The hat rolled down his arm to his fingers as he finished in a low bow and then straightened, a little breathless, his lips curved.
As he came across the floor back to her, his thumb cracked when he dropped the hat on the table. Grimacing, he pulled on the lowest joint to dislocate and reset it again.
Lyssa bolted straight up on the couch, her eyes widening. "That's how you do it." She pointed at his hand accusingly. "That's how you get out of restraints."
He winced. "Busted. If it makes you feel any better, old wives' tales say I'm supposed to suffer terrible arthritis when I get older." He considered her. "Of course, that was one of the major draws of the whole human servant gig, avoiding that."
"You…" She shook her head at him. "I thought the attraction was spending an eternity exposed to my charming and sweet disposition."
"That, too," he agreed. She noticed he was studying her more closely. Dropping to one knee beside her again, he reached out, cupped her face. "You're hungry, my lady."
He was beginning to detect the minute pallor changes of her skin that indicated she was ready for nourishment. It had taken several months for Thomas to pick up on it, and while she knew Thomas could have described it to him, somehow she knew he hadn't. Jacob was just that attuned to her needs.
"May I offer you… something? It's part of my job, isn't it?"
"Yes." She inclined her head, which tucked her jaw into the curve of his hand.
"Would you prefer it in wine, or…"
She could tell he was braced for her to reject him since she'd gone back to her mode of establishing emotional distance between them. An attempt that was beginning to seem like a pointless exercise when something as simple as a dance could make her wonder why she deprived herself of his company for any length of time.
She shook her head. "When it comes to you, Jacob, I prefer the source."
Most of the time she'd taken her blood in wine from Thomas. He'd simply prepared it for her, cutting his arm and mixing his life source in the wine that diluted it and gave it a variety of tastes, depending on what vintage she was in the mood to taste. With Jacob, she suspected it would be a long, long time before she'd relinquish her right to put her lips directly to his skin, feel his shudder as she pierced him. If she had a long time, which she didn't. Which made it even more important to her.
"I'll take it directly from my servant's throat," she said.
Nodding, he rose, his mind projecting what he was about to do so he knew he didn't have to hesitate and wait for a sign of approval. She was intrigued by the decision, in the way he constantly surprised her with his impulsive, assertive actions when it came to her. Of course the majority of her surprise had to do with her reaction, the fact she liked his impulses enough not to forbid them.