Azriel snorted softly. I ignored him and said, "Define ‘mostly.'"
Lucian shrugged again. "Thoughts of a sexual nature are easier to pick up. Anything else is very muddy."
"Muddy" didn't mean he couldn't read them, just that they were harder to hear. Fabulous. Not.
"When and where do you want to meet?"
"There's a lovely little bar down the Paris end of Collins Street—Maxwell's, it's called. Shall we say midnight?"
"Fine. Now, if you don't mind, get the hell out of here so I can go home and get ready for work."
"Your grouchy side is showing, my dear." His gaze swept to Azriel. "Understandable, I guess, given the company you're forced to keep twenty-four/seven."
Azriel took one step forward, then stopped. Other than the slight tightening in his jawline, his expression remained as impassive as ever. But the emotional turmoil that exploded through my being just about sent me staggering.
Lucian was a dead man if he ever gave Azriel the slightest reason to attack.
He will not, Azriel said. He is not that stupid. Nor am I that rash.
You might be if you hang around me for too much longer.
Many things might happen if I hang around you too much longer.
It was a comment that sparked an avalanche of questions and possibly some hope, but before I could say anything, Azriel winked out of existence—neatly avoiding said questions—and Lucian stepped closer. His scent was an enticing mix of lemongrass, suede, and musky, powerful male.
"Until tonight." He caught my hand in his and raised it to his lips. The kiss was light and teasing, and oddly erotic. "Wear something sexy."
"I have no intention of wearing anything sexy—either for you or for this dark sorcerer." I ripped my hand from his, but the warmth of his lips lingered, making my skin tingle.