She felt the restraint shudder through him, the war he waged to keep his mouth off hers.
Her voice slipped out on a breath.
“Are you sure about that?”
He leaned in.
The world dimmed.
Their lips—so close, it would’ve taken nothing. Less than nothing. A breath. A misstep.
She didn’t kiss him.
But she didn’t move away.
And he didn’t dare blink.
Because this moment—this knife-edge ofmaybe—was the closest thing to surrender either of them had ever allowed.
Then the bartender dropped a beer stein, and the thud of stoneware sliced through the moment—a sharp reminder they weren’t alone.
She stepped back.
He let her.
Barely.
Her hand grazed his again, on purpose this time. A flicker of promise.
Then she turned, vanishing into the crowd with quiet finality.
He stood motionless, watching her disappear. The space she left behind carried her heat, but it felt colder than before.
His chest ached in places he thought long since dead.
For the first time, he didn’t wonder if he could survive wanting her.
He wondered if he could survive losing her.
The bar roared backto life, but none of it landed. His world shrank to the echo of her touch: the scent she left behind, the magnetic pull refusing to fade. On his skin, in his blood. That lace top? He’d never hated a fabric so much. Or wanted to tear it off more.
And she was walking away.
Every step she took felt like it tugged something vital from him, a connection stretching thin—taunting, daring him to chase. He didn’t. Not yet. But God, he wanted to. Wanted to close the distance, to say the thing that had been burning in his chest for weeks.
You’re it.
You’re the one I can’t look away from. The one I can’t stop wanting.
She moved through the crowd like she hadn’t just unraveled him. Like she wasn’t leaving him breathing in the ghost of her laugh, wondering if he imagined the way she’d leaned in. If that kiss had lived only in the space between them.
And Arden?
She felt him behind her like momentum in reverse, pulling her back with every step: an ache at her spine, her ribs, her pulse.
Each step cost her. Her body still burned from the press of his, her skin tingling where his fingers had gripped her waist like he meant it. Not a flirtation. Not a game.
A claim.
