Heat floods my cheeks. Anger. Shame. And shit . . . something else. Something worse.
“Move,” I rasp.
“Or what?” His voice drops into a low rumble. “You’ll shove me again? Scratch me this time? Maybe you’ll scream? Do you want me to make you scream?” The innuendo isn’t lost on me.
My lips part, and a thousand memories slam into me like waves.
The boathouse.
His hands on me.
The way he used to kiss me.
I hate my body for remembering, but I hate it more for wanting it.Wanting him.
Please don’t notice . . . but of course, I’m not that lucky because I know without any measure of doubt he notices. Of course he does.
His gaze flicks down for the barest second, taking in my flushed cheeks, the way my breathing isn’t steady, and the way my throat bobs when I swallow.
His smile comes slow.
It’s dark and knowing.
“Careful, Little Bird. You’re looking at me like you did before you realized I was bad for you.”
“You were always bad for me,” I whisper.
“Yet,” he hums, leaning closer, “here we are. Again. You pinned between me and a wall. History has a sick sense of humor.”
I can’t think. His presence fills the space, thick and suffocating.
Addictive.
He’s always been my weakness.
Time hasn’t changed anything.
He might be bigger now and more dangerous than the boy I knew, but he still has the same eyes.
The same mouth.
The same scent.
“Why are you doing this?” I breathe, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Because you left,” he answers, steady and lethal. “And I never did.”
His words don’t make sense. He did leave . . .
“What?” My voice cracks.
He watches my face. “You took the easy exit. Schools. College. All those pretty opportunities your last name buys.” His mouth twitches. “Meanwhile, I was left behind.”
“I didn’t know,” I choke out. “I asked. They told me you were gone—”
“They told you what they needed you to believe,” he cuts in, sharp.
Pain lances through my chest. “I tried—”
