I'm crossing lines I shouldn't be. But I can't help myself.
I don't trust myself to speak, so I nod.
"I'd tell you, but I don't want to scare you off just yet," he says.
He removes his hand from over mine. I feel like a helium balloon that's no longer tethered. I float toward the clouds as my heart starts racing double time.
My anxiety seems to be worse when he's not holding my hand.
And suddenly, it feels too hot inside this limo. I shrug out of the jacket he gave me. He gives me a sharp look.
"Keep the jacket on," he orders.
"Why?" I ask.
"You're wearing next to nothing, that's why," he says.
I glance down at my dress. He has a point. Under different circumstances, I would be feeling self-conscious. But I don't feel anything of that sort right now.
"Can I ask you a question, Dante?" I ask, gazing up at him.
His gaze drops to my lips, like he enjoys the way I say his name.
I love the way he looks at me, like he can't get his fill.
He's attracted to me.
The knowledge that he finds me desirable turns me on even more. It builds inside me like a dormant volcano that's about to explode for the first time in a thousand years.
"Go ahead," he says.
"Do you have a type?" I ask.
His hand shoots to my throat. His long fingers wrap around it, making my pulse skyrocket. His thumb presses down on my bottom lip, parting my lips.
The heaviness inside me builds and builds, demanding release.
He leans toward me, so close that I can count every one of his dark eyelashes. Boys shouldn't be allowed to have such pretty eyelashes.
His mouth is inches from mine. This is so wrong, but I’ve never wanted anything more.
Instead of pressing his lips against mine, he lowers his head. I'm horrified when I realize that he's smelling my breath.
I pull away.
"What are you doing?" I ask him.
"You're not drunk," he says. "But you took something, didn't you? Your pupils are wider than they're supposed to be."
I blink at him. Is this man for real?
"What did you take, Grace?" he asks again.
My body and my mind are at war. I'm filled with too much desire and too little common sense.
I probably shouldn't tell him everything about myself, but I can't help it.
"It was an aphrodisiac," I admit. “A little purple pill. I was forced to take it.”
