Her breath hitches.
“You wanted to be seen.” I pause. Let it land. “You wanted to be wanted.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
I fucking knew it.
“You thought I’d treat you like glass,” I say, stepping in close—too close, but not touching. “You thought I’d flirt. Flatter. Whisper sweet things and let you walk away feeling like a pretty girl.”
I shake my head, slow. Final.
“That’s not what this room is for.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
Smart girl.
I could give her the kind of night she’d never forget. I could give her bruises shaped like memory and make her beg for more.
But not tonight.
Not now.
Not while I’m still fighting myself.
I lean down—one breath away from her mouth—and I fucking ache.
“You’re not ready for me, Cassandra,” I whisper, my voice gravel and sin and everything I’m not letting myself do. “And I’m not the kind of man who waits.”
Her eyes widen. She trembles.
But she doesn’t pull away.
That makes it worse.
That makes it so much worse.
She’s not afraid of me.
She should be.
I back off like it costs me something—because it fucking does.
Then I rake a hand through my hair, turn my back on her, and stare into the mirror, jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
She’s still in the reflection.
Still watching me.
Still burning herself into places I didn’t know were hollow.
And fuck, I can’t do this.
Not when she’s her.
Not when she’s the first thing in years that makes me want to lose control.
I force the tension out of my neck.
