A laugh hitches in my throat, light and breathless. “Smooth line.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “Is it working?”
Oh man, help me, it is.
I tilt my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Depends. How often do you go out of your way to make a girl feel like she’s the only one in the room?”
“Only when sheis,” he says without missing a beat, his thumb drawing lazy circles at my waist, like he’s already learned what makes me melt.
I bite my lip, pulse stuttering. “You’re dangerous.”
His smile darkens. “You like dangerous.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. My body already has.
His breath is warm at my temple as we sway, slow and steady, letting the low thrum of bass and honeyed vocals melt around us.
I don’t know if it’s the cider or the altitude or the way his fingers graze bare skin under my sweater like he’s mapping me cell by cell, but suddenly I’macutelyaware of every inch of him. Of every shiver he draws from me with the subtlest shift, the faintest press of his palm.
“You’ve got this look,” he says low against my ear, “like you’re trying real hard not to kiss me.”
“Maybe I am,” I whisper, lips brushing his jaw.
“Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard.”
Tight heat coils low in my belly. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, just to keep steady, just to touch him. His chest is solid and warm, and he smells like woodsmoke and something I want to get lost in.
He must sense it too, because the next moment, his hand slides up my spine, slow and possessive, like he already owns me, and I swear, every vertebra lights up under his touch. I shiver, not from the cold, but from the raw, electric thrill of it. Of him.
Then he lowers his mouth to my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, and the deep rasp of his voice slides through me like smoke and silk.
“Come home with me. Kiss me there.”
It’s not a question.
It’s not a plea.
It’s a low, rough promise wrapped in velvet, and it hits me like a match to dry kindling.
My heart skips a beat. My skin flushes hot. Every nerve ending I have screams,Do it.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, voice barely a whisper.
I mean, I should, right?
Maya would tell me to.
I’ve worked so hard for two long years. I deserve a night of fun before everything gets serious all over again.
He pulls back enough to search my face, his gaze heavy, intense. His thumb drags along my jaw, firm and gentle, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. The pad of it grazes the corner of my mouth, and my lips part without thinking, drawn toward him like a tide to the moon.
“You sure?” he murmurs.
I nod, breath catching as his fingers shift to the side of my throat, his touch featherlight but scorching all the same. “So sure.”
Without another word, he threads his fingers through mine and leads me out of the tent. The chill of the night air hits my bare skin, but it doesn’t matter. Not with the heat radiating off him. Not with the thrum in my veins that’s louder than the crowd behind us.
We wind through the darkened paths of the market, past shuttered stalls and lantern-lit walkways. His hand occasionally brushes my hip as we walk, and each time seems intentional. Possessive in a way that makes my breath catch.
