I should tell him to leave.
I should pull away.
But I don’t.
I can’t. The warmth of him seeps into me, and it’s been weeks since I’ve felt safe enough to just breathe.
His thumb drags lightly across my hipbone, almost absently, but deliberately enough to send a shiver through me.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His tone softens. “What are you afraid of, princess?”
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say.
I want to tell him I’m afraid of him.
Of us.
Of the way he makes me feel like I’m on the edge of something that could destroy me.
But what comes out is quieter and truer. “That this isn’t real.”
He moves closer, and his breath ghosts over my lips. “It’s real.”
I don’t know whether to believe him. He’s been my captor, my savior, and my undoing, and I don’t know where one version ends and the other begins.
But when his hand slides up my arm and rests at the back of my neck, I stop thinking.
He leans in, and I feel every inch of him press closer until there’s no space between us. His scent, heat, and heartbeat tangle with mine.
“Tell me to go,” he says, almost a dare.
I part my lips, but nothing comes out. I don’t want him to. Every time I push him away, he shows up like this, breaking in without breaking anything, and ruining me without even touching me.
When I don’t answer, he exhales, the sound rough and heavy.
His forehead touches mine. “That’s what I thought.”
The way he says it isn’t cruel. It’s resigned. Like he’s tired of pretending, too.
His thumb brushes my jaw, guiding my chin up, and I let him. Our eyes lock in the dark because I can feel the heat of his stare, and everything in the room fades.
The air, the noise, and the distance I swore I’d keep.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what? I can’t see you.”
“Like you still own me.”
He leans in closer, mouth barely touching my skin. “Still?” he murmurs. “Sweetheart, I never stopped.”
My pulse skips, and I hate the way it responds to him. How easily my body betrays every bit of logic I’ve tried to hold onto.
