“Locker room.”
Her breath stutters. Her pulse jumps. She knows exactly what she’s walking into, and she still follows.
Good.
The second the door swings shut behind us, she turns. “Why are we in here?”
I back her up until her spine hits a row of lockers. She gasps. Heat rolls off me like steam from a vent I’ve fought too long to keep sealed.
“Because I need a minute without an audience,” I grit out.
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to?—”
“You did,” I cut in. “You meant to come here and act like nothing’s going on.”
“Nothingisgoing on.”
“Sweetheart,” I murmur, stepping closer, “the hell it isn’t.”
Her breath hitches. Her back flattens against the metal. She can’t move. She doesn’t want to.
“You brought me cookies,” I continue. “You smiled at me. You called this a thank-you.”
“It was a thank-you.”
“Bullshit.”
Her lips part. “Why would I lie about that?”
I lean in, bracing one hand on the locker beside her head. “Because you’re terrified of admitting what’s happening between us.”
She falters. “Saxon…”
“I told you not to say my name like that.”
She swallows. “Like what?”
“Like you want something you’re too scared to ask for.”
She goes still.
Her eyes say everything she refuses to say out loud.
I close the space between us, my chest brushing her front, her breath hitting my throat. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
She shivers. “N-no.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not?—”
I slide my palm over the locker above her head, caging her in completely. “Every time you look at me, I feel it.”
“Feel what?” she whispers.
“This.”
I don’t touch her. Not one inch. But my body crowds hers, heat pouring off me in waves.
