His eyes flash. “This isn’t a joke, Tessa.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Then stop acting like the gap doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It should.” His voice roughens on that last word.
“Because you think I don’t know what I want?” I ask.
“Because I know exactly what I want.” The way he says it makes my breath catch. “And that’s the problem.”
My heart pounds.
“What do you want?” I press.
He looks at me like he’s debating whether to detonate something.
“You. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter what other people will say, but it does, Tessa.”
Every nerve in my body bursts into flames.
“You don’t get to say that and then step back,” I whisper.
“That’s exactly what I get to do.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop.”
The air thins. My voice comes out softer than I intend. “I don’t want you to.”
His eyes darken instantly. He steps closer. So close I feel the heat of him through my thin tank top.
“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” he murmurs.
“Try me.”
His hand finally lands on my waist. Firm. Not tentative. My knees almost give. He exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying to rein something wild in.
“Say it again,” he says.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want me to stop.”
My throat goes dry. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The control in his expression fractures. His thumb presses into my hip, pulling me closer. Our bodies align. Every inch of him feels solid. Grounded. Dangerous.
His mouth hovers over mine. Not touching. But close enough that I feel his breath.
“You think I don’t fight this every night?” he asks.
“I don’t want you to fight it.”
“You should.”
