“Let me,” he murmurs.
He reaches over me, arm brushing my hair aside as he plucks the plate easily with one hand.
His body molds around mine. His breath ghosts along my neck.
I tremble. Not subtly. He notices.
His mouth is so close I swear I feel the shape of his next words against my skin.
“You good?” he asks.
“No.”
The word slips out without my permission. He inhales sharply. My fingers grip the counter because my knees aren’t reliable right now.
“Briar,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “look at me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re?—”
“Because I’m what?”
“Too close.”
He chuckles—dark, soft, dangerous. “I haven’t even touched you.”
“Yes, you have,” I whisper.
His hands still on my waist. His thumbs press a fraction deeper. Barely. But enough to send sparks through my entire body.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
His grip tightens—possessive, claiming—but not pulling me back, not dragging me into him. Just holding.
“Thought so,” he breathes.
He leans in and then he stops. He pulls his hands away like he’s been burned. Steps back. Shakes his head once, jaw tight enough to crack.
His chest rises hard. Too hard. He won’t look at me.
“Saxon?” I whisper.
He exhales like someone punched him in the ribs. “Shouldn’t do this.”
“Do what?” My voice is barely a sound.
“This,” he snaps, gesturing toward the space between us that suddenly feels miles too wide. “Touching you. Standing that close. Thinking about?—”
He cuts himself off.
I grip the edge of the counter until the laminate digs into my palms. “Thinking about what?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like I’m a lit match and he’s doused in gasoline.
