Didn’t touch me either.
But tension coiled between us, tight and humming.
My voice softened, teasing but honest underneath. “You want me.”
His gaze burned into mine.
“That’s not the problem.”
“So, what is?”
His hand lifted slightly—like he meant to touch me—then dropped again.
“That I don’t get things like you,” he said quietly. “I break them.”
The honesty hit harder than flirtation would have.
Something inside me softened—and leaned forward, anyway.
“Then maybe,” I murmured, “you should stop deciding what’s good for me.”
Silence.
His eyes flicked to my lips again.
My heartbeat climbed.
Slowly, almost absentmindedly, I reached out and brushed my fingers against his injured knuckle.
The contact was small.
Innocent.
But the effect was immediate.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly.
More heat shot straight through me.
His hand closed reflexively around mine, large and warm, grip firm without hurting. Holding.
A spark raced up my arm like it was a live wire.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then his thumb shifted slightly against my wrist.
A tiny motion.
But my pulse jumped hard enough that I knew he felt it.
The air between us changed.
Thickened.
My imagination ran ahead of me—his hand sliding up my arm, his mouth finding mine, my back hitting the wall?—
Instead of pulling away, I leaned closer.
