Right next to—his finger shifts a fraction—aaannnnnddd, he’s on it.
"Stop," he growls, low enough that only I can hear.
His fingers flex—slow and deliberate—the warmth of his palm spreading like fire through my jeans. Rhythmic swipes—gentle but utterly electrifying sending shocks straight through me.
All while in a casual conversation with another guest sitting on his other side, form Virginia or some shit.
He’s the very picture of ignoring his best friend’s little sister.
But under the bunched-up, heavy wool blanket, he’s like his kiss.
Lazily intentional.
Is that a thing? It feels like a thing.
His fingers graze over me now, carrying the same devastating power as when he toyed with the shell of my ear and brushed a kiss over the corner of my mouth.
Edging the fuck out of me without looking like he’s edging me, all in front of a PG crowd.
I bite my lip to keep from groaning, but then Charlie, who has a radar for bad decisions, calls out from the front. "Everything okay back there?"
Her tone says she knowssomething, and I could die right now if my pulse weren’t currently having an identity crisis
His hand lands even higher on my thigh, if that’s even possible. A casual move that feels anything but.
Suddenly, I’m back in our little room, tracing the curve of his lips with trembling fingers.
The memory rushes in, unbidden and all-consuming, making me shift in my seat as heat creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks.
“All good here. What about you, Holly? Problem?” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—a knowing, teasing challenge.
Yes, there’s a problem.
Because I can’t stop thinking about the way your heartbeat felt beneath my palm, steady and unyielding, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Because I admitted things to you in your sleep I can never take back—even if you didn’t hear them.
And because the buzz I had going—the one that dulled all the sharp edges for a little while—is gone.
In its place? Your possessive hand, resting like it belongs, making me want to do it all over again.
"Fine," I choke out, but my voice sounds more strangled than confident.
"Just cold," I add, and instantly regret it.
Chance’s chuckle—low, dark, and utterly unholy—rolls through me, wrapping around my fraying self control.
"Should’ve worn a thicker sweater, Squirt," he murmurs, his voice dipping into a timbre that vibrates straight down my spine. “Keep Otis warm.”
With just a handful of words, he transports me to our most intimate moments. Lamplight casting a warm glow, and his fingertip tracing the letters on my thigh.
A fleeting closeness that's not meant to endure, yet it still has its grip on me.
Oh, God. I need air.
Yes, Iknowwe’re outside. Shut up.
My leg bounces, the movements growing sharper, more frantic—like I'm trying to douse the heat crackling between us.
