Testing.
The touch is barely there, but my whole body reacts like he set me on fire. My lips part on a shaky inhale, tongue darting out to wet where he just touched, like I can taste him on my skin.
"This is wrong," I whisper, the words scraping out of me, more like a confession than an objection.
"Yes." His agreement is immediate, roughened. His thumb lingers at my mouth, pressing just a little harder now, like he's memorizing the shape of me. "So goddamn wrong."
"DJ—" He's close enough that his breath fans over my face, warm and uneven. Close enough that if I leaned forward an inch, my knees would brush his thighs. A muscle jumps in his cheek; his other hand fists at his side like he's holding himself back by sheer will.
His eyes flick down to my lips again, then back to my eyes, locking there like he's searching for something — fear, regret, a no.
"Tell me to stop," he rasps. "Tell me this scares you. Tell me you hate me."
The truth swirls on my tongue:It does scare me. I should hate you. I should want to claw your eyes out. You fucking trapped me here!
But my body leans infinitesimally closer instead, chain at my wrist going taut with the movement, metal biting into skin as if to remind me what I am in this room.
I don't say any of the things I should.
He leans closer but doesn't kiss me. His mouth hovers a breath away, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, close enough that every exhale skims my skin and sends my pulse into overdrive.
"You're scared of me," he says.
"Yes." There's no point lying. The word trembles between us, thin and true.
"And you're still here."
Something in his tone makes it sound less like an observation and more like a challenge. Likewhy?hangs unsaid between every syllable.
My hand moves before my brain can stop it. Fingers curl into the front of his shirt, clutching the soft, worn fabric. I yank him down to me.
His other hand slides to my waist, fingers splaying over my side, grip tightening like he's afraid I'll vanish if he doesn't hold on. Heat sears through the thin barrier of my clothes.
My back arches slightly. Reflex, instinct, desperation. I try to stop it, but the movement is already there, my chest lifting, hips tilting just enough to seek more of his touch.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His eyes flick down, tracking every shift in my body like he's cataloging it, storing it away. When his gaze drags back up to mine, it's darker. Hungrier.
"Say it," he murmurs against my lips, his breath fanning over my mouth, making it impossible to think.
"Say what?" My voice is barely there, more air than sound.
"Tell me his fucking name, Goldilocks," he murmurs against my lips.
Ice water through the heat. My spine stiffens, pride flaring before anything else.
But my body doesn't get the memo. My fingers stay fisted in his shirt. My legs stay pressed together, thighs clenching with a need that has nothing to do with safety and everything to do with him.
"You just confessed to killing my boss," I manage, breathless, "and now you want another name?"
"And?" His grip tightens, pulling me fractionally closer. "I'll kill any man who even thinks about touching you."
My thighs press together. I can't stop it. He sees that too.
The reaction is immediate, humiliating, electric.