“I should go,” he says.
But he doesn’t step back. He says it like he’s offering me an exit. Like he’s waiting for me to take it if I need to. Like he’s giving me power with those words even though he could take it simply by staying.
My tongue is too thick. My heartbeat is too loud. I can’t find the right lie fast enough to protect myself from the truth.
So I don’t answer with words.
I step closer. I feel the heat of him before I’m close enough to touch. The faint scent of cologne and something darker beneath it. Clean soap, leather, the sharp edge of adrenaline that hasn’t fully left either of us.
His eyes track my movement like he’s measuring the distance the way I’ve measured every distance in my life. How far to the door, how far to escape, how far to safety.
Only now, I’m measuring how far to him.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t reach.
He lets me come.
And the restraint is its own kind of seduction, a silent pressure against my skin.
I stop within arm’s length, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw, close enough to notice the way his throat works when he swallows. Close enough that the air between us feels like a held breath.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just once. Then back to my eyes. A flicker of something crosses his face. Control tightening, desire slipping its teeth in, the smallest fracture in his composure.
I lift my hand, slow, giving him time to stop me. My fingers hover near his shirt, near the open collar, near that strip of skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He just inhales, controlled and deep, like he’s steadying himself for impact.
My fingertips touch the fabric at his chest. His gaze darkens, and for a second, I see the animal under the discipline. The predator under the suit. The part of him that could take and take and take, and yet he stands still, waiting for my choice like it’s sacred.
My breath shudders. He lifts a hand and cups my face like it’s something precious, something he’s handling carefully onpurpose. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, light enough that it makes my breath hitch.
“Is this okay?”
No one has ever asked me that. Not like this.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He leans in, pauses again, forehead resting against mine, breath warm and steady. When he kisses me, it’s unhurried. Exploratory. Like he’s listening as much as touching.
I kiss him back. Not out of need. Out of want.
What am I doing?
I know this is a mistake. I know this is an error, I’m on the run, and I definitely shouldn’t be making these sorts of connections with handsome strangers.
But at the same time, when was the last time I threw caution to the wind?
Fuck.Plus, this feels amazing.
Should I run? Should I get out of here?
But then he kisses me again, and the world just drops away. He doesn’t ease into it this time. He takes my mouth like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally snapped. His hands slide up my arms, down my waist, back up again, like he’s trying to touch all of me at once and can’t decide where to start. I gasp into the kiss, and he makes a low sound in response, a deep, hungry rumble that shoots fire down my spine.
He palms my waist, fingers spreading, pulling me flush against him.
“On my God,” he breathes against my lips, like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning.
My head spins. His hands move again. Up my ribs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to tell me exactly how badly he wants me. His thumbs brush the curve beneath my bra, barely holding back, making my breath stutter.
