Close enough that my breath ghosted along his jaw.
Kane went utterly still.
Close enough that if anyone walked in, they’d think we were already kissing.
His grip tightened slightly around my wrist, instinctive, like he was bracing for impact.
Or temptation.
My lips hovered near his ear, and for half a second, I almost lost my nerve.
Then grief, adrenaline, and reckless honesty shoved caution aside.
I let my mouth brush his earlobe as I whispered, soft enough that only he could hear:
“You can stop pretending you don’t want to kiss me.”
The contact was barely there.
A whisper of skin against skin.
But the reaction was immediate.
Kane sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body tightening. A visible shudder ran through him, shoulders locking like he’d just taken a hit he hadn’t seen coming.
His fingers flexed around my wrist, heat spiking where he held me, and for one glorious second his other hand lifted, hovering near my waist like instinct was about to override discipline.
His head tipped forward slightly, forehead almost brushing mine, control hanging by a thread.
His voice, when it came, was rough. Lower.
“Ella …”
A warning.
A plea.
A promise.
I felt a rush of satisfaction—and something more vulnerable underneath it.
Because I wasn’t wrong.
He wanted this.
Wanted me.
And for a heartbeat, I thought he might finally give in.
My imagination surged again—his mouth crashing down on mine, his hands dragging me against him, the wall cool against my back?—
A sharp honk from the street below shattered the moment.
Reality slammed back into place.
Kane released me immediately, stepping back, control snapping down like a steel door locking shut.
I swallowed, heart racing.
