She froze—not in fear, but in knowing. Because he wasn’t playing. Not this time.
The crowd surged behind her.She swayed a bit, and his hand was there. On her waist. Firm. Spanning the curve like he’d been there before, and never forgot.
Not exactly possessive.
Protective.
Heat crawled up her throat.
And his hand stayed.
And still, neither moved.
They stood locked in that too-small space, chests almost touching, lips inches apart. The bass from the speakers vibrated between them. She felt his breath on her cheek. Watched the tight control in his jaw. The war in his eyes.
Her breath ghosted over his throat; his pulse stuttered against her lips. His hand flexed at her side, grounding her and shattering her in the same motion.
She wanted to lean in.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Just a taste.
She didn’t.
She held her ground, refusing to retreat.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice scraped raw.
The slow drag of his thumb at her hip left her skin tingling, the lace unbearable, too aware of him.
Her shirt burned against her skin where his thumb traced small, steady circles. Her eyes flicked to his mouth, and when he swallowed—hard, she felt it everywhere.
“I don’t play games.”
Her whisper curled between them, a blade sheathed in silk.
“And I don’t back down.”
His mouth was too close. His restraint was thinning by the second.
“Careful, Rivers,” he said, voice rougher now, a crack forming beneath the surface. “You might not like what happens when I stop holding back.”
Her pulse spiked.
She looked up, eyes locked on his.
Saw the wreckage in them.
Felt her own breaking open in response.
“Are you sure about that?” she asked, the words barely a breath.
The crowd jostled behind her, and her body pressed to his for one exquisite second.
Chest to chest. Hip to hip.
