Her breath falters. “Then stop pretending.”
I lean closer. “I’m not pretending.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Hotshot.” The nickname slips out without thought.
Her lashes flutter. “You don’t get to call me that and act indifferent.”
“I’m not indifferent.”
“Then what are you?”
I step forward until there’s no space left. The music swells again.
“I’m trying not to drag you somewhere I can’t undo.”
Her pulse jumps under my palm.
“You think I can’t handle you?” she challenges.
“I know you can.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I dip her slightly in a smooth, controlled motion. Her breath leaves her in a soft gasp. The room disappears.
“It’s not about handling,” I say quietly, hovering inches above her mouth. “It’s about what happens if I don’t stop.”
Her eyes darken. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Heat flares through me. I bring her upright slowly, deliberately. “You say that now.”
“I’ve said worse.”
“You always do.”
She smiles faintly. “You liked it.”
“I loved it.”
The admission shocks both of us. We fall back into rhythm instinctively. The music builds toward its final crescendo. She rests her forehead lightly against my chest for a split second before lifting her gaze again.
“You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m protecting what we have left.”
“What do we have left?”
I hesitate. Then answer honestly. “Everything.”
Her breath trembles.
“That’s terrifying,” she whispers.
