"Perfect." The word comes out strained. "Don't stop."
Heat floods through me at the rough command in his voice. At the way his breathing shifts, deepens. I force myself to focus, working methodically along his shoulders, down the column of his neck, finding each point of tension and coaxing it loose.
His skin is warm beneath my fingers. Solid. Real.
I slide my hands higher, into the base of his skull, and he makes a sound—quiet, involuntary. Almost a groan.
The noise shoots straight through me. Pools low in my belly, makes my breath catch.
"Gods," he breathes. "That feels?—"
He doesn't finish but I understand anyway. Can feel it in how he's gone pliant under my hands, surrendering to touch with a trust that makes my chest ache.
I work my thumbs along the rigid muscles of his neck, feeling them gradually soften. Release. He's stopped talking, just breathing in that deep, measured way that suggests he's fighting for control.
My own control frays with every passing moment. Every quiet sound he makes. Every shift of muscle beneath my palms.
I want this to be about healing, about helping. But my body doesn't care about noble intentions. It only knows how good he feels under my hands, how much I want to lean closer, to press my mouth to the nape of his neck where silver skin meets dark hair.
To taste him.
The thought scalds through me and I pull back abruptly, hands falling away like I've been burned.
He turns immediately, catching the movement. "Keira?"
"I—" My voice comes out unsteady. "Better?"
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and I know he felt it too. That shift from comfort to something far more dangerous. "Yes. Much better. Thank you."
We're staring at each other now. Too close. Close enough that I can see the fine silver threading through his black hair, the way his pulse beats visibly at his throat.
Close enough that I could lean forward and kiss him if I was brave enough.
"The tea's getting cold." I stand quickly, needing distance. Space to think. "You should eat something."
"Keira." He stands too, following me toward the desk where I set the tray. "Wait."
"What?" I don't turn around. Can't look at him right now because I'm shaking and I don't want him to see it, to know how badly I want something I shouldn't.
"Look at me. Please."
The request is gentle but I hear the steel beneath it. The quiet demand of someone used to being obeyed.
I turn slowly, hugging my arms around myself like I can contain this wild wanting.
His expression is unreadable. Careful. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." The answer comes quickly. Truthfully. "You didn't do anything."
"Then why—" He gestures between us. "Why did you pull away like I'd hurt you?"
"Because." I force myself to meet his eyes, to be honest even though it terrifies me. "Because I wanted to keep touching you. And not just to help with your neck."
The air thickens, charged suddenly. His expression shifts—surprise bleeding into something heated, hungry.
"Keira." My name sounds different in his mouth now. Rougher. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know." Frustration edges my voice. At myself, at this situation, at how badly I want something that should be impossible. "I'm saying I pulled away because if I kept touching you I was going to do something stupid."
