Because if I look at him now, I’m going to forget everything. The anger. The questions. The week of silence. The fact he walked away like I was nothing.
“You’ve got some nerve,” I whisper, gripping the bar like it might anchor me.
His breath hits the back of my neck—warm, maddening, familiar. “I’ve got a lot of things,” he murmurs. “Nerve just happens to be one of them.”
I turn, slow, deliberate.
And I shouldn’t have.
Because he’s beautiful.
Wreck-me-in-the-dark beautiful.
Fuck-me-up-and-leave-me-bleeding beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that hurts to look at for too long.
And he’s staring at me like I’m the sin he can’t confess out loud.
“You disappeared,” I say, barely trusting my voice.
His jaw clenches. “I know.”
“That’s it? That’s your apology?”
“I’m not here to apologise.”
“You kissed me like you needed it to breathe?—”
“I did.”
I freeze.
He steps closer, and the world tilts. “I still do.”
“You left.”
“I had to.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m dangerous, Cassandra.” His voice sharpens, quieter but spinning like a storm gathering speed. “I don’t do sweet. I don’t do safe. I don’t even do second times.”
“So why are you here?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my lips. My pulse jumps.
“Because I haven’t been able to think about anything but the way you taste.”
I forget how to stand.
He steps closer, and the space between us becomes a sin.
“You want to be mad, butterfly?” he murmurs. “Be mad. You’ve got every right to. But don’t stand here in that fucking lipstick with your eyes full of want and pretend you didn’t feel it too.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
