“Tell me to leave,” he says, as if sensing my nerves.
It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine offer. He’s giving me an out.
I could take it. I could say “this was a mistake” and show him the door and go back to my safe, boring, single life where the only thing that breaks my heart is an algorithm.
Instead, I reach up and unclasp my bracelet. I walk to the counter and deliberately set it down.
The sound of metal on laminate is loud in the quiet.
Marco’s eyes track the movement. He understands.
“You should go,” I tell him.
But I’m already crossing the room, already reaching for the sleeve of his henley. The fabric is soft under my fingers. Expensive. Everything about him is expensive, and here I am in my curves and clearance-rack jeans.
“You sure?” His voice is lower now. Rougher.
I lift my chin. Not quite meeting his eyes but close enough. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Do you want to beg?”
Oh God.
My face goes hot. Full-body flush, the kind that starts at my toes and works its way up until I’m convinced I’m glowing.
“I—” My brain short-circuits. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“I’d like that.” He moves closer. Not touching yet, but close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to smell the espresso and cedar and... him.
“But enough time for begging later,” he says softly. “For now, just breathe.”
And I breathe.
He waits.
Makes me wait.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Long enough that I start to squirm.
Long enough that the anticipation builds into something unbearable.
Then his hand comes up, and he cups my face. His palm is warm, slightly rough. His thumb traces my cheekbone, slow and deliberate.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and it’s nota line. It’s a fact, stated in that low steady voice that makes my knees weak.
“I’m really not.” The words come out automatically. Defense mechanism. “I’m just—”
“Beautiful.” He says it again, firmer this time. “And if you argue with me, I’m walking out that door.”
I shut up.
Smart girl.
