His thumb traces my jaw slowly and I feel it everywhere, feel it in my throat and my chest and low in my stomach, and a small sound escapes me before I can stop it, barely anything, barely a breath.
His eyes darken.
His other hand finds my waist and I feel it through the thin cotton of the dress, feel the size of it, the warmth, the way his fingers press in just slightly like he's fighting the urge to grip harder.
"This is a bad idea," he says. He's not moving away.
"I know," I whisper.
"We're going to regret this."
"Yes, we will."
"Isabella." My name in his mouth sounds like a warning and a prayer at the same time. "Tell me to stop."
I reach up and curl my fingers into the front of his shirt instead.
I see his resolve break at that moment.
His hand tightens in my hair, fisting the strands at the back of my head, tilting my face up further, and I gasp at the sharp delicious pull of it. His other hand slides around my waist to the small of my back and presses me closer until there's no space left between us at all and I can feel every hard line of him, can feel exactly what I've been doing to him all evening.
Oh.
My breath comes out in a rush.
His jaw is against my temple and his chest is heaving and we're standing tangled together in the amber light of the kitchen and I don't know which one of us is shaking but at least one of us is.
"I hate you for making me feel like this," I breathe against his jaw because it's the only defense I have left.
A sound comes out of him. Low and rough and not quite a laugh.
He turns his head and I feel his mouth on the side of my neck, not a kiss, not quite, his lips pressed to my pulse point, and then his teeth grazing the skin there just barely, just enough that I make a sound that I'm immediately embarrassed by, a soft broken gasp that I press into his shoulder.
He goes very still when he hears it.
His breath is ragged against my neck. His hand is still fisted in my hair. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.
"Don't make that sound," he says against my skin, rough and desperate. "Don't?—"
"Enzo—"
He pulls back.
Not far. Just enough that he can look at me, just enough that I can see his face in the low light, and what I see there makes my chest ache. His eyes are dark and his jaw is clenched so tight it must hurt and he looks like a man standing at the edge of something he's been circling for years.
His hand is still in my hair. He seems to realize it at the same moment I do, his fingers loosening slowly, carefully, like he has to think about each one.
"I—." The word sounds wrecked coming out of him.
"Don't." My voice is barely a whisper. "Don't apologize. Don't tell me this is a mistake. Don't?—"
"Go upstairs." His forehead drops to mine and we stand there breathing the same air, his hands now cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, his eyes closed. "Please. Go to bed."
"Enzo—"
"If you don't go now," he says quietly, "I'm not going to be able to let you go. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
I understand.
