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The thought arrives so naturally that it takes me a second to recognize how dangerous it is.

Mine.

Not tonight.

Not for thirty days.

Just—

Mine.

Fuck.

I should be terrified by that. Instead, I brush a strand of hair away from her damp cheek.

Her mouth curves.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Of fucking course she's going to interrogate me now.

“You're relentless.”

“Investigative journalist.”

“So I've heard.”

“You invited me into your house knowing that.”

“I've made mistakes before.”

She narrows those gorgeous eyes.

“Name one.”

“You.”

Her expression changes. Just slightly. But I see it. So I tighten my hold on her before she can misunderstand.

“Definitely you,” I murmur. “Because I have absolutely no fucking idea what I'm supposed to do with you now.”

The teasing disappears from her face.

Too much. I've said too fucking much.

Except maybe I haven't.

Because her fingers slide into my hair.

Not pulling. Not demanding.

Just touching me.

And somehow that quiet tenderness feels more dangerous than everything we just did.