Knowing.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I hear his teeth grinding faintly as his jaw clenches. His breath comes in quick, broken gasps at my mouth. His fingers twitch like he’s a second away from grabbing my waist again, pinning me the way he almost did last night.
But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
That’s what ruins him.
He wants to.
He wants me—wants the lie I’m wearing, the innocence I weaponized, the danger I breathe into his lungs with every step I take toward him.
His self-control teeters.
I tilt my chin up.
Not touching.
But inviting.
A soft, forbidden offering.
His eyes drop to my lips.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
He leans in—
breath trembling—
a man seconds from falling over a cliff he built himself.
My pulse stutters.
Not part of the plan.
Not part of the mission.
But real.
Too real.
His forehead brushes mine.
Barely.
A ghost of contact.
A sin with no name.
His sound is low, broken, and guttural. It goes straight through me. It ignites something inside. I promised myself I'd stay away.
