I know he knows it.
Santino doesn’t blink.
And—fuck—he steps closer.
Not appropriate for a priest. Not appropriate for any man with a pulse.
Close enough that I feel the heat of his chest through my thin blouse. Close enough to smell the incense trapped in his shirt, the storm still clinging to his skin. Close enough that my breath falters, betraying me for a split second.
“You need to stay where you belong,” he says.
The words should be a warning.
They sound like something else.
Something darker. Hotter. Hungrier.
Like he’s not telling me to stay safe—
He’s telling me to stay his.
I lower my gaze, lashes sweeping my cheeks, then lift them again with calculated softness. My fingers drift along the wooden tabletop in a slow, feather-light stroke.
Not touching him.
Just close enough that he’ll imagine it.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
I lean the slightest bit closer—just enough for my shadow to brush his.
“But I just…” My voice dips, breathy and fragile. “Keep getting lost.”
His breath catches.
A tiny, fractured sound—barely there.
But I hear it.
I feel it.
I fucking own it.
His reaction—sharp, involuntary, ripped straight through his restraint—rolls through me like heat licking the edge of danger.
Good.
Let him break. Let him slip. Let him fracture on my name.
I tilt my head innocently, biting gently on my bottom lip, pretending I don’t notice the way it ruins him.
His hand flexes at his side—once, violent.
Like he’s fighting the urge to grab me. To anchor me. To drag me somewhere without witnesses.
He inhales slowly through his nose, trying to cage something feral.
