“Baby girl,” he says, quieter now. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I do it anyway.
And there he is.
Big and warm and furious on my behalf.
Not polished.
Not princely.
Not the kind of man my mother would point across a room and call safe.
Something much more dangerous.
A man who means what he says right when he says it.
He studies my face for one second too long.
Then he says, with all that rough certainty that makes every word hit harder. “When you’re in my arms, baby—and don’t deny it—it feels damn good.”
My breath catches.
Because the horrible thing is—he’s right.
It does.
Too good.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
The warmth.
The size of him.
The safety.
The fact that even heartbroken and humiliated and raw, some part of me has been melting into him all night like my body knows something my pride is still too stupid to admit.
I shake my head on instinct.
He gives me a look.
Not mocking.
Not soft.
Just direct.
“Don’t lie to me, too.”
I go still.
Because I had told myself his kiss didn’t affect me.
That the little flirtations, the notes, the flowers, the jersey, the broad shoulders and cut-off hoodies and rough hands and relentless certainty of him were just noise.
