I lower my head slightly, bracing my other hand by her waist.
“You want it to?” I ask.
Her lips part. “You tell me.”
The world above us keeps moving—voices, footsteps, someone laughing nervously—but down here it’s all heat and frosting and the steady thud of my heart against her palm.
“Sadie,” I say slowly, “this isn’t the parking lot anymore.”
Her eyes search mine. “Then what is it?”
I shift closer, my thigh pressing between hers to keep from crushing her under the table frame. Her breath catches.
“This,” I say, voice rough, “is the part where I forget there’s a crowd ten feet away.”
Her fingers slide from my chest to my shoulders. “Then forget.”
My restraint snaps taut. She smells like sugar and summer. My mouth lowers to her jaw. Not quite touching.
“You’re covered in flour,” I murmur.
“Fix it.”
That challenge is reckless. I lean in and brush my mouth lightly along her jawline. Her breath shatters. The contact is barely there. But it’s enough. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“You’re heavy.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Her hips shift again.
I grit my teeth.
“You keep moving like that,” I warn, “and I’m not pulling back.”
She looks up at me through her lashes. “Who said I want you to?”
The words hit like a match to gasoline. My hand slides to her waist. Firm. Claiming. The world above us fades further.
“Sadie,” I say quietly, “if I kiss you right now, it won’t be for the church ladies.”
“Good.”
“It won’t be for the fake dating.”
“I know.”
“It’ll be because I’ve been trying not to do it since the car wash.”
Her lips tremble slightly. “Then why haven’t you?”
I stare down at her.
Because once I start, I won’t stop.
Because you left once.
