Pressed tight behind the denim of his jeans, barely restrained and getting worse by the second. I swallow down the low, satisfied hum rising in my chest.
Yeah. That’s for me.
And fuck if it doesn’t go straight to my head—twisting something possessive and dangerous inside me. Not because I want to embarrass him or because I need the ego boost.
Because I want to own it. I want to be the reason he’s struggling to sit still.
I want to be the one who makes his voice crack when hetries to answer a question from Peter three rows up and fails spectacularly because my fingers are ghosting slowly over the curve of his thigh, millimeters from the edge of what he really wants me to touch.
God, I’m a bastard; I’d kill him if he did this to me, yet I don’t stop.
A full-body ache pulses through me, hot and constant. Every bump in the road sends his leg brushing mine, and neither of us moves away. He’s pretending he’s listening to the guys in front of us, but his jaw is locked, his breathing uneven, and I can see the pulse hammering in his neck.
He wants me to stop. He doesn’t want me to stop.
Beneath the hoodie, my hand inches higher, dragging slowly over the worn seam of his jeans, until I feel the twitch of him beneath my palm—straining, needy, hot as fuck.
His hand darts under the hoodie, gripping my wrist.
Not pushing me away.
Just holding.
Tight.
Like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something fucking stupid in front of half the team.
“You’re evil,” he whispers, voice cracking just enough to make my stomach flip.
I lean in, let my breath skate along his jaw. “Not yet, but I can be.”
He groans—soft and low—and I feel it in my chest like a match held to gasoline. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like a warning. Or maybe a threat.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tell me to stop.
I press down just enough to make him suck in a breaththrough his teeth, and my blood surges, thick with want and power and something darker, hungrier, hotter than I’ve let myself feel before.
I’m supposed to be the one who gives in.
But now?
Now I want to be the one who makeshimunravel.
I ease my hand back to neutral territory before someone turns around, but not before dragging my knuckles along the bulge behind his zipper. He jerks slightly and lets out a soft, choked curse.
Good.
We ride in silence after that.
But every time the streetlights sweep across his face, I see it in his eyes—He’s aching.
And this time, I’m not the one who’s going to beg.
I don’t move right awaywhen the bus pulls to a stop. Logan starts to shift beside me, but I press my thigh against his under the hoodie—silent signal:wait. His gaze flicks to mine, a little confused, a little curious. I don’t explain.
I just need another second. Just us.
