In the darkness, I tilt my chin up toward where I know his face is. “You looked like you wanted to set him on fire.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Jealousy?”
Silence stretches. Then his mouth brushes dangerously close to my ear. “I don’t share.”
The words slide down my spine like a match striking.
My breath catches.
“That wasn’t in the fake dating contract,” I whisper.
“I don’t care.”
The honesty hits harder than I expect.
“You don’t get to claim me,” I say, but it comes out softer than I intend.
His hand shifts higher on my waist, fingers spreading like he’s testing the boundary of my resolve.
“You keep pushing,” he says quietly, “and I will.”
The air between us changes. It’s not playful anymore. It’s loaded.
My palms press against his chest, mostly to keep from swaying into him.
“You don’t get territorial when we’re pretending.”
“Who said I’m pretending?”
The question lands heavy. My stomach flips.
“You said we had rules.”
“I said we had rules for public.”
“And this isn’t public?”
He shifts closer.
Now there’s no space between us at all.
“This,” he says low, “isn’t for the church ladies.”
The darkness sharpens everything. I can’t see his expression. I can only feel him—solid, steady, dangerously close.
“You’re jealous,” I whisper again, because it’s easier than admitting how much I like it.
“I don’t like other men looking at you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like they’re calculating how to get you alone.”
My lips part. “And you’re not?”
His hand slides slightly higher, resting just below my ribs.
