"Steph," he says quietly. "We need to talk."
My heart pounds. "About what?"
"About this." He gestures between us. "About what's happening here."
"Nothing's happening—"
"Don't," his voice gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me. And don't lie to yourself."
I open my mouth. Close it.
He's right.
Something is happening. Something has been happening since the night he arrested Carl and looked at me like I was worth protecting.
And I'm terrified of it.
But this constant fear is exhausting.
"Okay," I whisper. "Let's talk."
Chapter 8
Kevin
I didn't sleep.
Not a single fucking second.
I lie on Steph's couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to her move around on the other side of that thin wall, and I know with absolute certainty that this is what torture feels like.
Because I heard everything. The walls are far too thin in this low-rent apartment.
Every soft sound. Every quiet gasp. The way her breathing changed, going quick and shallow. The rustle of sheets. And then—God help me—my name.
She moaned my name.
My fist hit the couch cushion before I could stop myself, and I've been lying here ever since with every muscle locked tight, my cock hard and raging for her, while I’m trying not to think about what it means. Trying not to imagine walking through that door and showing her what I'd do if she said my name like that again.
But I can't go to her. Won't go to her.
Because Steph deserves better than me losing control. She deserves patience and care, and someone who won't push before she's ready, even when every instinct in my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us.
So I stay put.
And I don't sleep.
When the first hints of dawn filter through the windows, I give up and head for the shower. The water's as cold as I can stand it, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.
By the time I'm dressed and making coffee, I'm running on fumes, desire, and tension that makes my hands shake as I pour.
I hear her bedroom door open.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up.
I turn, and there she is—sleep-rumpled and beautiful in an oversized hoodie and those damn sleep shorts, her hair a mess and her eyes still soft with sleep. For half a second, she just stands there, and I can see the exact moment when memory floods back. The way her cheeks flush. The way her breath catches.
She knows that I know.
