Not because he watched me.
Because I’m done pretending that I don’t want to be desired this badly.
My pulse pounds.
“Go ahead,” I whisper.
He tucks the strand behind my ear with devastating gentleness. His knuckles graze my skin. The contact is brief. Controlled.
It sends a shiver straight down my spine.
I take another step. My hands go to his jacket, gripping the fabric like I need to hold on so I don’t fall.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Tell me why I shouldn’t be terrified of you.”
His voice drops. “Because I’ve never wanted to own you. Only to be chosen. To choose you.”
My breath catches.
“There’s no difference,” he continues. “Between obsession and devotion. Not for us.”
My hands slide up his chest. I feel the hard restraint there. The tension he’s holding back.
“I’m still angry,” I say.
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you. Not completely.”
“I know.”
“But I want you,” I admit, the words burning on the way out.
Something dark and reverent flickers in his eyes.
“That,” he says softly, “is all I need.”
He doesn’t kiss me. He waits, holding his breath. I stand on my tiptoes and caress his cheek. He leans into my palm.
“Don’t move,” I warn.
He stills instantly.
That matters too.
I feel his heartbeat under my palm. Fast. Controlled. Like a man holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“You don’t touch me,” I say, “unless I ask.”
“Yes,” he answers immediately.
My fingers curl in his jacket. “But I want you close.”
Carefully, so carefully, he steps into my space. Stops just short of contact.
“Like this?” he asks.
I nod.
