Fuck.
Fuck. He doesn't even realize what he's doing, that his thumb is pressing right beneath my cheekbone and his fingers are curled just tight enough to hold me there.
Motherfucker.
This is so hot I could punch a wall.
What the fuck is wrong with me? He's not even trying. That's the worst part.
I should flip the table, break something, remind him who the fuck I am. But I can't. Not now. Not with his hand on me like that.
He leans in a little, eyes narrowing as he inspects the cut near my ear, his brows furrowed, focused, and that just pisses me off more, like this means nothing to him, like I'm just a task.
I could bite him. Or kiss him.
Or grab his wrist and shove him away and—
"Hold still," he mutters, almost absently, like I'm the one making this complicated, like I'm not sitting here trying not to groan at how fucking good it feels to be held like that.
I swallow hard. I don't move. I don't speak.
Because if I open my mouth, I might fucking beg. His eyes keep flicking up to mine. Each time he does, I stare back.
I want him to feel it, the heat, the pressure, the weight of every single what if choking the air between us.
"You missed a spot," I say.
He pauses, cotton pad hovering. "Where?"
I lean forward just a little, just enough. He doesn't back away. "Here," I whisper, nodding toward the corner of my mouth. "Right there."
His gaze drops. He hesitates. Then slowly, he lifts his hand and touches the spot with his thumb instead of the pad.
His thumb lingers, dragging just slightly across my lower lip. A sound escapes me, not a word, just want.
And he looks up again. His face is right there. I can feel the heat radiating off him, his thigh brushing against mine, his other hand still resting lightly on my shoulder.
Gio, get your shit together. He's just Rava.
I repeat it again and again.
Just Rava. The guy I used to make fun of for color-coding his bookshelves.
The guy who used to flinch when I said "fuck" too loud. The guy who gets anxious when there's no plan.
Not the guy who has me paralyzed with a goddamn touch. I need to snap out of it. Right now.
So I open my mouth and let instinct take over. "You give off 'I apologize to chairs when I bump into them' energy."
He pauses and looks at me. "What the fuck did I do now?!"
Like I ruined his day.
And I break. I laugh, one of those ugly ones, from deep in the chest, unfiltered, almost painful, because the only thing I can do is roast him to stop myself from pulling him into my lap and kissing the breath out of him.
He stares at me, wide-eyed and vaguely offended, like he's not sure whether to slap me or ask if I'm having a stroke.
But I don't move. Not yet.
