I reach for another crate, this one heavier with beeswax, and my shoulder brushes her thigh. She doesn’t move away. Neither do I. Glancing up, we share a moment of just looking at each other that makes me want to read this as exactly what it feels like.
Without a doubt, I’m definitely going to do something stupid at this rate.
* * *
The burger joint is busy during its lunch hour. Of course it is. Thanks to the number of people waiting to place their order at the counter, Daliah has no choice but to almost step on my feet to avoid brushing up against anyone else.
When her back brushes up against my chest, I don’t dare breathe. When her hair tickles my nose, I risk the sneeze by filling my lungs with her.
Even in a greasy joint like this, all I can smell are flowers. All I want to do is wrap my arms around her to keep her body in place. Thankfully, I’ve got enough strength to keep my hands to myself, but that comes with the risk of hitting my limit.
Clueless as to what I’m feeling, Daliah takes a look around at all the occupied booths and tables. “Looks like we may have to find somewhere else to eat. Do you mind the detour?”
Turning her head, she looks up at me when my answer doesn’t come immediately. Even worse, I’m left looking at her mouth because of how close she is. Such pouty lips that look very kissable, even in a crowded place like this.
“I can find somewhere quiet.” Forcing the words out, my cock swells when she grins. “Somewhere without any people.”
Whatever it takes, I’ll find a spot where there’s nothing to get in between us. From her sudden wave of happiness, I’m willing to bet that she wants the very same thing.
Wanting to reach the front counter as quickly as possible—not because I’m hungry, but because I need to stop standing this close to her in a crowded space without touching her—I’m grateful when I see the restaurant handling the rush like a champ. With every step forward and every brush against her, I’m left growing more antsy.
Then the person in front of Daliah shifts back suddenly, avoiding two kids rushing by to refill their drinks, and she stumbles out of instinct—backward, directly into me.
My hands find her sides before I can think. Before I can stop myself. They slide down to her hips, fingers curving around the curve of her, and I take hold of her body, keeping her in place. Keeping her against me. Her warmth soaks through my clothes, seeps into my skin, settles in my bones.
I lean down without meaning to, drawn by the flush creeping up her neck. The tips of her ears are pink. Delightfully, devastatingly pink. It’s cute—the kind of cute that makes something possessive curl in my chest, that makes me want to see exactly how far that flush can spread. Down her throat. Across her collarbones. Hell, even lower, where the neckline of her dress doesn’t cover.
“You okay?” The words come out rough, barely above a murmur, meant only for her.
I should release her. Should put distance between us before she feels how my body’s responding—the tension in my muscles, the way my breath has gone shallow, the evidence of exactly what holding her like this does to me. But my fingers won’t uncurl. They’re locked in place, committed to the feel of her, the give of her hips beneath my palms, the way she fits against me as if she belongs there.
She nods, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans back into me. Just slightly. Just enough to make me dizzy.
“I’m good.” Her voice is soft, breathless.
Good. She’s good. I’m anything but. I’m burning up inside while wanting to act like a man shouldn’t in public.
Now I’m torn—wishing the line wouldn’t budge so I could keep her here, keep feeling her against me, keep pretending this is normal and not everything I desperately need. But the line moves, and I’m forced to let go. My hands drop, empty now, already missing the weight of her.
She asks what I want to order, glancing back at me over her shoulder, and I have to drag my brain back to the present. Food. Right. Nothing on this menu could possibly compare to her, but I manage a simple single-patty burger and fries.
When we reach the counter, I beat her to it. Slide my card to the cashier before she can even pull out her wallet. Her head whips toward me, mouth opening to protest, and I watch the way her lips form words she doesn’t get to say. By the time the transaction’s done, she’s pouting— and it takes everything in me not to lean down and kiss that expression right off her face.
“I’ll buy next time.” The words are firm, almost defiant, like she’s daring me to argue. But all I hear isnext time. She’s already planning the next time. Already assuming there will be one.
I nod and let her have this small victory. Let her think she’ll pay. What matters is that she wants there to be a next time at all.
We get our paper bag, greasy and warm, and I can’t help myself. My hand finds the middle of her back, and I guide her toward the doors. The contact is lighter than before, but it’s enough. Enough to feel her warmth again. Enough to know she’s not pulling away.
Enough to realize I’m never going to want to stop touching her now that I’ve started.
5
Daliah
The ride around town feels like a dream. My body is still humming where his touch lingers—my hips, my back, every place his hands have been—and it’s becoming a genuine challenge to focus on anything else. The buildings blur past. The afternoon sun catches on the dash. None of it registers, not even the delicious smell of the burgers against my lap.
From the way he’s drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, those broad hands flexing and releasing, I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same things I am. If he’s replaying it in his head, too. The way his touch lingered, it was like he didn’t want to let go.
