“Why?”
“Because I don’t do half measures.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
His hand slides up my side, slow, deliberate. Not wandering. Not fumbling.
Claiming.
My breath stutters. His mouth brushes mine just enough to ignite everything.
He deepens it before I can think.
My fingers grip his shirt.
He groans low against my mouth. The sound vibrates through me. His other hand moves to my lower back, pressing me firmly against him.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing to my jaw.
“Tessa,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His hand tightens at my waist. “I’m barely holding on.”
“Then let go.”
He stills.
That’s when I feel it. The hesitation. The wall. He pulls back an inch. Two.
I chase him instinctively.
His palm lands flat against my stomach, stopping me. His breathing is uneven now.
“I can’t,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because once I cross that line,” he says quietly, “there’s no pretending this is casual.”
“I don’t want casual.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
His eyes flick toward Lacee’s hallway. “Her.”
I nod slowly.
