She’s still looking at me like she could eat me for breakfast and lick the plate clean.
“You good?” I ask.
Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and much too aware. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
She arches a brow. “Clay. You’re looking at me like you’re deciding which part of me you want to bite first.”
Yeah?
Because I am.
I close the distance between us without thinking about it. Two steps. Boots on concrete. Now I’m in her space, my shadow over her, her back brushing the bench.
Her breath hitches.
“Ember,” I say, low.
“Yeah.”
“You really shouldn’t look at me like that, firecracker.”
Her pupils blow wide. “Like what?”
“Like you want me to set you on fire.”
She swallows. “Maybe I do.”
I brace a hand on the workbench beside her hip, leaning in just enough to feel her heat, not enough to give in. I can see every fleck of brown and gold in her eyes. Her scent fills my lungs.
“You got no idea what you’re asking for,” I murmur.
“Try me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Too late.”
My jaw tightens. My body is way ahead of my brain—heavy, awake, ready. I can picture it too easily—her up on this bench, legs wrapped, clay under her nails digging into my shoulders while I?—
No.
I pull back an inch.
“You know what our deal was,” I remind her. “No touching. No kissing. No trouble.”
“You added the trouble.”
“I knew who I was talking to.”
She smiles, soft and wicked. “Then maybe you also knew you didn’t really want to keep your hands off me.”
My lips twitch. “You done?”
