My throat burns.
“I wanted to tell you.”
His gaze moves over my face, like he is trying to read every fear before it can hurt me.
“Then I’m glad you did.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“But if you want me to step back,” he says, “I step back.”
I stare at him.
The rough biker who kisses like restraint is a battle, who drops armed men without blinking, who takes a bullet and calls it barely, is standing in front of me with his hands at his sides because I told him I am untouched.
He makes no move to claim.
No move to push.
He waits.
My chest aches so sharply I almost press a hand to it.
“I don’t want you to step back.”
His eyes darken.
“No?”
I shake my head.
“What do you want?”
My face burns.
The answer feels too big for my mouth.
“You.”
His breath leaves him slow.
“Sweetheart.”
“I know it’s probably stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I mean, we just met, and I know there are a thousand reasons this makes no sense.” My voice turns smaller. “But my body trusts you before my head knows what to do with you.”
Something rough moves through his face.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
His hand rises, slow as a promise, and cups my cheek.
“Then we don’t rush.”
The heat in his voice makes my stomach flutter.
